ELSIE GRAY
"I'll tell you what it is, Grace; that scholar of yours is far too fine
a fellow to be left to tie companionship of old Gowrie's cattle any
longer."
The speaker was a bright, breezy-looking lad in midshipman's dress, who
was sauntering up and down the old terrace at Kirklands, in company with
our friend Grace. She is a year older than when we saw her last at the
garden-gate, parting with her two scholars after their first Sunday
together. They have had a great many afternoons in company since then.
Grace had remained in her summer home all through the long Scotch
winter, and now autumn had come, bringing with it her brother Walter on
a delightful holiday of six weeks, after an absence of years.
Miss Hume had got so frail the previous year, that she was unfit for the
return journey to her house in Edinburgh, and the following months had
only brought an increase of weakness. She now lay in her darkened room,
with, her flickering lamp of life burning slowly to its socket, while
some young lives beside her were being kindled by glowing fires which
would cause their hearts to burn long after the "glow of early thought
declines in feeling's dull decay."
The little company in the still-room had somewhat increased, four others
haying been added to the two first scholars. One of them was Elsie Gray,
the forester's daughter, a pretty little girl with a sweet voice, and
able to sing a great many hymns, so that Grace had no longer to perform
solos to the still-room audience, but was accompanied by more than one
voice timidly following Elsie's example, and joining in the singing.
There were three other scholars from the borders of the next parish, and
a very happy party they all made together. But it must be confessed that
the warmest place in Grace's heart was reserved for the first scholar
whom she had found that chilly spring day among the pasture lands which
sloped down to the little stream. Judged by an educational standard,
Geordie was certainly, with the exception of the little Jean, the most
deficient of the company, in spite of his having manfully conquered the
last pages of the "Third Primer," and got at last "intil the Bible."
The other boys and girls still attended the parish school on week days,
and seemed more or less very fairly in possession of the rudiments of
education. Some things, however, which they read and heard in the little
quiet room at Kirklands sank into their hearts as they had never done
when they read them as the stereotyped portion of the Bible-reading
lesson amid the mingled jangle of slates and pencils and pattering feet,
with the hum of rough northern tongues, which prevailed in the parish
school-room.
To Geordie even this discordant medium of education had been denied.
Grace had set her heart on having him sent to school during the past
winter. She saw what a precious boon such an opportunity appeared in
Geordie's eyes when she suggested it to him. But Farmer Gowrie had to be
consulted, and finding the herd-boy useful in winter as well as during
the summer months, he decided that he could not possibly spare Geordie.
And as for Granny Baxter, she could not understand what anybody could
want with more learning who was, able to earn money. So Geordie had one
day lingered behind the other scholars to tell Grace that the idea of
going to school even during the winter quarter must be given up. There
was always a manly reticence about the boy which made one feel that
words of sympathy would be patronising; but Grace could see what a
bitter disappointment it was, though he appeared quite unalterable in
his decision that he "belonged to Gowrie," when Grace tried to arrange
the matter by an interview with the farmer. He could only claim the boy
week by week, and the young teacher did not see the necessity for such
self-denial on Geordie's part.
Then Grace's store of pocket-money had been devoted to sending little
Jean to school. This arrangement had been a source of great delight to
Geordie--much more of an event to him, indeed, than to the phlegmatic
little Jean, to whom the primer did not contain such precious
possibilities as it did to her brother's eyes. Grace had arranged that
she should go to a girls' school lately opened in the parish. It was the
one to which Elsie Gray, the forester's daughter, went. On her way to
school she had to pass Granny Baxter's cottage, and after Jean was
installed as her fellow-scholar, Elsie used generally to call and see if
the little girl was ready to start, so that they might walk along the
road together.
