Allison Bain Part 5

still; but the gathering in of these wanderers to the fold had given him, as one by one they came, a taste of such perfect satisfaction, as few of the great ones of the world--be they heroes or sages--have claimed to be theirs, even in the moment of their highest triumphs.

This kind of success and his satisfaction in it might not be appreciated by those who looked on from the outside of his circle of influence; but there was another kind, both of success and of satisfaction in it, which they could appreciate, and at which they might well wonder.

By means of the pennies and sixpences and shillings slowly gathered among themselves, though few among them had many pennies to spare, and with the help of occasional pounds, which by one hand and another found their way into the treasury from abroad, first the kirk had been built and then the manse. They were humble structures enough, but sufficient for their purpose, and indeed admirable in all respects in the eyes of those who had a part in them.

Then out of a low stretch of barren clay, which was a slimy pool, with a green, unhealthy margin for some months of the year, the minister had made such a garden as few in the town could boast. The hawthorn hedge around it, as well as every tree and bush in it, was planted by the minister's own hand, or under his own eye. It might not have seemed a very fine garden to some people. There were only common flowers and fruits in it, and still more common vegetables; but the courage, the skill, the patience which had made it out of nothing, must have been appreciated anywhere. To the moderately intelligent and immoderately critical community of Nethermuir, the visible facts of kirk and manse, of glebe and garden, appealed more clearly and directly than did the building up of "lively stones into a spiritual house," which was his true work, or the flourishing of "trees of righteousness" in their midst, which was his true joy.

And, perhaps, this was not so much to be wondered at, considering all things. For some of the "trees" looked to be little other than "crooked sticks" to their eyes; and of some of the "stones" it might well be said, that they "caused many to stumble." And since it was halting, and shortcoming, and inconsistency that some of their critical neighbours were looking for among "folk that set themselves up to be better than their neebors," it is not surprising that it was these that they should most readily see.

Even the minister himself saw these things only too often. But then, he saw more. He saw the frequent struggle and resistance, as well as the rare yielding to temptation, and he saw also, sometimes, the soul's humiliation, the repentance, the return.

And even the "crooked sticks" were now and then acknowledged to be not altogether without life. Saunners Crombie might be sour and dour and crabbed whiles, readier with reproof and rebuke than with consolation or the mantle of charity. But even Saunners, judged by deeds rather than by words, did not altogether fall short of fruit-bearing, as many a poor soul, to whose wants, both temporal and spiritual, he ministered in secret, could gladly testify.

And on many of the folk who had "ta'en up wi' the little kirk," a change had pa.s.sed, a change which might be questioned and cavilled at, but which could not be denied. In more than one household, where strife and discontent had once ruled, the fear of G.o.d and peace and good-will had come to dwell. To another, long wretched with the poverty which comes of ill-doing, and the neglect which follows hopeless struggle, had come comfort, and at most times plenty, or contentment with little when plenty failed.

There were lads and la.s.sies among them, of whom in former days, evil things had been prophesied, who were now growing into men and women, earnest, patient, aspiring--into such men and women as have made the name of Scotland known and honoured in all lands. They were not spared a sneer now and then. They were laughed at, or railed at, as "unco gude," or as "prood, upsettin' creatures, with their meetings, and cla.s.ses, and library books," and the names which in the Scotch of that time and place stood for "prig" and "prude," were freely bestowed upon them. But, all the same, it could not be denied that they were not "living to themselves," that they were doing their duty in all the relations of life, and of some of them it was said that "they might be heard o' yet" in wider spheres than their native town afforded.

Neither could it be denied that some who had set out with them in life, with far fairer promise than they, had "gaen the wrang gait," with an ever-lessening chance of turning back again. And what made the difference?

Was it just the minister's personal influence teaching, guiding, restraining, encouraging? Or was it that a change had really pa.s.sed upon them--the change in which, at least, the minister believed, and which he preached--which, according to him, must pa.s.s on each man for himself, before true safety or happiness, either in this world or the next, could be a.s.sured--the change which can be wrought by the Power of G.o.d alone?

Converted! The word had long been a scoff on the lips of some in Nethermuir, but even the scoffers had to confess that, to some of the missioners at least, something had happened.

There was Peter Gilchrist. If an entire change of heart, and mind, and manner of life meant conversion, then Peter was converted. And that not through the slow process of reading the Bible on the Sabbath-day, or by learning the catechism, or by a decent attendance upon appointed ordinances--not even "under the rod"--the chastising hand of Him who smites the sinner for his good--which would have been reasonable enough.

It had happened to others.

But Peter had been converted by one sermon, it was said, a sermon preached at the house-end of Langbarns in the next parish. No great sermon, either. At least many a one had heard it without heeding it.

But it had "done" for Peter.

The very last thing that Peter had been thinking about was listening to the sermon. He, with some of his chosen friends, had gone to the meeting--held out of doors, because there was no other place in which to hold it--for the help and encouragement of the constable, who, it was said, had a warrant to seize and carry before a magistrate "the missioner minister" for a breach of the law, in holding a preaching meeting at Langbarns without the consent of the parish minister. The presumption was that the sight of the constable, and the announcement of his errand, would be enough to silence the minister and disperse the meeting. But that did not follow. If he were to be meddled with, "it should not be for nothing," the minister declared to a rather timid friend and adviser. And his courage stood him in good stead. He gave the folk a.s.sembled such a sermon as probably few of them had ever heard before. The constable had not, he acknowledged, nor Peter; and the worst of it--or the best of it--for Peter was, that having heard it, he could not forget it.

