_ CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
"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." _