Allison Bain Part 12

And who could measure the delight of the child when it was told her that she was to go to the hills with the rest? If her mother were still only half convinced of the wisdom of the measure, she did not suffer her anxiety to appear in a way to spoil her little daughter's pleasure. And Marjorie moderated her raptures and was wonderfully quiet and unexcited while all preparations were going on. Nor did she show impatience when she had still some time to wait after her little brothers had set out to join the other bairns at the school.

The mistress was to have the help of some of the elder girls in marshalling the little lads and la.s.sies, and in encouraging them through the rather long, tramp up the hills. Allison, who had been busy from early morning, and had still something to do, a.s.sured the child that it would only be a weariness for them both if she were obliged to measure her steps by those of the bairns, and that they would reach the Stanin'

Stanes before them; though they gave them a whiles start.

"They are doing one another good," said the minister, as they stood at the door, following with their eyes the stately figure of Allison as she went steadily down the street, looking neither to the right hand nor the left. But it was "lanesome like" to go back into the parlour and look at Marjorie's empty couch.

And Marjorie was moving on, as she sometimes did in her dreams, down the street, and past the well on the green, and over the burn, and up the brae, first between hedges that would soon be green, and then between dikes of turf or grey stone, till at last Allison paused to rest, and then they turned to look at the town, lying in a soft haze of smoke in the valley below.

They could see the manse and the kirk and the trees about the garden, and all the town. They could see the winding course of the burn for a long way, and Burney's Pot, as they called the pond into which the burn spread itself before it fell over the dam at Burney's mill. A wide stretch of farming land rose gradually on the other side of the valley beyond. Some of the fields were growing green, and there were men ploughing in other fields, and everywhere it looked peaceful and bright, "a happy world," Marjorie said. They could see Fir Hill, the house where Mrs Esselmont lived in summertime--at least they could see the dark belt of firs that sheltered it from the east and half hid it from the town.

"It's bonny over yonder. I was there once, and there is such a pretty garden," said Marjorie.

Then they went on their way. It was the loveliest of spring days. The sun did not shine quite all the time, because there were soft white clouds slowly moving over the sky which hid his face now and then. But the clouds were beautiful and so was their slow movement over the blue, and the child lay in Allison's arms, and looked up in perfect content.

Spring does not bring all its pleasant things at once in that northern land. The hedges had begun to show their buds a good while ago, but they had only buds to show still, and the trees had no more. The gra.s.s was springing by the roadside, and here and there a pale little flower was seen among it, and the tender green of the young grain began to appear in sheltered and sunny spots. Oh! how fair and sweet it all was to Marjorie's unaccustomed eyes!

"Oh, Allie!" said she, "can it be true that I am here?"

She could not free her arms from the enveloping shawl to clasp Allie's neck, but she raised herself a little and laid her cheek against hers, and then she whispered:

"I prayed the Lord to let me come." Then they went on in the soft warm air their pleasant way. By and by they left the road and went over the rougher ground that lay between them and the end of their journey. In a hollow where there was standing water, Allison took the wrong turning, and so going a little out of the way, came suddenly on the mistress and her noisy crowd of bairns, who were looking for them in another direction.

It was a day to be remembered. But it was not all pleasure to every one, though every moment was full of delight to Marjorie. The bairns were wild and not easily managed, and the mistress "had her ain adoes among them." Of course the tawse had been left at home, and the sternness of countenance which was the right and proper thing in the school, the mistress felt would be out of place among the hills, even supposing the bairns would heed it, which was doubtful. As for setting limits beyond which they were not to wander, that was easily done, but with all the treasures of the hills awaiting discovery, was it likely that these limits would be kept in mind?

The mistress strode after the first wandering group, and called after the second, and then she declared that "they maun gang their ain gait, and tak' their chance o' being lost on the hills," and she said this with such solemnity of countenance as to convince the little ones who remained that they at least had best bide where they were. It was not likely, after all, that anything more serious than wet feet or perhaps torn clothes would happen to them--serious enough troubles in their own way, and likely to be followed by appropriate pains and penalties without the intervention of the mistress. At any rate they must just take their chance.