Elsie was a pale, fragile-looking girl, who looked as if she had grown
among crowded streets, rather than blossomed in the open valley, with
its flowing river and breezy hillsides. She was a very silent child,
too, with a meek grace about all her movements; her large grey eyes
shone out of her face with a luminous, dreamy light in them, which
distressed her practical, rosy-faced mother, who used to say that she
did not know where Elsie had come by "those ghaist-like eyes o' hers,"
and as for those washed-out cheeks, "there was no accountin' for them
neither;" and the worthy matron would go on to narrate with what
abundance and amplitude Elsie had been ministered to all her life; and
yet Elsie glided about still and pale, with her large eyes shining like
precious stones, generally hungrily possessed by some book which she
held in her hand. She had an insatiable appetite for reading, and had
long ago exhausted the juvenile library attached to the church, while
the few books which comprised the forester's collection had been read
and re-read by her many times. The farmer librarian, who remained half
an hour after the congregation was dismissed on Sundays to dispense
books for any that might wish them, in the room behind the church, had
been obliged to give Elsie entrance to the shelves reserved for older
people, after she had exhausted the youthful library. It is not to be
supposed, however, that by this admission Elsie was allowed to plunge
chartless into light literature. The shelves contained only books of the
most sober kind, the lightest admixture being narratives of the
persecutions of the Waldenses and stories of the Covenanting struggles.
These Elsie read and pondered with intense interest, interweaving the
scenes in her imagination with the familiar places and people round her,
and living a far-away dreamy life of her own in the forester's cozy
little nest, while her active-minded, busy-fingered mother made her
cheese and butter, and reared her poultry, and was withal so very
capable of performing her own duties, that the forester sometimes
ventured to think, when Mrs. Gray complained of Elsie's "handlessness,"
that seeing the mistress was so well able for "her own turn," it was
fortunate his little daughter chanced to be of a more contemplative
disposition.
Mrs. Gray had heard from Margery of the Sunday class which her young
mistress had opened at Kirklands, and though, as the forester's wife
remarked, "Elsie had enough and to spare of schoolin' already," yet it
would only be a suitable mark of respect to the lady of Kirklands to
send her there on Sunday afternoons; and so it happened that Elsie
became one of Grace's scholars, sitting in the little still-room on
Sunday afternoons, her large tender eyes answering in sympathetic
flashes as the young teacher talked with the little company of those
wonderful days when the Son o Man lived upon the earth, or told them
some story of the earlier times of the world, when God's voice was heard
in the beautiful garden in the cool of the day, or when he guided his
chosen people by signs and wonders.
In those days, however, the gospel tidings were not more to Elsie than
many another pathetic story which she knew, and served simply as food
for her imagination, though Grace's earnest words did throw a halo round
the familiar incidents which the daily reading of a chapter in the New
Testament had failed to do. Yet it was not till some of the sharp
sorrows of life had fallen upon Elsie that those words which she heard
in the still-room came with living power to her heart, and became to her
a light in dark days, a joy in sorrowful times, which nothing was able
to take away from her.
And this was the little girl who used to knock gently at the door of
Granny Baxter's cottage every morning as she passed along the road to
school, arrayed in her pretty grey stuff frock, and with her snowy linen
tippet and sun-bonnet. Sometimes she found little Jean's round smiling
face peering against the peat-stack at the end of the cottage awaiting
her coming, for a great friendship had sprung up between these two,
though they were certainly very different in character. Elsie seemed to
have a brooding protective care over the little unkempt Jean, exercising
a sort of guardianship of her in the new life at school. She would often
come to her rescue when Jean sat pouting over a blurred slate, en which
she was helplessly trying to reproduce the figures on the blackboard, or
give her timely aid amid the involvements of some question in the
Shorter Catechism. It was Elsie who tied the bonnet-strings now, with
more dexterous fingers than Geordie's, and performed many similar kindly
offices besides; and little Jean was already learning from the
forester's daughter many habits of tidiness which her poor, failing
grandmother had not been capable of teaching her.
