"Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agree
To plague her beating heart."
As for Allison, the thought of going away from Nethermuir to escape the
threatened danger, did not stay long with her. It would be wrong to go
away now, she told herself. For another little daughter came to the
manse about this time, and Allison's strength and skill were tried to
meet all demands upon them for a while. Yes, it would be wrong to leave
these good friends who had been kind to her, and above all, wrong to
steal away, as in her first alarm it had come into her mind to do.
And besides, even if that which she feared were to come upon her, and if
by means of Crombie, or by any other means, she were discovered, the
times had gone by when force could be used and a woman carried away
secretly against her will. There would be a good many words to be said
before she could be forced to go with Brownrig, even though he might, as
he had said, have "the law on his side."
She would wait patiently till Mr Hadden should answer the letter she
had sent him when she had first heard that her brother was set free, and
when she should hear that Willie was safe in America, then would be her
time to go away.
"I must wait patiently; I must not let myself fall into blackness and
darkness again. Whether I have done wrong, or whether I have done
right, there's no turning back now."
As far as Saunners was concerned it soon was seen that she had nothing
to fear. He had only kindly looks for her now, and though his words of
greeting were few, they were kindly also. The words of caution and
counsel which it was "his bounden duty" to let drop for the benefit of
all young and thoughtless persons when opportunity offered, had
reference chiefly to the right doing of daily duty, and the right using
of daily privileges and opportunities, as far as Allison was concerned.
And so the days passed till November was drawing near. Then something
happened. Auld Kirstin came home to the manse. "Home," it must be,
thought the neighbours, who saw the big "kist" and the little one lifted
from the carrier's cart. And Allison, to whom Mrs Hume had only spoken
in general terms as to the coming of their old servant, could not help
thinking the same, and with a little dismay. But her year's experience
had given her confidence in the kindness and consideration of her
mistress, and she could wait patiently for whatever might be the
decision with regard to her.
The minister's wife and the minister himself had had many thoughts about
the matter of Kirstin's coming home long before she came. For as the
summer days drew to a lingering end, Mrs Esselmont had fallen sick and
had appealed to them for help.
She was not very ill, but her illness was of a nature which made her
residence at Firhill during the winter not altogether impossible, but
undesirable and unwise, as she told them, since she had the power to go
elsewhere. She could spend the winter with her eldest daughter, she
said, but as her home lay in one of the cold, English counties, washed
by the same sea from which the bleak winds came moaning through the firs
on her own hill, she would hardly better herself by the change. What
she wished was to go further south to a place by the sea, where she had
already spent more than one winter, and some of the winter days there,
she told them, might well pass for the days of a Scottish summer. What
she could not endure was the thought of going away alone.
"I had my Mary with me when I was there last, and I dread the thought of
the long days with no kenned face near me. Milne is growing old and
frail like myself, and I will need to spare her all I can. And now will
you let me have your Allison Bain for a while?"
"We can tell you nothing about her except what we have seen since she
came into our house," said Mrs Hume gravely. "It was a risk our taking
her as we did, but we were sorely in need of some one."
"But you are not sorry that you took her into your house?"
"Far from that! She has been a blessing in our house, as doubtless she
would be in yours should she go with you."
"There is no doubt but it would be to her advantage to go with you. And
we could not prevent her if she wished to go when her year with us is at
an end," said Mr Hume.
"Yes, it would be better for her to go. We ought not to hinder her,"
said his wife; but they looked at one another, thinking of Marjorie.
"I thank you both gratefully for your kindness in being willing to spare
her to me," said Mrs Esselmont. "But that is only the beginning of my
petition. The child Marjorie! Would it break your heart to part with
her for a while? Wait, let me say a word more before you refuse to hear
me. The child is evidently growing stronger as she grows older.
Allison has helped her, but there is more in the change than that. I am
certain--at least I have hope--that she might be helped by one who has
been proved to have skill in dealing with such cases. Let me take
Marjorie to Dr Thorne in London. He is a great physician and a good
man. He is my friend, and I know that whatever can be done for the
child he can do, and will be happy in doing it. Think of your gentle,
little darling grown strong and well, with a useful and happy life
before her!"
A rush of tears came to the eyes of Mrs Hume. The minister went to the
window and looked long on the swaying branches of the firs, which were
only just visible through the mist and the rain. Mrs Esselmont laid
herself back on her pillow and waited.
"Well?" said she after a little.
"Well, mother?" said the minister, sitting down again.
"Speak for us both," said his wife.
"Well," said he, after a pause, "I have only this to say to-night. We
thank you for your kind thoughts for the child. We desire to say yes,
we long to say it. But it is a great thing to decide, and we must ask
counsel."
"Surely. I will wait patiently for your decision. But the sooner we
can go, the better."
There was much more said than this, and counsel was asked before they
parted. Mrs Esselmont's last words were these:
"It was because of the child that I first thought of Allison Bain.