So, she "put them off her mind," and with the other bairns, and Allison carrying Marjorie in her arms, wandered for a while among "the Stanes."

Seven great stones there were, arranged around another greater still; and they might well wonder, as many had wondered before them, how they had been brought there, and by whom, and for what purpose. That is, Marjorie wondered, and told them what her father thought, and Robin; and Allison listened and smiled, and wondered too, since she was called to think about it at all.

As for the mistress, the "Stanin' Stanes" were just the Stanin' Stanes to her. She accepted them as she did the hills themselves, and the heather, and the distant mountains; and she objected decidedly to the minister's opinion as announced by his little daughter.

"We are maybe standing in a temple where, hundreds and hundreds of years ago, the folk worshipped an unknown G.o.d," said Marjorie.

The mistress vehemently dissented.

"What should put the like o' that in the minister's head? It's an ill thing for ane to try to be wise aboon what's written."

"But it's all in a book," said the child eagerly. "Robin read it to my mother and me. And in the Bible ye ken there were folk seeking Him, 'if haply they might feel after Him and find Him.' And maybe they were doing that here."

But the mistress would not hear such a thing said.

"Think ye the Lord wad hae letten stan' a' these years in a Christian land like Scotland sic monuments o' will worship and idolatry? Na, na, la.s.sie, I couldna believe that, though your father should preach it out o' the p.o.o.pit."

"But, Mistress Jamieson, the Lord lets ill men (evil men) live in Scotland, and has patience with them, and whiles saves them from their sins. And maybe the folk were 'feeling after Him' in those faraway days."

"John Beaton told my father that these muckle stanes are quite different from the rest o' the stanes upon the hills hereaboot," said Annie Cairns.

"John Beaton nae less!" said the mistress scornfully. "As gin the Lord couldna put what kin' o' stanes He liket wherever it was His will to put them. And what kens John Beaton mair than the lave?"

"Grannie thinks it was the fairies that brocht them up the brae. But John kens weel about stanes."

It was Annie Cairns, one of the older la.s.sies, who had made the last two ventures. It was certainly a bold thing for a la.s.sie, who was every day convicted in the school of lost loops in her stocking, to put in her word with her betters on such a matter. The mistress answered her with a look which she knew well, and heeded little. But it startled Marjorie, who had only heard about such looks from her brothers. Her face warned Allison that enough had been said.

"Ye're growing tired, my lammie, and ye'll need to lie down and rest for a while."

"Yes, I'm tired, now that I think about it," said the child, lying back in her kind arms again.

The wind had grown a little sharp by this time, and they found a sheltered spot on which the sunshine fell, on the south side of one of the great stones; here Allie made a couch, and the child rested on it in perfect content. Some of the little ones were tired also, and fell asleep, and were well happed by Allison and the mistress, and the rest went away to amuse themselves for a while.

Marjorie did not mean to go to sleep. She could see a wide stretch of sky, over which the white clouds were wandering still, and the tops of the faraway hills, and she thought she could see the sea. But she was asleep and dreaming when it came to that.

In the meantime, soothed by a whiff of her pipe, Mistress Jamieson was getting on quite friendly terms with Allison, who had her good word from that day forth. For with the most respectful attention she sat listening to the all-embracing and rather dismal monologue of the old woman, as few were accustomed to do. Did she listen? She certainly did not understand all that was said, and she could not afterward have repeated a word of it. But she saw a face, wrinkled and grey, and not very happy--an old, tired face. And if she was thinking of troubles that had made deep lines in other faces, rather than of the cares and vexations which had saddened the lot and soured the temper of the schoolmistress, her silence and the softening look in her beautiful, sad eyes, and the grave "ay" or "no" that came in response to some more direct appeal, pleased and soothed the heart of the lonely old woman to a sense of comfort which came seldom enough to her.

