"She courtsied low, she spoke him fair,
She sent him on his way;
She said as she stood smiling there,
You've wealth, and wiles, and wisdom rare,
But I have won the day."
Crombie did not leave the manse with an easy mind, and the more he
thought of what he had said, and what he had not said there, the more
uneasy he became. He was in a quandary, he told himself, putting the
accent on the last "a." To his surprise and consternation he found
himself in doubt as to the course he ought to pursue.
He had gone to the manse with the full intention of asking the
minister's lass whether she were the wife of the man whom he had seen
"glowering at the new headstane" in the kirkyard of Kilgower, and of
putting it to her conscience whether she was not breaking the laws of
God and man by keeping herself hidden out of his way.
But he had not asked her. He could not do it. He had come away without
a word, and now he was saying to himself that the man who through
soft-heartedness, or through the influence of carnal affection, suffered
sin in another, thus being unfaithful to a sinful soul in danger, was
himself a sinner. He ought to have spoken, he told himself. He could
not be called upon to tell the story to another, but to Allison herself
he should have spoken. If her conscience needed to be wakened, he
sinned against her in keeping silence. It might have been to prepare
him for this very work that he had been sent to lay his Eppie down in
that faraway kirkyard.
Saunners stood still on the hillside when he got thus far. Ought he to
go back again? He could not be sure. The thought of the first glimpse
he had got that night of Allison sitting quiet and busy with her work,
with a look of growing content upon her face that had once been so
gloomy and sad, came back to him, and he moved on again.
"I'll sleep on it," said he, "and I'll seek counsel."
It was a wise resolution to which to come. Saunners was a good man,
though, perhaps, he did not always do full honour to his Master or to
himself in the sight of those who were looking on. He was "dour, and
sour, and ill to bide," it was said of him, even by some among his
friends.
But there was this also to be said of Saunners. It was only when a life
of struggle and disappointment and hard, wearing work was more than half
over, that he had come to see the "True Light," and to find the help of
the Burden-Bearer. A man may forsake the sins of his youth and learn to
hate the things which he loved before, and to love the things which he
hated, and in his heart long, and in his life strive, to follow the
Perfect Example in all things. But the temper which has been indulged
for half a lifetime cannot be easily and always overcome, and habits
which have grown through the years cannot be cast aside and put out of
sight in a moment, like an ill-fitting garment which will never trouble
more. Life was, in a way, a struggle to Saunners still.
But though he lost his temper sometimes and seemed to those who were too
ready to judge him to fail in the putting on of that Charity which
"thinketh no evil" and which is "the bond of perfectness," he was still
a good man, honest, conscientious, just, and he could never willingly
have sought to harm or to alarm any helpless or suffering creature. But
then neither would his conscience let him consent to suffer sin in one
whom he might, through faithful dealing, save from loss and ruin, and
whom he might bring back to the right way again.
"She doesna look like a sinfu' woman," he thought, recalling the glimpse
he had got through the open door, of Allison sitting at peace and safe
from harm. "She is like a woman who has seen sorrow, and who is winning
through wi't. And yon man had an evil look.
"And after a', what hae I to go upon? A name on a headstane in a
farawa' kirkyard! A' the rest came frae the wee wud wifie (the little
mad woman), who micht have made up the story, or only believed it true
because o' the ill-will she bore to yon dark, angry-lookin' man. And
even if the story be true, what call have I to mak' or meddle in it?
"No' an ill word that ever I hae heard has been spoken of the lass since
she came to the manse. She's at peace, and she's doing the duty that
seems to be given her to do, and--I'll bide a wee and seek counsel. And
after a', what hae I to go upon?" repeated Saunners.
But there was plenty to go upon, as he knew well, if he had only been
sure that it would be wise to do anything, or meddle at all in the
matter. He had only spoken a word to Allison; but the wee wifie, while
they sat together on a fallen gravestone, had told him, not the whole
story--she was hardly capable of doing that--but all of it that she had
seen with her own eyes.
Oh! yes. She knew well about bonny Allie Bain. She was in the kirk
when she was married--"sair against her will. It was like a muckle
black corbie carrying off a cushat doo. But the cushat got free for a'
that," said the wee wifie, with nods and smiles and shrill laughter.
But she said nothing of the brother's part in that which followed,
though she told with glee how Brownrig had gotten his deserts before all
was done, and how the bride went one way and the bridegroom went
another, "carried hame wi' sair banes in his gig." She told how first
Allison's mother, and then her father, were put in the grave, where they
both lay with the new stone at their heads, and how "bonny Allie" had
come to say farewell to them there. She grew eager and eloquent when
she came to her own part in the story.
"I was here mysel', as I am maist days, for it's a bonny place and
halesome, though ye mightna think it here among the dead folk. I like
to hae a crack with them that's been awa' for mony a year and day. My
mother lies ower in yon nook, and the man I should hae marriet. My
father and my brother were lost at sea.
