Читать книгу Allison Bain; Or, By a Way She Knew Not - Margaret M. Robertson - Страница 8

Table of Contents

“She crept a’ day about the house

Slow fitted and heart-sair.”

Truly there was enough to do in the house. Allison’s day began long before the dawn of the winter morning, and ended when there was nothing more to do, and night had come by that time. All was done deftly and thoroughly, as even the faithful Kirstin had not always done it, but silently and mechanically. She took no satisfaction, that her mistress could see, in a difficult or tiresome piece of work well ended—in a great washing or ironing got through in good time, or in a kitchen made perfect in neatness. When the lads came home from school to put it all in disorder, with bats and balls, and sticks and stones, she made no remonstrance, but set to work to put it in order again. It made no difference, her downcast face seemed to say.

With the lads themselves—tiresome and vexatious often—she was, for the most part, patient and forbearing, but it was not a loving patience, or a considerate forbearance, as old Kirstin’s had been. Kirstin had been vexed often, and had sometimes complained of their thoughtlessness and foolishness. But nothing seemed to make much difference to the silent ruler of the kitchen. Everything but the work of the moment was allowed to pass unheeded.

The lads, cautioned by their father, and kept in mind by their mother, did not often go beyond the bounds of reasonable liberty in the use they made of her domain. When they did so, a sharp word, like a sudden shot, brought them to their proper place again and set matters right between them. The lads bore no malice. They never complained to their mother at such times, and if they had, she would have paid little attention to such complaints. That “laddies must be kept in order,” she very well knew.

And thus the early weeks of winter passed, doing for Allison some of the good which work well done is sure to do for the heavy-hearted. But the good which the busy days wrought, the nights, for a time, seemed to destroy.

In the long evenings, when Marjorie and the younger brothers were asleep, and the elder lads were at their books, there came a time of quiet to all the house, when Allison had the kitchen to herself and she could sit in silence, undisturbed, but not at rest. Then her trouble came back upon her, and night after night she sat gazing into the fire till it fell into red embers, and then into grey ashes, thinking of the painful days of the year now drawing to a close. And, poor soul! the anguish of pain and shame which, months ago, had touched her and hers, was as sharp and “ill to bide” as when the blow had fallen. Nay, in a sense it was worse. For in the first amazement of a sudden shock, the coming anguish seems impossible, and the natural resistance of the soul against it gives a sort of courage for the time.

But with Allison, the fear had changed to certainty. Trouble had fallen on her and hers, and had darkened for her all the past and all the future, she believed, for as yet time had not lightened the darkness.

It was not that she was thinking about all this. She was living it all over. She saw again the home she had left forever—the low house, with the sunshine on it, or the dull mist and the rain. A vision of a beautiful, beloved face, drawn with terror, or fierce with anger, was ever before her. Or a grey head moving restlessly on its last pillow—a face with the shadow of death upon it, and of an anguish worse than death. In her ears was a voice uttering last words, with long, sobbing sighs between.

“O! Willie, Willie!” the broken voice says. “Where are ye, Willie? Mind, Allison, ye hae promised—to watch for his soul as ane that maun gie account. And the Lord deal—wi’ you, as—ye shall deal wi’ Him.”

And in her heart she answers:

“Father, be at peace about him. I’ll be more mindfu’ o’ him than the Lord himself has been.”

She sees the anguish in the dying eyes give place to darkness, and sitting there by the grey ashes on the hearth, cries out in her despair. Thus it has been with her since her father was laid in the grave, and the prison-doors shut upon her only brother. Their faces are ever before her, their voices in her ears.

She cares for nothing in the wide world at such times. She does not even care for herself, or her own life, though a shadow dark and dread lies on it. If her life could come to an end, that Would be best, she thinks. But it must not come to an end yet. Oh! if she and Willie could die together, or get away anywhere and be forgotten. If they could only pass out of all men’s minds, as though they had never been! But all such thoughts are foolish, she tells herself. Nothing in their lives can be changed, nor mended, nor forgotten.