Sometimes, on their way from school, the girls would find Geordie
perched on the paling of one of Gowrie's fields, while the cattle grazed
within the fences, watching for their coming to enliven a lonely hour
with their talk and news of school doings. His eye used to glisten with
pride and pleasure as he watched the little Jean appear, carrying her
books and slate, and already bearing many traces of civilising
influences. And it is not to be wondered at if his eye rested with
admiration sometimes on the sweet maiden, who was generally her
companion, and that he learnt to watch eagerly for the first glimpse of
the snowy sun-bonnet along the winding green lane which led from the
girls' school to the high road. Sometimes Elsie used to bring one of her
favourite books in her plaited-cord school-bag, and then the trio would
sit in a shady corner, where Geordie's vigilant eye could still keep
watch over his charge, while the little girl introduced her friends to
some of the favourite scenes of her ideal world. Elsie seemed to
understand, though she had never been told it in so many words, all
about Geordie's intense desire for knowledge, and to appreciate his
self-denial in remaining in his present post. And so it happened there
grew up in her mind a tender sympathy for all that he had missed, side
by side with an admiring belief in his character.
How many thoughts and ideas he surely must have, she used to think,
after one of those meetings, when she took her solitary way home, after
parting with Jean, and remembered Geordie's remarks, which seemed to
throw new light on her favourite histories, and to touch with insight
all that was most beautiful and true in them. Often Elsie used to
delight the unvocal brother and sister by singing one of her hymns,
which for days afterwards would echo in some "odd corner" of the lonely
little herd-boy's brain. Sometimes, too, they discussed what they had
been hearing on the previous Sunday at Kirklands; and Elsie always felt
more interested in the lesson after hearing Geordie's gentle, reverent
talk. And to Elsie, who had neither brother nor sister, there was an
infinite charm in Geordie's devotion to his sister Jean, and his
unwearied anxiety for her happiness. She noticed, too, the tender,
chivalrous care with which he ministered to his old grandmother, never
wearying of her selfish, querulous ways, and sacrificing himself to her
smallest wishes.
So it happened that a warm friendship sprang up between those three who
sat side by side in Grace Campbell's little school-room; and their daily
lives had become pleasantly interwoven during these past months. To
Jean, Elsie appeared the embodiment of all that was worthy of imitation,
from her snowy sun-bonnet to her gentle voice, both seeming equally
unattainable to the little girl. When Geordie returned to the village on
Saturday night, he used generally to hear from Jean some glowing
narrative in Elsie's praise, to which Geordie's ears were quite wide
open, though he sat bending over his books in the "ingle neuk" of the
cottage kitchen.
When her idea of a winter at school had to be abandoned, Grace gave him
a few helpful class-books, and tried to direct his efforts to learn as
much as was possible; but, during the past year, her aunt's increasing
weakness and dependence on her companionship made it impossible for
Grace to give the boy such practical help as she would fain have done.
But Geordie had been fighting his own battle manfully, and had made more
progress than Grace guessed.
Walter had first been telling her as they walked on the terrace
together, that the day before he had found Geordie busy with a geography
book as he tended his cattle, and how pleased he had been to hear about
the new lands Walter had seen. Like Elsie, Walter felt that, in
Geordie's mind, things seemed to gather a richness and an interest with
which his own impressions had not clothed them.
"You've no idea how many queer questions the fellow asked me about
everything," continued Walter. "Indeed, Grace, I couldn't help thinking
how much more good Geordie would have got out of all the things and
places I've seen since I went away, than I have. And yet he's much too
clever for a sailor's life. What can we do with him, Grace? I really
can't bear to think of his drudging on as a farm servant to old Gowrie,
though he seems quite contented with the prospect," and Walter turned to
Grace, who glanced at her brother's kindly face with pleasure, though
not unmixed with surprise, that he should take such an interest in her
Sunday-scholar.
Walter seemed to look on Grace's class rather in a humorous light when
he first heard of its existence on his return to Kirklands. And
presently he had begun to grudge that she should devote herself to it,
and thus deprive him of the pleasure of her society during the long
Sunday afternoons, when they used to be together in the old days. And,
in the midst of all her joy in having her brother with her again, Grace
had been feeling with sadness that there was as yet no response in
Walter's heart to those unseen, eternal things, which, in her efforts to
share them with the little company on Sunday, had become increasingly
vivid to her own mind. He used occasionally to rally her on her new
fancies, which he seemed to think quite harmless and suitable for a
girl, provided they did not cross his plans and fancies.
