AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW NAME
"Now, children, here we are at Kirklands, at last," said a lady with a
pleasant voice, to an eager-looking group of boys and girls, who were
clustering round her, in a large open travelling carriage, which had
just drawn up in front of an old gateway, and waited for admittance.
"Kirklands at last," was re-echoed among the little party. The two boys
seated beside the coachman glanced round at the occupants of the inside
seats, feeling sure that, their higher position secured them superior
information, and shouted in chorus, "Mamma, mamma, Kirklands at last."
"As if we didn't know that as well as you do," shouted back Willie, a
curly-headed little fellow, seated beside his mother, who had a secret
hankering after the higher place of his elder brothers, along with a
desire to prove to them that their position was in no way superior to
his own.
The old gates closed behind them, and the carriage bowled swiftly along
the smooth avenue, with its branching elms overhead. The pleasant vistas
of green, on all sides, were very grateful to the eyes of the young
travellers, wearied with miles of a white dusty turnpike-road, on a hot
July afternoon. They looked with delighted gaze on the new fair scene,
and thought what happy evenings they would have among those green glades
during the long summer days.
But there was one of the party to whom this scene was not new, but old
and familiar, written over with many memories, some well-nigh overlaid
in the turmoil of life, but which flickered up with new vividness as she
looked on the calm sunlighted scene, and thought of other days. The
years had brought many changes to her, and it was with mingled feelings
that she gazed on this unchanged spot. Each grey-lichened rock stood out
from the mossy floor with a face that was familiar; all the little
winding woodland paths, she knew where they led to, and could take the
children to many a nook where wild flowers and delicate green ferns
still loved to grow, at they did long ago when she used to gather them
in these woods.
"Seventeen years ago! is it possible?" she murmured, as she leaned back
in a corner of the carriage, and thought of the many leaves in the book
of her life which had been folded-down since she took farewell of these
green glades in her girlish days. And as she sits, quietly thinking,
while the little group round her are making the green aisles resound
with their merry laughter, we fancy, as we glance at her face, that it
is one we have seen before in this valley. The "stealthy day by day" has
certainly done its work; the outline of Grace's cheek is sharper than it
used to be, and the eager, speaking eyes have lost somewhat of their
fire, but there is a calm gladness in their gaze as she glances at the
joyous faces round her, that speaks of lessons learnt, and sorrows past,
during chequered days which have lain between the autumn evening, when
we saw her last, and this July afternoon, when she is coming with her
"two bands" to the home of her girlhood.
Miss Hume, Grace's aunt, had passed away from this world during that
autumn seventeen years ago, and Grace had never revisited Kirklands
since. Walter, to whom it belonged, was still a naval officer. His home
on the sea had still more fascination for him than the inland beauties
of Kirklands, which had been left to strangers during the intervening
years.
For some time past it had stood empty and tenantless, and Walter had
suggested that his sister, who had just come from a long sojourn abroad,
should, with her children, take up her abode there. Her husband, Colonel
Foster, was still on foreign service; and Grace, who longed to see the
old home after all her wanderings, had readily agreed to go with her
little flock and introduce them to the spot which was their dreamland of
romance, the historic ground of all the pleasantest stories in their
mother's mental library, often ransacked for their benefit.
Mrs. Foster's servants were already at Kirklands, making preparations
for the arrival. The old rooms were being opened up once again, and
shafts of golden sunlight streamed through the long-darkened windows, on
the dark-panelled walls, as if to herald joyously the good news that
"life and thought" were coming back to the deserted house.
As the carriage followed the windings of the avenue, the grey gables of
the old mansion began to peep through the green boughs, their first
appearance being announced by a jubilant chorus from the elder boys on
the box, which made little Willie feel painfully that his range of
vision was far from satisfactory. Presently, however, the timeworn walls
could be seen by all the party, as the carriage wheeled round the old
terrace, and the travellers reached the end of their journey. Then eager
feet began to trot up and down the grass-grown steps, and climb on the
old carved railing, where the griffins fascinated little Grace by their
stony stare, as they used to do her mother years ago. The long-silent
corridors began to resound with joyous laughter, as the merry party
rambled through the old rooms, wishing to identify each place with
historical recollections, founded on their mother's and Uncle Walter's
stories. And was that really the tree that Uncle Walter made believe to
be the rigging of a ship, and one day fell from one of its highest
boughs? And where used they to keep their rabbits, and in what room did
they learn their lessons? These, and such questions, were generally
asked in chorus, to which their mother had to endeavour to reply, as she
wandered among the familiar rooms with her merry boys and girls.
