"Into the restful pause there came
A voice of warning, or of blame,
Which uttered a beloved name."
More than once since she had first seen her, Mrs Esselmont had asked,
"Who is Allison Bain?"
Mrs Hume had not much to tell her. Of her family and friends she knew
absolutely nothing. Of Allison herself she knew only what she had seen
since she became an inmate of the manse, except that she had been Dr
Fleming's patient in the infirmary, and afterward for a short time a
nurse there. Dr Fleming probably knew more of her history than he had
told to them.
"A good woman who had seen sorrow, he called her, and a good woman she
is in every way, and a good servant, now that she seems to be growing
content and cheerful. I own that she was a weight upon my mind at
first. She is faithful, patient, true. Her only fault seems to be her
reserve--if it can be called a fault to keep to herself what others have
no right to ask her to disclose. She has greatly helped our Marjorie,
and the child loves her dearly."
"Yes, that is easily seen. As to her reserve, there are some troubles
that can be best borne in silence," said Mrs Esselmont. "And she has
grown more cheerful of late."
"Much more cheerful. She is always quiet, and sometimes troubled with
anxious thoughts, as one can see, but there is a great change for the
better since the spring. It is, of late, as though some heavy weight
had been taken from her heart."
In her lonely life, with little to interest her, either in her own home
or in the neighbourhood, it was natural enough that the lady should give
some thought to the strong, gentle, reticent, young woman, who seemed to
her to be quite out of place as a servant in the manse. She would have
greatly liked to win the girl's confidence, so that she might be the
better able to give her help and counsel if the time should come when
she should acknowledge her need of them. Until that time came, she told
herself, she could offer neither help nor counsel. It was not for her
to seek to enter into the secret of another woman's sorrow, since she
knew from her own experience how vain are words, or even kindest deeds,
to soothe the hurt of a sore and angry spirit.
"I might only fret the wound I fain would heal. And she is young and
will forget in time whatever her trouble may be. And, when all is said,
how can I think she is not in her right place, since she fills that
place so well? God seems to be giving her the opportunity and the power
to do for the child what has long seemed beyond hope, even to the
mother, who is not one inclined to despond. I will not meddle in her
concerns hastily, but oh! I would like if this Allison were ever in
sore need of a friend, that she would come to me."
It was astonishing to herself when she considered the matter, how many
of the lady's thoughts were given to this stranger.
"We are curious creatures," she mused. "It is little to my own credit
to say it, but I doubt if this Allison had been just a decent, plain
lass like Kirstin, I might have been left to overlook her and her
sorrows, though I might have helped her when I knew her need. I will
bide my time, and when it comes I will do what I can for Allison Bain,
whatever her need may be."
Almost every week Marjorie spent a day at Firhill, and she was usually
carried there, or home again, in the arms of Allison; but there could be
no lingering there because of all that was to be done at home. Marjorie
needed no one to stay with her. If it were "a garden day," as she
called it when it was fair and the wind blew softly, she was content to
be quite alone for hours together. She could be trusted to walk no
farther and make no greater exertion than was good for her.
In the house she had a book, or her doll, or the stocking she was
knitting, to pass the time. In the garden she did not need these. She
had the flowers first of all, the trees and the changing sky, the bees
and the birds. The crows, which came and conversed together on the
great firs beyond the wall, had much to say to her as well as to one
another. She put their speech into words for her own pleasure, and
looked with their eyes on the distant hilltops and into the valleys
between, and saw what they saw there. A late laverock springing up now
and then thrilled her with his song and set her singing also, or the
cooing of the doves soothed her to peaceful slumber and happy dreams.
But there came a day when all did not go so well with the child. The
sky was overcast and rain threatened; and Marjorie fretted and was "ill
to do with," while her mother hesitated as to the propriety of her going
to Firhill. The coming of the pony carriage decided the matter,
however, and the child went away, a little ashamed of herself, but never
doubting that all would be as usual when she reached the garden.