And having got thus far, it all begins again, and she lives over the happy days when, bairns together, they played among the heather, or followed the sheep on the hills; when their father was like God to them, ay loving them, and being kind to them; but not ay seeming just so mindful of them as their mother was. Their mother was ill whiles, and took less heed of things, and needed much done for her, but they loved their mother best. At least they never feared her, as they sometimes feared their father, who yet loved them both—Willie best, as did all who ever saw his face.

And thus on through all the weary way, her thoughts would travel through days of still content, through doubt, and fear, and anguish, to the end, only to begin again.

If Dr. Fleming had known what good reason there was for the fears which he had unconsciously betrayed to the minister, he would hardly have ventured to send Allison Bain to the house of his friend. But he could have done nothing better for her. A change was what she needed—something to take her out of herself, to make her forget, even for a little while, now and then, what the last year had brought her. With new scenes and faces around her, new duties and interests to fill up her time and thoughts, she had the best chance of recovering from the strokes which had fallen upon her, and of “coming to herself” again.

For nothing had happened to her that is not happening to some one every day of the year. Sin and sorrow and terrible suffering had touched her and hers. One had sinned, all had suffered, and she was left alone to bear the burden of her changed life, and she must bear it for her brother’s sake. And she had no refuge.

For her faith in God had been no stronger than her faith in her brother, and her brother had failed her. And God had not put out a hand to help him—to save him from his sin and its consequences, and nothing could be changed now.

Yet the first months of winter did something for her, though her mistress hardly discovered it, and though she did not know it herself. Her day’s work tired her in a natural, healthy way, so that after a time her sleep at night was unbroken, and she had less time for the indulgence of unhappy thoughts. But she did not, for a good while after three months were over, take much conscious pleasure in anything that was happening around her.

She had much to do. The short days of winter were made long to her. For hours before the slow coming dawn she was going softly about the kitchen in the darkness, which the oil-lamp that hung high above the hearth hardly dispelled. When she had done what could be done at that hour within the house, there was something to do outside. For cripple Sandy, whose duty it was to care for the creatures, did not hurry himself in the winter mornings; and Allison, who knew their wants and their ways, and who all her life had had to do with the gentle creatures at home, would not let them suffer from neglect. By the dim light of the lantern hung from the roof, she milked the cows and fed them, and let in the welcome light upon the cocks and hens; and went to all corners of the place, seeing at a glance where a touch of her hand was needed. And she was conscious of a certain pleasure in it after a time.

Then there was the house “to redd up,” and the porridge to make, for the elder lads had to set out early to their school, and their breakfast must be over when their father came down to have worship before they went away. Then came the parlour breakfast, and then the things were to be put away, and dinner-time was at hand, and so on till the day was over. Truly there was enough to do, washing and ironing, cleaning and cooking, coming and going—the constant woman’s work which is never done.

As for the cooking, there was no time for the making of dainty dishes in the manse, even if there had been no better reason for dispensing with them. Oatmeal was the staple of the house, of course—the food which has made bone and muscle for so many who stand in high places on both sides of the sea. There was the invariable porridge in the morning, supplemented by the equally invariable cakes. Not the sweet morsels which the name may suggest to some folk—but, broad discs of meal and water, cut into quarters for the sake of convenience, and baked on a griddle—solid but wholesome.

There was a variety of them. There were soft cakes, and crisp cakes, and thick bannocks, and sometimes there were “scones” of barley-meal. The “loaf-bread” came from the baker’s; so did the rare buns and baps, and the rarer short-bread for great and special occasions. Beef and mutton were not for everyday use. They had fowls and they had fish of the best, for in those days the London market did not devour all that the sea produced, and the fishwives tramped inland many miles, with their creels on their backs, glad to sell their fish to the country folk. They had soup often, and always potatoes and some other vegetables; but milk and oatmeal, prepared in various ways, was the principal food for the bairns of the manse, and for all other bairns as well.