"Mamma, do you know what I should like to see best of all? Two things,
mamma," whispered little Grace, as she caught hold of her mother's
dress.
"And what would my little girl like to see--the toys mamma used to play
with when she was a little girl like Gracie? I believe I've carried the
key of the chest where they lie buried about with me all these years;"
and Mrs. Foster began to look in the little basket she held in her hand
for a shining bunch of keys.
"It wasn't the toys I meant, though I should like to see them very
much," replied the little girl, who was more timid and gentle than her
brothers and sisters, and generally required more encouragement to
unburden her small mind, "it is the room where you taught Geordie that I
want to see--and Geordie's grave among the heather."
Some quick ears had caught a name that seemed to be a household word,
and louder voices said, as the boy's clustered round their mother, "Oh
yes, mamma, do show us where you taught Geordie and little Jean."
So Grace led the way through the dim passages that had once frightened
little Jean, and whose gloom now made the small Grace cling close to her
mother's side. The still-room was dark and unopened, for the servants
had not thought it necessary to include it in their preparations. Grace
went to the window and undid the fastenings, and the yellow afternoon
sun streamed on the dusty wooden bench where Geordie, and Jean, and
Elsie used to sit.
The merry voices were hushed for a moment, and the children looked in
awed silence into the little room, as if it had been a shrine.
After they had gazed long and silently, and their mother went to fasten
the window again, she said, "Children, we will come here and read God's
Word on Sunday afternoons, as the little company you know about used to
do long ago; and I hope you will all listen to the Good Shepherd's
voice, and follow it as Geordie did;" and presently the children trooped
quietly away along the dark vaulted passages.
There was no faithful Margery now to be trusted with everything, and
able to put things straight in the twinkling of an eye, as her young
mistress used to declare she alone was capable of doing, so Mrs. Foster
had some unpacking and arranging preliminaries to superintend before she
could join her eager little party out of doors. But when tea was over,
and the sun had begun to scatter its orange and crimson tints over the
Kirklands valley, Grace thought she would like to take a stroll among
some familiar places before the darkness came.
After lingering on the old terrace for a little, she gathered her boys
and girls round her, and said she was going to take them across the
park. She wanted to visit a place she remembered well, a pleasant angle
of a rising glade of birches, where she once stood mourning over the
traces of an uprooted cottage. But Grace knew that another home had
grown on the ruins of the former dwelling, and to it she bent her steps
now, for there was one of its inmates whom she longed to see. There was
something of the mingled feeling of interest and romance with which her
children wore viewing these now yet familiar scenes, in Grace's desire
to look on a face she had not seen for many years. Its image would rise
before her, chubby, smiling, and childlike, as of old; and then she
remembered the evening when she had first seen it tear-stained and sad,
as she crossed this path with the little fat hand in hers, as her own
Grace's was now.
But Joan had not shed many tears since then. There was no happier home
in all the valley than the white cottage, over which the birch-trees
lovingly stretched their delicate fringes, her husband, the village
carrier, used to think when he came within sight of it, after his day's
journey was over, his parcels all delivered, and his horses "suppered"
for the night. Generally his bright-looking wife was hovering near the
door, waiting his coming with a little group round her as merry as the
one that was now making the woods of Kirklands ring with their
light-hearted laughter.
Grace had not told the children that she meant to take them to see
little Jean that evening. She wanted first to go alone to the cottage
and see her quietly there, for she had many things to hear and ask.
Still, Grace had not been altogether a stranger to the home life there.
Sometimes a letter, written and addressed with laborious carefulness,
had followed her to remote foreign stations, and brought pleasant
memories of dewy heather and fragrant birches as she read it among
waving oleanders and palms. During all those years Grace had watched
over Jean's welfare, and many things in her pretty home told of her
thoughtful remembrance of Geordie's sister.
[Illustration: Old Scenes Revisited.]