But she did not have a happy day. The weather was warm and close, and
as the afternoon wore on the sky darkened, so that it was gloomy even in
the garden, and a sudden pang of homesickness smote the child when they
carried her into the deeper gloom of the house. She struggled bravely
against it for a while, telling herself how foolish she was, and how
ungrateful Mrs Esselmont would think her if she were to cry, or even
seem to wish to go home before the time.
Poor little girl! She was ill and uncomfortable, and did not know it.
She thought herself only naughty and ungrateful; and when she could no
longer keep back her tears, and in spite of a determination not to do
so, cried out that she wanted her mother, she believed that the end of
her happy days had come.
Into the confusion which all this caused, Allison came, earlier than
usual, in the hope of getting the child home before the rain. At the
sight of her, Marjorie's tears flowed faster than ever, but not for
long. Allison's touch, and her firm and gentle words, soothed and
quieted her. The broth which she had refused at dinner was brought her,
and was eaten, and the worst was over.
But the rain was falling in torrents by this time, and while they
waited, Marjorie fell asleep in Allison's arms.
It had not been a very good day for Mrs Esselmont. She was not strong,
the heat and gloom had depressed her, and she sighed now and then as she
sat beside Allison and the child in the darkening room. Allison
wondered whether she had any new sorrow to trouble her.
"She is nearly done with all sorrow now. She must be glad of _that_,"
thought Allison.
"I hope they will not be anxious about you at home," said Mrs
Esselmont, speaking softly not to waken Marjorie.
"No, madam, I don't think it. And Mrs Hume will be sure to send one of
the lads with a lantern if the rain should keep on."
"They know you are to be trusted with the child. You have done her much
good, poor wee lammie."
"She has done me much good," said Allison.
"I am sure of it. In the way of kindness done, as in other ways, `It is
more blessed to give than to receive.' You are a good nurse, Allison."
"I love the child. It is a great pleasure to do for her."
"It is your love for her that makes you wise and firm in dealing with
her. And you have been a sick-nurse, I hear."
Mrs Esselmont was thinking of the time which Allison had passed in the
infirmary, but Allison had for the moment forgotten that. Her thoughts
had gone back to her home and her mother, who had needed her care so
long.
"My mother was long ill, and there was no one but me to do for her. I
learned to do many things to ease and help her first, and my father
afterward."
"Have they been long dead?" asked Mrs Esselmont gently.
"A long while it _seems_--but it is not so very long. There was little
time between them, and all things seemed to come to an end when they
were gone."
Mrs Esselmont listened in wonder to the low, pathetic voice which told
her this. Was this the girl who had never spoken of her past life in
the hearing of any one--who had never named father or mother or home,
except perhaps to little Marjorie? Mrs Esselmont was a wise woman.
She would have liked well to hear more, but she asked no question to
startle her into silence again. After a little she said:
"They were happy in having a loving daughter to close their eyes." And
she sighed, thinking of her own dearest daughter who was faraway.
Marjorie stirred in Allison's arms, and there was no need to answer. By
and by Jack came with the lantern, and it was time to go home.
After this, in their brief intercourse--during a few minutes in the
garden, or by the parlour fire, while the child was being wrapped up to
go home--Mrs Esselmont had many a quiet word with Marjorie's faithful
nurse and friend, and their friendship grew slowly but surely.
Allison's revelation of herself, and of her past life, was for the most
part quite unconsciously made. Mrs Esselmont listened and made no
comments; but in her own thoughts, when she "put this and that
together," she owned that not often in the course of a long life had she
come into contact with one in whose character, strength and gentleness,
firmness and patience, were more happily combined. Without being aware
of it, she was beginning to regard this strong and silent young woman
not as a mere maid-servant in the manse, who came and went, and worked
for wages like the rest, but as one who, for reasons not to be revealed,
had chosen, or had been forced by an untoward fate, to begin a new life
in a sphere in which she had not been born. But much as she desired to
know more about her, she waited for Allison herself to speak.