"Oh! ay--and about bonny Allie. Weel, she lay down wi' her face upon
the sod, and lay lang there, and when she lifted it again it was white
as the snaw, but there wasna a tear upon it. Then there came the bark
o' a dog that I kenned weel. He was sent after me once, though Brownrig
denies it. So I made free to go in by; and says I, `Miss Allie dear, I
hear the bark o' the black dog, Worry, and I doubt his maister's nae
farawa'.'
"She was speakin' ower the wa' to the minister's son by that time, and
after a minute or twa she came awa', put her face down on the grave
again, and then she followed me. And when we came near to the foot o'
the brae, I garred (made) her take off her hose and shoon, and wade doon
the burn a bittie that the dog mightna follow the scent, and I laid doon
peats that she might step on them a bit o' the way between the burn and
my ain door.
"When she came in she sat still like ane dazed and spent, and never a
word spake she. But I stirred up the fire and boiled the kettle, and
said I:--
"`Did ye break your fast afore ye came awa'?'
"`There wasna time,' said she.
"`And ye had nae heart for your supper yestreen, and ye forgot ye're
denner, and nae wonder. But if ye're thinkin' o' winning awa' to
Aberdeen this day, or even the morn, ye'll need to tak' something to
make ye strong for the journey.'
"So she ate her bread and drank her tea, and then she lay down in my bed
and sleepit the hale day. I was unsettled mysel' that day, and I thocht
I would gang up the brae to the Meikles and get some buttermilk that the
mistress had promised me. So I darkened the window and locket my door.
But I didna leave my key in the thecking (thatch) as I do whiles, in
case any o' the neebors micht send a bairn wi' a sup o' milk, or a bit
from a new cut cheese. It's weel to gie them a chance to open the
door."
"And what then?" said Crombie, fearful of another digression. "What
happened then?"
"Oh! naething happened. I only thocht I would be as weel awa', in case
Brownrig sent or came himsel' to see what there was to see. So I gaed
awa' for a while, and when I cam' back I just set mysel' doon at the
door to wait for what would come next. Allie sleepit on, and had nae
appearance o' having moved when the sun was near set, which wasna early,
for the days were near their langest. But I made the fire burn up, and
b'iled the kettle to be ready, and made the tea. And then wha' should I
see but Brownrig himsel', riding on his black horse and followed by his
uncanny tyke. I had only time to draw thegither the doors o' my
press-bed ere he was upon me.
"I was feared at the sicht o' the dog, and the man saw it; but it wasna
for mysel' that I was feared, and that he didna see.
"`Ye needna gang white like that at the dog. He'll do ye no harm,' said
he.
"`No, unless ye bid him,' said I.
"He gaed me a dark look, and said he: `I'm not like to do that, though I
hear ye have accused me of it.'
"So I saw he was gaen to speak me fair, and I cam' to the door, and a'
at once I saw the twa cups that I had set on the table for Allie and me.
"`Ye're to hae a veesitor the nicht?' said he.
"`Wha' kens?' said I. `I'm ay ready, and it is to be you the nicht.
Come ye away in and take a cup o' tea, and maybe I'll find a drappie o'
something stronger, gin ye'll promise no' to tell the gauger. No' that
I'm feared at _him_. He's a frien' o' mine, and that's mair than I
would mak' bauld to say o' ye're-sel',' said I, giein' another feared
look at the dog. `Come in by, and sit doon.'
"But it was growing late, he said, and he must awa'. He had only a
question to speir at me. Had I, by ony chance, seen his wife passing by
that day? And in whose company?
"`Ye're wife?' said I, as gin I had forgotten. I whiles do forget.
"`Ay, my wife, Mistress Brownrig--her that was Allison Bain!'
"`Oh!' said I then; `bonny Allie Bain? Ay, I did that! In the early,
_early_ mornin' I saw her ower yonder, lying wi' her face on the
new-made grave.'
"I spak' laich (low) when I said it.
"`And did ye no' speak to her?' said he.
"`I daured na,' said I.
"`And which way went she?' said he.
"`She stood up on her feet, and looked about her like one dazed, and
then somebody spoke to her from ower the wall. And in a wee while I
cam' round and said a word, but she never answered me.'
"`And wha was the man? Or was it a man?'
"`Oh! ay. It was a man. It was the minister's son wha has come lately
frae America. But I heard na a word he said.'
"`Hadden?' he said. `I'll hae a word wi' him.' And he gaed off in a
hurry, and I was glad enow. Then I cried after him: `Take ye're dog wi'
ye, and the next time ye come leave him at hame.' But he never heeded,
but hurried awa'."
"And what happened then?" asked Saunners, trying to hide the interest he
took in the story, lest she should suspect that he had a reason for it.
"Doubtless Mr Hadden told him the truth. There was little to tell.