The arrival of the family at Kirklands had taken place a few days
earlier than was intended, so Jean had not happened to hear the news,
and was all unconscious of the pleasure in store for her. How often she
had longed to see the "young leddy of Kirklands," as she still called
her, how many times she said to her husband that she would be sure to
know her anywhere, though it was so many years since she had looked
into her face. But now, as Jean sat matron-like with her sewing, in
front of her cottage, while her children played near, she wondered what
"strange lady" could be coming along the path. She called her straying
little ones to her, in case they should be in the way, but she noticed
that the stranger did not seem to think so, for she had just stopped
kindly to stroke one little flaxen head, and Jean, with a mother's
pride, felt grateful that "her bairn should be respeckit among the
rest." But when the lady, still holding the little boy's hand, began to
climb the mossy bank, and came towards her, Jean thought she had surely
seen that face before. Though not till Grace had smiled, and said,
holding out her hand, "Jean, is it possible you do not know me?" did she
recognise her old teacher.
"Oh, Miss Cam'ell, Miss Cam'ell!" she said, with a cry of delight as she
dropped her mending and rose to meet her. "Is it really yourself? I
canna believe my verra eyes."
And when Grace gazed questioningly into the serene, beaming face of the
little matron, she saw it had kept all that was best of its childish
lineaments, and felt with thankful gladness that Geordie's Shepherd had
not forgotten little Jean. Meanwhile the little loitering party came
along the road, and seeing their mother engaged in conversation beside
the pretty cottage door, they were eager to know who of all the old
friends she was talking to. Willie was the first to clamber up the mossy
bank and reach the cottage. The others were following, when he joined
them with an expression of mingled interest and disappointment on his
face.
"I say Walter--Grace,--can you guess who mamma is speaking to? Well,
it's Geordie's sister,--little Jean."
Then they all crept shyly near their mother while she talked at the
cottage door, glancing with interest at the inmate. But when little
Grace could find an opportunity she whispered in a tone of
disappointment, "Oh, mamma, is it really true what Willie says?" and
then she added with a sigh, when Willie's news had been confirmed, "Oh,
I'm so sorry; I do wish she could have stayed a little girl."
Her mother smiled at the childish idea; but she presently remembered
that it was as the little herd-boy Geordie's image still lived in her
memory, though nearly twenty summers had come and gone since he entered
on that life in which earthly days and years are merged into eternity,
where the old and feeble renew their strength, and the young grow wiser
than the wisest hero.
Grace's boys and girls had all to be introduced by name to the smiling
little matron, whose eye rested on them more or less appreciatively, as
she recognised a likeness to their mother or their Uncle Walter.
Presently Grace turned to the little group, and said softly, "Children,
would you like to come to the knolls of heather on the other side of the
hill? I am going there now."
"Oh yes, mamma, I want to go," chimed an eager though subdued chorus of
voices; and then the childish feet followed the two mothers as they
wandered slowly through the birch trees and crossed the path which led
to the stepping-stones. The water still splashed and gurgled noisily
round them, and the knolls of heather stretched with unchanged contour
on the other side. Beyond rose the white gables and thatched roof of the
old farm of Gowrie; but the former master and mistress were gone now;
and the young farmer, who had taken the lease, chafed considerably that
he had not been able to include the bit of heathery pasture lands in the
fields, seeing it had been previously secured by another tenant. It was
the only piece of land owned by Grace in the valley, and through all
these years of absence she had jealously guarded any encroachment upon
her territory. Old Gowrie had, at her earnest request, relinquished his
right to that portion of his domain in her favour, for he ceased to
wish to make it one of his economies to have his cattle grazing there.
So it happened that though the pastoral valley had considerably changed
its face, and had much of its ruggedness smoothed away in the course of
years, this stretch of heather remained unreclaimed. It was still a
thoroughfare, but a very safe one now, for its only dwelling was a
grave.
On the day after Geordie's death Grace had gone to see the last
resting-place destined for him in the little village churchyard. It was
a dreary patch of ground which looked as if the suns ray's never
penetrated through its high walls on the graves below. Crumbling
grey-lichened headstones peeped dismally from among the long dank grass,
and the little paths were overgrown with weeds. Everywhere there were
traces of unloving carelessness of the dead. And though Grace knew full
well that the silent sleepers below little heeded this selfish
forgetfulness, these surroundings sent a chill to her heart. She thought
she should like all that was left here of her boy-friend to lie in
pleasanter places. Far better he should rest underneath the heathery
sod among the pleasant breezy knolls, consecrated by many a heavenward
thought of the lonely little herd-boy, and by faithful words spoken in
an accepted time to a wayward brother's heart. So Grace made her suit to
the old farmer at a time when his heart was softened, and he was not
unwilling to part with a spot written over with a stinging memory. Miss
Hume, without even consulting Mr. Graham, had agreed to the transfer of
the land; and so it happened that Grace, like the patriarch long ago, a
stranger and sojourner in the land, held as a possession a
burying-place.