Summer passed all too quickly and the "dowie fall o' the year" was
drawing on. There was no more going through the lanes to follow or to
flit the cows for Marjorie. The harvest was over, and the patient
creatures had the range of all the narrow fields, and cripple Sandy had
leisure to do his duty toward them without the help of any one. But
whenever a bright day came, or even a gleam of sunshine when the day was
dark, the child had still a turn in the lanes, or round the garden in
Allison's arms. All the days were busy days, but none of them were so
full of work or care as to hinder Allison in this labour of love, which
indeed was as good for herself as for Marjorie.
For there were times as the days began to grow dark and short when
Allison needed all the help which her love for the child could give her
to keep her thoughts from the cares and fears which pressed upon her.
No word came from Willie, though she had written to Mr Hadden to tell
him that her brother was free, and that she hoped he would soon be in
America, and that he might safely write to her now.
It was time for a letter unless Willie had lingered longer at home than
he had promised. Was he there still? or had any ill happened to him?
She could wait with patience for the sight of him, even for years, if
she could but be sure that he was safe and well. And she could only
strive to wait with patience whether she heard or not.
She was saying something like this to herself as she sat in the silent
house one night, when the kitchen-door opened and Saunners Crombie came
in. The minister was not at home, and Mrs Hume, who was not very well,
was up-stairs with her little daughter. All this Allison told him, and
asked him to sit down, with no thought that he would do so, for few
words had ever passed between them. He sat down, however, and leaned
over the fire with his hands spread out, for "the nicht was cauld," he
said.
Allison brought dry peats and mended the fire, and then took to her
stocking-mending again. It would not have been easy for her to begin a
conversation with Crombie under any circumstances. It seemed impossible
to do so now, for what could she say to him? Saunners had been in deep
affliction. His wife was dead, and he had just returned from her burial
in a distant parish, and it seemed to Allison that it would be
presumption in her to utter a word of condolence, and worse still to
speak about indifferent things.
She stole a glance at him now and then as she went on with her work.
How old, and grey, and grim he looked! And how sad and solitary the
little house at the edge of the moss must be, now that his wife was not
there! His grey hair and his bowed head 'minded her of her father; and
this man had no child to comfort him, as she had tried to comfort her
father when her mother died. She was very sorry for him.
Her sympathy took a practical turn, and she rose suddenly and went out.
The tea-kettle was singing on the hearth, and when she returned she went
to the dresser and took the teapot down.
"Ye're chilled and weary, and I am going to make you a cup of tea," said
she. Saunners looked up in surprise.
"There's nae occasion. I'll get my supper when I gae hame."
He made a little pause before the word, as though it were not easy to
say it.
"Ay, will ye. But that will be a while yet. And I must do as I am
bidden. The mistress would have come down, but she's no' just very well
the night, and is going to her bed. The minister may be in soon."
So the tea was made and butter spread upon the bannocks, and then
Allison made herself busy here and there about the kitchen and out of
it, that he might have his tea in peace. When his meal was finished and
the dishes put away, she sat down again, and another glance at the bowed
head and the wrinkled, careworn face, gave her courage to say:
"I am sorry for your trouble."
Saunners answered with a sigh.
"Ye must be worn out wi' that lang road and your heavy heart."
"Ay. It was far past gloaming o' the second day ere I wore to the end
o' the journey. The langest twa days o' a lang life they were to me.
But it was her wish to be laid there wi' her ain folk, and I bid to gie
her that last pleasure. But it was a lang road to me and Girzzie, too,
puir beast."
"And had ye no friend to be with ye all that time?"
Saunners shook his head.
"Peter Gilchrist offered to go wi' me. But he was ahind with his farm
work, an' I wasna needin' him. Twa folk may shorten a lang day to ane
anither, but it's no ay done to edification. But the warst o' a' was
coming hame to a forsaken hoose."
The old man shivered at the remembrance and his grey head drooped lower.
"I'm sorry for your trouble," repeated Allison. "It's the forsaken home
that at first seems the worst to bear."
"Ay, do ye ken that? Weel, mine's a forsaken hoose. She was but a
feckless bodie, and no' ay that easy to deal wi', but she's a sair miss
in the hoose. And I hae but begun wi't," added Saunners with a sigh.
Then there was a long silence. "It's a bonny place yon, where I laid
her down," said he at last, as if he was going on with his own thoughts.