One day, when he was on his way to fish, he had happened to meet
Geordie, who was herding his cattle near the stepping-stones. Geordie
was a clever angler, and could wile more trout out of the river than
most people, and Walter had been delighted with his information as to
the fishing capabilities of the Kirklands river. Since that day they had
always been friends when they chanced to meet. Walter could never see
the sun-bleached locks gleaming in the distance without crossing
whatever gate or field happened to lie between, and going to have a talk
with him; so the boys had seen much more of each other than Grace knew.
She had often been obliged to leave "Walter to solitary rambles, owing
to her aunt's, increasing dependence on her during her long illness, so
it happened that she felt some surprise when she saw Walter more moved
than was his wont as he eagerly discussed plans for helping Geordie.
"I'll tell you what it is, Gracie," said Walter, in his blunt way, as
his quick eye detected Grace's slight surprise that he should have so
warmly espoused the cause of her Sunday-scholar. "You know I have seen
Geordie a good deal lately. We have had a lot of fishing talk, and all
that, and I like the chap--he's a first-rate fellow. I can't bear to
see a fellow so much better than myself trudging away behind those
beasts of Gowrie's day after day. And, besides, Grace, the fact is I owe
him something more than anything I may be able to do for him can ever
repay. It isn't every fellow, I can tell you, who would have had the
courage to say to me what he did," stammered Walter.
"What did he say, Walter?" asked Grace, more astonished than ever. "I
thought you hardly knew more of Geordie Baxter than his name. You know
he is my favourite scholar. But it is a long time since I have had a
quiet talk with him. I well remember the first conversation we had,
standing on the stepping-stones near that bend of the river where the
birches grow."
"Ah, yes, I know the place. It's curious, it was just about that very
spot I was going to tell you. I met him there, one day, not long ago,
and he happened to say that he had been asking Gowrie to stop sending
the cattle to that bit of pasture, because the stepping-stones made it a
thoroughfare, and that bull had been getting more savage lately, and he
could not always persuade people that it was dangerous to pass near him;
but Gowrie had said it was nonsense, and so forth. Well, you see, I'm
not very fond of old Gowrie, and when I saw how meekly Geordie submitted
to him, I felt provoked, and began to speak a little strongly, as we
middies sometimes do--swore, in fact. And if Geordie didn't make me feel
more ashamed of myself than ever I did in my life. You've tried your
hand on me before now, Gracie, and I'm sure you'll be glad to
hear--well, that I'm going to try to lead a very different life now."
Walter's voice faltered, and Grace looked at him with glistening eyes.
After a few moments' silence, she said, "But Walter, dear, you haven't
told me yet what Geordie said."
"Well, Grace, I hardly think I should like to tell you all he said. But
he came, and laying his hand on my shoulder, looked at me with those
earnest eyes of his. 'You've been very kind to me, Maister Campbell,' he
began, 'and it would be ill-done no to min' ye that ye are giving a sore
heart to your best Friend ye have by takin' his dear name in vain,' and
then he said a little more about it. I was so taken aback, Grace, I
could hardly believe my own ears. It must have required a lot of
downright courage to speak like that; there isn't a mid in all our crew
who would have ventured to do so. And yet I dare say I'm in for
something of the same kind when I go back again to the ship. For you
know I must be a 'good soldier,' Grace," added Walter, with a gentle,
fearless look in his eyes that carried Grace's thoughts back to an early
scene, when she stood in the crowded street in her nurse's hand, and
watched her father's face as he rode alongside his men to his last
battle. And as she looked at Walter's face, she remembered some old
words which say, "He that ruleth his spirit is better than he that
taketh a city;" and she lifted up her heart, and gave God thanks that
this young spirit, so dear and precious to her, had taken him for his
Leader and Lord.