Should you decide that you cannot let Marjorie go, then I will not take
Allison. And remember, my dear," said she to Mrs Hume, "you have
another little daughter now to comfort you. And when you have made up
your mind, whatever it may be, say nothing to Allison. I would like
myself to ask her to go with us if you should decide to let the child
go."
There was not long time needed in which to come to a decision. The
father and mother had taken counsel together, and had asked counsel
often. There was only one thing to be said at the last. Marjorie must
go; and though it was said with sorrow, it was also with thankful
gladness that they committed their darling to the care and keeping of
the Great Healer of the bodies and souls of the creatures whom He came
to save. And they agreed with Mrs Esselmont that, the decision being
made, there was no time to lose.
Kirstin had been coming to visit them before this change was spoken
about. The only difference that this made was, that now she came home
to stay, bringing all her gear with her. After her coming, Allison was
not long kept in suspense as to what her own winter's work might be.
"Allison," said her mistress, "I would like you to go to Firhill this
afternoon. No, Marjorie is better at home to-day. And, Allison, as you
will be likely to see the lady herself, you should change your gown and
put on your bonnet."
Which Allison did, wondering a little, for she had hitherto gone to
Firhill with only her cap on her head, as she had gone elsewhere. Other
folk wondered also. On the stone seat at the weaver's door sat the
weaver's wife, busy with her stocking, and beside her sat her friend
Mrs Coats, "resting herself" after her work was over.
Allison did not pass by them now without a word, as used to be her way
during the first days of their acquaintance; but she did not linger to
say more than a word or two, "as would have been but ceevil," Mrs Coats
said. Allison had a message to deliver at the school, and she did not
come back again, but went, as she liked best, round by the lanes.
"She has gi'en warning. She was ay above the place," said Mrs Coats.
"Ye can hardly say the like of that, since she has filled the place
weel," said her friend.
"But I do say it. She goes her ways like ane that hasna been used with
doin' the bidding o' anither."
"She doesna need to be bidden. She kens her work, and she does it.
What would ye have?" said the weaver, who had stopped his loom to hear
through the open window what was to be said.
"That's true," said his wife; "but I ken what Mistress Coats means for
a' that."
"Ye may say that! It's easy seen, though no' just so easy shown. Is
she like the ither lassies o' the place? Who ever saw her bare feet?
It's hose and shoon out and in, summer and winter, with her."
"And for that matter who ever saw her bare arms, unless it was in her
ain kitchen, or in the milk-house? Even gaen to the well her sleeves
are put doon to her hands."
"I should like to ken the folk she belongs to."
"They're decent folk, if she's a specimen o' them. Ye needna be feared
about that," said the weaver.
"It's no' that _I'm_ feared, but ane would think that she was feared
herself. Never a word has passed her lips of where she came from or who
she belongs to."
"Never to the like o' you and me. But the minister's satisfied, and
Mrs Hume. And as to the folk she cam' o', we hae naething to do wi'
them."
"That may be; but when there is naething to be said, there's maistly
something to be hid."
"And when ye can put your hand on ane that hasna something to hide frae
the een o' her neebors, ye can set her to search out the secrets o' the
minister's lass. It winna be this day, nor the morn, that ye'll do that
same," said the weaver, raising his voice as he set his loom in motion
again.
"Eh, but your man is unco hard on the women," said Mrs Coats, with a
look which implied sympathy with the weaver's wife as well as
disapproval of the weaver. But her friend laughed.
"Oh! ay; he's a wee hard whiles on women in general, but he is easy
eneuch wi' me."
For some reason or other Allison had to wait a while before she saw Mrs
Esselmont, and she waited in the garden. There were not many flowers
left, but the grass was still green, and the skilful and untiring hands
of old Delvie had been at work on the place, removing all that was
unsightly, and putting in order all the rest; so that, as he said, "the
last look which his mistress got of the garden might be one to mind on
with pleasure."
"It's a bonny place," said Allison with a sigh. The old man looked up
quickly. "Do ye no' ken that it's ill for a young lass to sigh and sech
like that? Is it that this 'minds ye o' anither bonny place that ye
would fain see?" Allison smiled, but shook her head. "I never saw a
garden like this. But I ay liked to care for my own--"
"And ye have none now. Is that the reason that ye sigh?"
"Maybe I may have one again. If I do, I would like to have your advice
about it," said Allison, wondering a little at herself as she said it.
"Oh! I'll gie you advice, and seeds, and slips, and plants as weel, gin
ye are near at hand." Allison shook her head.
"I doubt if I ever have a garden of my own again, it will be on the
other side of the sea."
"In America? They have grand flowers there, I hear. But before ye go
there ye can ask me and I'll give ye seeds to take wi' ye, and maybe
slips and roots as well. They'll 'mind you o' hame in that far land. I
once heard o' a strong man over yonder that sat down and grat (wept) at
the sicht o' a gowan."