The bright summer day had reached its dying hour when the little group
stood on the bank of the river. The yellow sunlight was merging into
deep orange and crimson, tinging with a wonderful variety of tints the
lower landscape. The rippling water looked as if a sudden cross current
of red wine had come flowing into it, and the little hillocks beyond,
golden with gorse, were steeped in the mellow light.
The children followed their mother and Jean, with awed faces and hushed
voices, along the little gleaming sheep-walk, fringed by sweet wild
thyme and dog violets, with tendrils of deerhorn moss flinging their
arms across the path. At length they came on a little marble slab, by
the side of one of the knolls. The last golden shafts of sunlight were
stealing over its memorial words, and the young eyes read in silence:--
IN MEMORY OF
GEORDIE BAXTER,
Who went to the Fold above on the
7th of August, 185--.
"The Lord is my Shepherd;
I shall not want."
Presently, the silent group heard footsteps behind, and when Grace
glanced round she saw a woman, with two little boys by her side, coming
along the little path towards the headstone. She stopped suddenly when
she saw the strangers, evidently surprised by the unusual presence of
visitors in that unfrequented spot, and, turning down another path, went
away in the opposite direction. "Who is that, Jean?" asked Mrs. Foster;
"surely I have seen the face before."
"Dear heart, do ye not know her? It's Elsie Gray. We dinna think, John
and me, that her bonnie face is much changed; but then we see it every
day," Jean replied, looking fondly after the retreating figure.
"Ah, is it really Elsie? I was just going to ask about her, Jean. But
who are those children with her? I thought you told me in one of your
letters that she lived quite alone?" asked Grace, stooping down to pluck
a bluebell from Geordie's grave, instead of hurrying after this old
friend, as the little Grace expected her mother to do.
Then the little matron went on to narrate how Elsie's home was still the
forester's pretty cottage, though her father and mother were both dead.
She had never been married, which Jean remarked was a great pity, and
hinted that a good many other people were of her opinion. But how the
parish of Kirklands could ever have got on without her if she had gone
away, or what life would be if she had not Elsie to go to in every joy
and sorrow, Jean could not imagine, as she said she frequently remarked
to "her John." Nobody's hands seemed to be fuller of helpful work, and
nobody did it more cheerily, than Elsie Gray.
Then Jean explained that the two little boys were orphans whom she had
taken to her comfortable home; and "it wasn't the first pair o' laddies
she had made good for something," Jean added, admiringly.
"Oh, mamma, don't you want to speak to her? She has such a nice,
beautiful face. Do let me run after her, and ask her to stop for a
minute," said little Grace, eagerly.
Mrs. Foster glanced musingly across the knolls at Elsie's slender
figure, as she sauntered peacefully home with her charge, and then she
said, "No, my dear, we shall not trouble Elsie to-night; but I shall
take you with me to see her in her own home to-morrow, if you wish it. I
shall be going there."
The cold, grey light was beginning to steal over the woods of Kirklands,
and the rosy tints that still hovered about the knolls would soon give
place to the gloom of night, so Grace gathered her little party, and
turned her steps towards the river.
The merry voices, hushed for a time, began again to resound through the
still evening air, and the children went hurrying on with Jean, who had
told them she must be going home to see after the milking of her cows,
and cordially responded to their wish to join her at the process.
So Grace had been following slowly, and when she crossed the
stepping-stones, she looked lingeringly back, for, with the sound of the
rippling water had come the remembered echoes of Geordie's voice as she
heard it first. Then she called to mind the chilly spring day when she
had started on the search, pronounced so hopeless by old Adam the
gardener, and how gleefully she hailed the unexpected appearance of the
little herd-boy. She smiled as she remembered the childish eagerness
that made her fear that he would not appear at Kirklands, as he had
promised, and his rather reproachful reply that he "Aye keepit his
trysts." And then there rose mingled memories of those trysts, which be
had so faithfully kept in the little still-room, of her own childish
incapacity for the work she had so longed to do, and of the sense of
failure that hung over it so long.
And as she turned to follow her merry boys, who were clambering up the
mossy bank, where the silvery bark of the old birch-trees were still
streaked with rosy sunset hues, she felt how much she had learnt from
the tender, earnest heart of Geordie.
"And comforted, she praised the grace
Which him had led to be,
An early seeker of that Face
Which he should early see."