And though Allison's answers were of the briefest, when the mistress began to question her about herself and her life before she came to Nethermuir, they were civil, and they were quietly and readily given, and fortunately there was not much time for questions; for the bairns came straggling back by twos and threes as they had gone away. Each brought some treasure found in their wanderings, and Marjorie would have been buried beneath the offerings of flowers, and tender green bracken, and "bonny stanies" that were brought to her, if Annie Cairns had not taken possession of them all, promising to carry them safe to the manse.

There were still some stragglers for whom they must wait. There would have been little good in going to search for them, and there was no need to hurry home, for the afternoon was not far over--at least there would have been no need if the bairns had not been all so ravenously hungry.

The "piece" which each had brought from home had been made away with by the greater number, before even the "Stanes" were in sight, and the additional supply which Allison had provided did not go very far among so many.

In these circ.u.mstances, imagine the shout of welcome which greeted the appearance of Robin with a bag upon his back--Robin's bag, the bairns called it; but the treat of baps and buns was John Beaton's, who took this way to celebrate his homecoming. And it is to be doubted whether he ever in all his life spent many other crown-pieces to better purpose, as far as the giving or the getting or pleasure was concerned.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

"Love sought is good, but love unsought is better."

John Beaton came slowly up the height which hid for the moment the spot where the bairns had gathered, and Robin followed with his bag on his shoulder. Confusion reigned triumphant. Some of the little ones had become tired and fretful, and the elder girls were doing what they could to comfort and encourage them. But by far the greater number were as lively as when they set out in the morning, and by no means in haste to end their day of pleasure. Up the shelving side of one of the great grey stones they were clambering, and then, with shrill shrieks and laughter, springing over the other side to the turf below. Not the slightest heed was given to the voice of the mistress, heard amid the din, expostulating, warning, threatening "broken banes and bluidy noses, ere a' was dane." This was what Robin saw, and it was "a sight worth seeing."

What John Beaton saw was Allison Bain standing apart, with Marjorie in her arms, and he saw nothing else for a while. Even Robin, with his bag on his shoulder, stopped a moment to gaze at "our la.s.s," as he called her in a whisper to his friend. She looked a very different la.s.s from "our Allie" in the manse kitchen, with her downcast eyes, and her silence, and her utter engrossment with the work of the moment. Her big mutch had fallen off, and a ma.s.s of bright hair lay over the arm which the child had clasped about her neck. The air had brought a wonderful soft colour to her cheeks, and her lips were smiling, and so were her eyes, as she watched the wild play of the bairns, and her darling's delight in it. There was not a sign of stooping or weariness.

"Though Davie says she carried Maysie every step of the way," said Robert to his friend. "Man! John! It might be Diana herself!"

But John said nothing, and Robin had no time for more, for the bairns had descried him and his bag, and were down on him, as he said, like a pack of hungry wolves.

So John shook hands with the mistress, "in a dazed-like way," she said afterward, and at the first moment had scarce a word for Marjorie, who greeted him with delight.

"John, this is my Allie," said she, laying her hand on her friend's glowing cheek, "and, Allie, this is Mrs Beaton's John, ye ken."

Allie glanced round at the new-comer, but she was too busy gathering back the wisp of hair that the wind was blowing about her face to see the hand which he held out to her, and the smile had gone quite out of her eyes when she raised them to his face.

"They minded me o' Crummie's een," John told his mother long afterward.

The schoolmistress sat down upon a stone, thankful that her labours were over, and that the guiding home of the bairns had fallen into stronger hands than hers. And as she watched the struggle for the booty which came tumbling out of the bag, she was saying to herself:

"I hae heard it said o' John Beaton that he never, a' his days, looket twice in the face o' a bonny la.s.s as gin there were onything to be seen in it mair than ordinar. But I doot, after this day, _that_ can never be said o' him again. His time is come or I'm mista'en," added she with grim satisfaction. "Noo we'll see what's in him."

"And now, Maysie," said Robin, coming back when the "battle of the baps"

was over, "I'm to have the charge o' you all the way home, my mother said. Allie has had enough o' ye by this time. And we have Peter Gilchrist's cart, full o' clean straw, where ye can sit like a wee queen among her courtiers. So come awa', my bonny May."