Were they to be commiserated, the lads and lassies, who in manse and farmhouse and cottage had to content themselves with such simple, unvarying fare? They did not think so, for except in books, they knew nothing of any other way of life. I do not think so, because I have seen other ways and their results. Besides, luxury is a comparative term, like wealth, or a competence; and the occasional slice of loaf-bread, with jelly or even treacle on it, probably gave greater satisfaction to the children of that country, and that time, than the unlimited indulgence in cakes and pastry, or creams and ices can give to the experienced young people of the present day, in some other countries, who, taking the usual comprehensive survey of the luxuries prepared for the frequenters of city hotels or watering-places, are sometimes obliged to confess themselves “disappointed in the fare!”

One thing is sure, plain food made strong men and women of most of them; and no lingering dyspepsia of childhood spoiled the pleasure of those of them who won their way to the right to live as they pleased in after-life.

During Allison’s reign in the manse kitchen, the bairns were exceptionally fortunate in their daily fare. For though she seemed to go about in a maze, like the man in the ballad, as Robin said, “whose thoughts were other-where,” she never burned the porridge, nor singed the broth, nor put off the weekly baking of “cakes,” till they were obliged to content themselves, now and then, with less than the usual portion.

It was wonderful how well the work was done, considering how little her heart seemed to be in the doing of it, her mistress sometimes thought. She would have been better pleased had an opening been left now and then for the “putting in mind,” which had been necessary sometimes, even in the case of the much-valued Kirstin. She would have liked to see whether a sharp word or two would have moved the silent Allison for a moment out of the dull, mechanical performance of her duty.

Praise did not do it, and she had been lavish of praise at first. Allison heard it, as she heard all else, without heeding, as though doing well were a matter of course, needing no words about it. She did not respond, by ever so little, to her mistress’ kindly attempts to make friends, till something else had moved her.

The tact and patience of her mistress in dealing with her were helped by the belief which gradually came to her, that this silent withdrawal of herself from all approaches of kindliness or sympathy was hardly voluntary on Allison’s part. It was not so much that she refused help as that she had ceased to expect it. Under some terrible strain of circumstances her courage had been broken, and her hope. She was like one who believed that for her, help was impossible.

Of course she was wrong in this, her mistress thought. She was young and time brings healing. If her trouble had come through death, healing would come soon. If it were a living sorrow, there might still be more to suffer; but her strong spirit would rise above it at last—of that she was sure.

All this she had said to the minister one night. He listened in silence a while, then he said:

“And what if sin, or the love of it, makes her trouble? There are some things which cannot be outlived.”

“Tell me what trouble touches any of us with which sin—our own, or that of other folk—has not to do. Yes, there has been sin where there is suffering such as hers, but I cannot think that she has been the sinner. Allison is an honest woman, pure and true, or my judgment is at fault. It is the sin of some one else which has brought such gloom and solitariness upon her. Whether she is a real Christian, getting all the good of it, is another matter. I have my doubts.”

All this time the minister’s “new lass” had not been overlooked by those who worshipped in the little kirk, nor by some who did not. The usual advances had been made toward acquaintance—friendly, curious, or condescending, as the case might be, but no one had made much progress with the stranger. Her response to each and all alike was always perfectly civil, but always also of the briefest, and on a second meeting the advances had to be made all over again.

When business or pleasure brought any of the cottage wives to the manse kitchen, as happened frequently, their “gude-day t’ye” was always promptly and quietly answered, but it never got much beyond that with any of them. Allison went about her work in the house or out of it, and “heeded them as little as the stools they sat on,” some of them said, and their husbands and brothers could say no more.

When she was discussed, as of course she was at all suitable times and occasions, the reports which were given of her were curiously alike. Friendliness, curiosity, condescension—the one had sped no better than the other. The next-door neighbours to the manse had no more to tell than the rest. There was no lingering at the kitchen-door, or at the mouth of the close in the long gloaming, as there used to be in Kirstin’s time.

“Ceevil! ay, if ye can ca’ it civeelity. She maistly just says naething and gaes by as gin she didna see ye,” said the weaver’s wife.

“For my pairt, I hae nae feast o’ sic civeelity,” said Mrs. Coats from the other side of the street. “I should like to ken mair aboot her ere I hae muckle to say to her.”