"Thank you," said Allison. There were tears in her eyes though she
smiled.
"Here's my lady," said Delvie, bending to his work again.
Mrs Esselmont came slowly toward them, leaning on the arm of her maid,
a woman several years older than herself.
"You may leave me here with Allison Bain," said she; "I will take a turn
or two and then I will be in again."
She had the minister's note in her hand, but she made no allusion to it
as they moved slowly up and down. They spoke about the flowers, and the
fair day, and about Marjorie and the new baby for a while, and then Mrs
Esselmont said:
"You have a strong arm, Allison, and a kind heart. I am sure of it. I
have something to say to you which I thought I could best say here. But
I have little strength, and am weary already. We will go into the house
first."
So into the house they went, and when Milne had stirred the fire and
made her mistress comfortable, she went away and left them together.
"Allison," said Mrs Esselmont, after a moment's silence, "I have
something to say to you."
And then she told her that she was going away for the winter because of
her ill-health, and spoke of the plan which she had proposed to
Marjorie's father and mother for the benefit of the child. This plan
could only be carried out with Allison's help, because Mrs Hume would
never trust her child to the care of a stranger. The mother thought
that she would neither be safe nor happy with any other. And then she
added:
"I could only ask them to let me take her if I could have you also to
care for her. I cannot say certainly that she will ever be strong and
well, but I have good hope that she may be much stronger than she is
now. Think about it. You need not decide at once, but the sooner the
better. We have no time to lose."
Allison listened with changing colour and downcast eyes.
"I would go with you and the child. I would be glad to go--but--"
She rose and came a little nearer to the sofa on which Mrs Esselmont
was lying.
"But I cannot go without telling you something first, and you may not
wish me to go when you have heard."
"Allison," said Mrs Esselmont, "stand where I can see your face."
She regarded her a moment and then she said gravely:
"I cannot believe that you have anything to say to me that will change
my thoughts of you. You have won the respect and confidence of your
master and mistress, who ought to know you well by this time. I am
willing to trust you as they have done without knowing more of you than
they have seen with their own eyes. I think you are a good woman,
Allison Bain. You have not knowingly done what is wrong."
"I did not wait to consider whether I was right or wrong, but I should
have done what I did even if I had known it to be wrong. And I would
not undo it now, even if you were to tell me I ought to do so. I could
not. I would rather die," said Allison, speaking low.
There was a long silence and Allison stood still with her eyes fixed on
the floor.
"Sit down, Allison, where I can see you. Put off your shawl and your
bonnet. You are too warm in this room."
Allison let her shawl slip from her shoulders and untied the strings of
her black bonnet.
"Take it off," said Mrs Esselmont, as Allison hesitated.
Her hair had grown long by this time and was gathered in a knot at the
back of her head, but little rings and wavy locks escaped here and
there--brown, with a touch of gold in them--and without the disguise of
the big, black bonnet, or of the full bordered mutch, a very different
Allison was revealed to Mrs Esselmont.
"A beautiful woman," she said to herself, "and with something in her
face better than beauty. She can have done nothing of which she need be
ashamed."
Aloud she said:
"Allison, since you have said so much, if you think you can trust me,
you should, perhaps, tell me all."
"Oh! I can trust you! But afterward folk might say that you did wrong
to take me with you, knowing my story. And if I tell you I would need
to tell Mr and Mrs Hume as well, since they are to trust me with their
child. And though you might be out of the reach of any trouble because
of taking my part, they might not, and their good might be evil spoken
of on my account, and that would be a bad requital for all their
kindness."
"And have you spoken to no one, Allison? Is there no one who is aware
of what has befallen you?"
Allison grew red and then pale. It was the last question that she
answered.
"It was in our parish that Saunners Crombie buried his wife. One night
he came into the manse kitchen, and he told me that he had seen my name
on a new headstone, `John Bain and Allison his wife'--the names of my
father and mother. And he had some words with one who had known me all
my life. But I never answered him a word. And whether he was trying
me, or warning me, or whether he spoke by chance, I cannot say. I would
like to win away from this place, for a great fear has been upon me
since then. I might be sought for here. But I would never go back. I
would rather die," repeated Allison, and the look that came over her
face gave emphasis to her words.
"And has he never spoken again?"
"Never to me. I do not think he would willingly do me an ill turn, but
he might harm me when he might think he was helping me into the right
way. Oh! I would like to go away from this place, and it would be
happiness as well as safety to go with you and my Marjorie."
Mrs Esselmont sat thinking in silence for what seemed to Allison a long
time. Then she raised herself up and held out her hand.
"Allison, I understand well that there are some things that will not
bear to be spoken about. Tell me nothing now, but come with me. I
trust you. Come with me and the child."
The tears came into Allison's eyes, and she said quietly:
"I thank you, madam. I will serve you well."