But naething came o' it, nor of a' the search which he has keepit up
since then near and far. It gaes me lauch when I think about it. He
was mad wi' the love of her, and the last time he touched her hand was
when he put the ring upon it in the kirk. Her lips he never touched--
that I'll daur to swear. And a' this time he has been livin' in the
house that he made sae grand and fine for her. And doesna he hate it
waur than pain or sin by this time? Ay! that does he," said she with
her shrill laughter. "He has had a hard year o' it. He gaes here and
there; and when a new-comer is to be seen among us, his een is upon him
to mak' sure that he mayna hae something to say to the folk that bides
in Grassie--that's the Bains' farm. And gin he thocht one had a word to
say about Allie, he would gar his black dog rive him in bits but he
would get it out o' him."
Then a change came over the old woman's face.
"And how did she get awa' at last?" asked Crombie, growing uneasy under
her eye.
"Oh! she won awa' easy eneuch in a while. She was far frae weel then,
and I'm thinkin' that she's maybe dead and a' her troubles ower by this
time."
"And her name was Allie Bain, was it?"
"Ay, ay! her name was Allie Bain."
"Weel, I need to be goin' now. I thank ye for yer story. And if ever I
happen to see her, I'se tell her that I saw a frien' o' hers wha spak'
weel o' her. And what may ye're ain name be?"
"My name's neither this nor that, that ye should seek to ken it. And,
man! gin ye're een should ever licht on ane that ca's hersel' Allie
Bain, gae by her, as gin she wasna there. It's better that neither man
nor woman should ken where she has made her refuge, lest ane should
speak her name by chance, and the birds o' the air should carry the
sound o' it to her enemy ower yonder. Na, na! The least said is
soonest mended, though I doubt I have been sayin' mair than was wise
mysel'. But ye seem a decent-like bodie, and ye were in sair trouble,
and I thocht I micht hearten ye with friendly words ere ye gaed awa'.
But hae ye naething to say about Allison Bain neither to man nor woman,
for ill would be sure to come o' it."
She was evidently vexed and troubled, for she rose up and sat down, and
glanced sidewise at him in silence for a while. Then she said:
"I daursay ye're thinkin' me a queer-like crater. I'm auld, and I'm
crooket, and whiles my head's no richt, and there are folk that dinna
like to anger me, for fear that I micht wish an ill wish on them. I
read my Bible, and say my prayers like ither folk. But I'm no sayin'
that I haena seen uncanny things happen to folk that hae gaen against
me. There's Brownrig himsel' for instance.
"I'm no' sayin' to ye to do the lass nae ill. Ye seem a decent man, and
hae nae cause to mean her ill. But never ye name her name. That's gude
advice--though I havena ta'en it mysel'. Gude-day to ye. And haste ye
awa'. Dinna let Brownrig's evil een licht on ye, or he'll hae out o' ye
a' ye ken and mair, ere ye can turn roond. Gude-day to ye."
"Gude-day to you," said Saunners, rising. He watched her till she
passed round the hill, and then he went away.
But the repentant wee wifie did not lose sight of him till he had gone
many miles on his homeward way. She followed him in the distance, and
only turned back when she caught sight of Brownrig on his black horse,
with his face turned toward his home.
Though Saunners would not have owned that the woman's words had hastened
his departure, he lost no time in setting out. It was not impossible
that, should Brownrig fall in with him later, he might seek to find out
whether he had ever seen or heard of Allison Bain, since that seemed to
be his way with strangers. That he should wile out of him any
information that he chose to keep to himself, Saunners thought little
likely. But he might ask a direct question; and the old man told
himself he could hold up his face and lie to no man, even to save
Allison Bain.
So he hastened away, and the weariness of his homeward road was
doubtless beguiled by the thoughts which he had about the story he had
heard, and about his duty concerning it. His wisdom would be to forget
it altogether, he told himself. But he could not do so. He came to the
manse that night with the intention of telling Allison all he had heard,
and of getting the truth from her. But when he saw her sitting there so
safe, and out of harm's way, he could not do it.
And yet he could not put it altogether out of his thoughts. He would
not harm a hair of the lassie's head. A good woman she must be, for she
had been doing her duty in the manse for nearly a year now, and never a
word to be spoken against her. And who knew to what straits she might
be driven if she were obliged to go away and seek another shelter?
There were few chances that she would find another home like the manse.
No, he would utter not another word to startle her, or to try to win her
secret.
"But there is John Beaton to be considered. I would fain hae a word wi'
John. He's a lad that maybe thinks ower-weel o' himself, and carries
his head ower-high. But the root o' the matter's in him. Yes, I hae
little doubt o' that. And if I'm nae sair mista'en there's a rough
bittie o' road before him. But he is in gude hands, and he'll win
through. I'll speak to him, and I'll tak' him at unawares. I'll ken by
the first look o' his face whether his heart is set on her or no."