"It's a bonny spot on a hillside, lying weel to the sun, wi' a brown
burn at the foot. I got a glimpse over the wall of the manse garden.
The minister's an auld man, they say. I didna trouble him. He could
hae dane nae gude either to her or to me. It's a fine, quiet spot to
rest in. I dinna wonder that my Eppie minded on it at last, and had a
longing to lie there with her kin. It is a place weel filled--weel
filled indeed."
Allison's work had fallen on her lap, and she sat with parted lips and
eager eyes gazing at him as he went on.
"I saw the name o' Bain on a fine new headstane there. An only son had
put it up over his father and his mother, within a few months, they
said. I took notice of it because o' a man that came in and stood
glowering at it as we were finishing our job. It was wi' nae gude
intent that he cam', I doubt. He was ane that middled with maist things
in the parish, they said. But I could hae proved that my Eppie belonged
to the parish, and had a gude right to lie there wi' her kin. We were
near dane ere he took heed o' us, and it was ower late to speak then.
He only speired a question or twa, and then gaed awa'."
Then there was a long pause. Saunners sat looking into the fire,
sighing now and then, and clearing his throat as if he were ready to
begin again. When he turned toward her, Allison took to her
stocking-darning. She longed to ask him a question--but she dared not
do it, even if she could have uttered the words. Saunners went on:
"I thocht it queer-like of the man, but I would hardly have heeded it
but for that which followed. When his back was fairly turned there came
a wee wifie out o' the corner, where she had been watchin', and shook
her neive (fist) at him and ca'ed him ill names. It was like a curse
upon him. And she bade him go hame to his fine house, where he would
have to live his leefu' lane a' his days as a punishment for his
wickedness. I had a few words with her after that. She was unco
curious to hear about my Eppie, and how I came to lay her there. We
gaed through among the stanes thegither, and she had plenty to say about
ane and anither; and whiles she was sensible enough, and whiles I had my
doubts about it. Many a strange thing she told me gin I could only
mind."
Then Saunners sat silent again, thinking. Allison turned her face away
from the light.
Was the terrible old man saying all this with a purpose? Did he know
more than he told, and did he mean it for a warning? For it must have
been in the parish of Kilgower where he had laid down the body of his
wife. And it must have been Brownrig whom the "wee bowed wifie" had
cursed. She grew sick at the thought of what might be coming upon her;
but she put force upon herself, and spoke quietly about other matters.
Then the old man rose to go.
"I thocht maybe I might see John Beaton the nicht. Is he at hame, think
ye?" Allison shook her head.
"I havena heard of his being here, but he may have come for all that."
"Ye would be likely to ken," said Saunners, and then he went away.
Allison listened till the sound of his footsteps died in the distance,
then she rose and did what was still to be done in the house. She
barred the door, and covered the fire, and put out the lights, and went
softly up-stairs to the little room where Marjorie slumbered peacefully.
Then she sat down to think of all that she had heard.
It was not much. Crombie had seen two names on a headstone in the
kirkyard of Kilgower. That they were the names of her father and mother
she did not doubt. She had been greatly startled by all she had heard,
but she had not betrayed herself; and after all, had she not more cause
to be glad and thankful than to be afraid? Willie had put up that
stone! Was not that enough to make it sure that he had been at home,
and that all had been well with him? He might be at home yet, on his
own land. Or he might be on the sea--on his way to a new country which
was to give a home to them both. Glad tears came to Allison's eyes as
she knelt down and laid her face on Marjorie's pillow.
"I am glad and thankful," she said, "and I will not vex myself thinking
about what the old man said. It might just be by chance that he spoke
with no thought about me, except that the name was the same. I will be
thankful and have patience and wait. I am sure he would not wish to
harm me. Only if he were to speak of all that in the hearing of other
folk it might end in my having to go away again."
But the thought of having to go away did not seem so terrible to her as
it would have done a few months ago. Her courage had risen since then.
She had "come to herself," and she was reasonable both in her fears and
her hopes, and so she repeated, as she laid her head on her pillow:
"I will be thankful and have patience and wait. And I will put my trust
in God."