“It winna trouble her though you sae naething,” said the weaver. “She’s valued in the manse, that’s weel seen.”

“Ay, she is that,” said his wife. “I never thought they would soon get one to step so readily into auld Kirstin’s shoon. She gets through far mair than ever Kirstin did in the course of the day, and the hoose is like a new preen (pin).”

“I daursay. New besoms sweep clean,” said Mrs. Coats with a sniff.

“There’s a differ in besoms, however, be they auld or new,” said the weaver.

“She’s the kin’ o’ lass to please the men it seems. We’ll need to keep a calm sough the lave o’ us,” said Mrs. Coats.

“It’s ay safe to keep a calm sough,” said the weaver. “Gin she suits the minister’s wife that’s the chief thing. The warst we ken o’ her yet is that she’s no’ heedin’ ony o’ us, and she micht hae waur fauts.”

“That may be. But something must ail a young lass like yon when she is sae slow to open her lips, and goes by a body—even a young lad, as gin there was naebody there.”

“That’s her loss,” said the weaver with a laugh.

That she went about “without heeding” was a more serious matter in the case of the new lass than might at first be supposed. If she had not lived at the manse, which was so much frequented by all sorts of people, or if she had been plain, or crooked, or even little, it would have mattered less that she was so preoccupied and so difficult to approach.

Fewer people, in that case, might have noticed her. As it was, many eyes were on her when she went down the street with her water-buckets, or sat in the kirk in a dream. She would have been called a beautiful woman anywhere. In the street of this dull little town, where men had eyes as well as in larger places, it was not surprising that she should be watched and wondered at.

Her face was beautiful, but it wanted the colour and brightness which made “a bonny face” to the eyes of most of the folk of Nethermuir. It was thin and sallow when she first came there, and the gloom upon it, and “the dazed look” which came when she was suddenly spoken to, did much to mar and shadow its beauty. And so did the great mutch, with its double “set-up” border of thick muslin, which was tied close around it, covering the ears, and the round throat, and hiding all the beautiful hair, which after the fever was beginning to grow again. But nothing could disguise the firm, erect form, which might have been thought too tall, perhaps, if it had not been round and full in proportion; and the short gown confined at the waist by the long strings of her apron, and the rather scant petticoat of dark winsey that fell beneath it, are not such unbecoming garments as might be supposed by those accustomed to garments of a more elaborate fashion.

Her strength was quite as highly appreciated by the stooping weavers and shoemakers of Nethermuir as was her beauty, and the evidences which she unconsciously gave of it were much admired and often recounted among them. When “Auld Maggie” fell on the slide which the town laddies had made in the street, and tailor Coats ran to get some one to help to carry her home, “the minister’s lass” lifted her in her arms, and had her in her bed with a hot-water bottle at her feet before he came back again. And while every other woman in the street needed to take at least one rest, at a neighbour’s door, between the pump and her own, “the minister’s lass,” turning neither head nor eye, moved on without a pause, till she disappeared round the close that led to her kitchen-door.

“And, for that matter, except for the way her face is turned, ye wud never ken whether her buckets were fou or toom” (full or empty), said an admiring observer, as he watched her steady and rapid steps along the street.

So poor Allison, for one reason and another, could not be overlooked. Her name—or rather the name which her place gave her—“the minister’s lass,” was on many lips for a time. Absolutely nothing was known about her except what the kindly and guarded letter of Dr. Fleming had conveyed; yet much was supposed and said concerning her, and some things were repeated till they were believed, which she might have resented had she heard of them. They might have angered her, and so have helped to shake her out of the heaviness and dulness that had fallen upon her. But she “never heeded.” She saw neither the hand which was held out to her in friendliness nor the face that turned away in indifference or anger.

And perhaps, on the whole, it was as well that she heeded nothing. For as weeks and months passed on, and other folk came or went, and new events—which would have hardly deserved the name elsewhere—happened to give subject-matter for discussion at proper times and places, Allison became just “the minister’s lass,” tolerated, if not altogether approved, among the censors of morals and manners in the town, and she still went her way, for the most part, unconscious of them all.