When the meeting was over, Mr Hume went silently and swiftly away with the departing crowd, and he never would have been quite sure that anything serious had been intended if he had not afterward had Peter's word for it.

Returning home from a similar meeting, held in another direction, a week or two afterward, he was waylaid by that unhappy man, and in a rather unexpected manner called to account for his sermon, and for the misery it had caused. They went home to the manse together, and spent a good part of the night in the minister's study, and more nights than one before Peter "came to himself" and "went to his Father," and so was made ready to begin a new life indeed.

It _was_ a new life. There was no gainsaying that. He had been a reckless character, a drunkard, a swearer, an ill husband and a worse father, in the sight of all men. But from the day when at last he came out of the minister's study with a face which shone, though there were tears upon it, all that was over.

For days and months his wife watched him and wondered, and rejoiced with trembling, never sure how it all might end. His children, with something of the dogged indifference with which in former days they had come to bear the effects of his drunken anger, took the good of his changed ways "while they lasted," they said to one another, hardly daring to hope that they would last "for ay."

But though he had had a stumble or two since then he had, on the whole, during thirteen years walked warily and wisely, even in the unwilling judgment of those who had watched for his halting. Even they were compelled to allow that "to be converted" meant something to the purpose, at least in the case of Peter Gilchrist.

There were many besides him whose lives ill.u.s.trated the power of the Gospel as held forth by Mr Hume, and there were but a few in the place who went beyond a grumble of dissent or disapproval of him and his doings now. Even the most inveterate of the grumblers, or the most captious of the fault-finders, could not withstand the persistent friendliness which never resented an injury nor forgot a favour, and which was as ready, it seemed, with a good turn for those who wished him ill as for those who wished him well.

According to some folk, the minister ought to have been "sour, and dour, and ill-conditioned," considering the belief he held and the doctrines he preached. These were the folk who never went to hear him. But even they acknowledged that he was friendly and kindly, cheerful and forbearing, even when vexation or indignation on his part might have been excusable. And they also acknowledged that "he wasna a man who keepit a calm sough, and slippet oot o' things just to save himself trouble." He could be angry--and show it, too--where cruelty, or dishonesty, or treachery came under his eye, or where blasphemous words were uttered in his hearing. And there were two or three of the evildoers of the place who had been made to feel the weight of his words, and the weight of his hand also on occasion, and who were in the way now of slipping down the lanes, rather than meet the minister in the light of day.

And he was "a weel learnt man," and fair in an argument, and willing to look at all the sides of a subject. This was Weaver Sim's opinion of the minister, and he was an oracle in a small way among his neighbours.

"He has his ain notions and opinions, as is to be expectet o' the like o' him. But he's a weel learnt man, and on the whole fair and liberal.

And whiles he has a twinkle in his e'e that tells that he sees some things that ither folk canna see, and that he enjoys them."

All this had been conceded during the early years of the minister's life in Nethermuir. He had made his own place among the town's folk since then, and so had his wife. It was a good place, and they were worthy of it. And it is possible that, in all Scotland, poor Allison Bain could have found no safer refuge than she was likely to find with them.

She filled her place well--was indeed invaluable in it. But when weeks and months had pa.s.sed, her master and mistress knew nothing more of her heart or her history than on the day when she first came among them.

But they had patience with her, and watched her with constant and kindly oversight, and they trusted her entirely at last.

"Her trust in us will come in time," said her mistress; "and in the meanwhile I can only be thankful that she has been sent to us, both for her sake and ours."

It was indeed "a great relief and comfort" for Mrs Hume to know that a wise head and capable hands were between her and many of her household cares. For what with her husband, and her six sons, and her frail little daughter, and the making, and mending, and thinking for them all, her days were sometimes over-full.

To the minister his wife was hands, and eyes, and sometimes head. She had to keep her heart light and her face bright, and now and then she had to "set it as a flint" for his sake. She had to entertain many a wearisome visitor, and to listen to many a tale of care or trouble or complaint, that the quiet of his study need not be broken in upon. She stood between him and some vexations which he might have taken seriously, and from which he might have suffered, but which yielded under the influence of her smiles and soft words, or disappeared in the presence of her indifference or her anger, as the case might be.

She had slow, dull natures to stir up, and natures hard and crabbed to soften and soothe, and in numberless other ways to hold up her husband's hands, and maintain his honour in the little community to which he stood as G.o.d's overseer.

There were "puir bodies" in every street, into whose dim little rooms the face of the minister's wife came like sunshine. She was a kind of Providence to some of them, having made herself responsible to them for cups of tea, or basins of soup, or jugs of milk in their time of need.

And for better help still. To the suffering and sorrowful she came with words of comfort and consolation, and with words of chiding or of cheer to the "thraward" and the erring, who had helped to make their own trouble. She was mindful of all and kind to all as they had need and she had power.

She had other uses for her time also, duties and pleasures which she could not neglect. A new book found its way to the manse sometimes, and she had the _Evangelical Magazine_ to read--it would be thought dry reading nowadays--and the weekly paper as well, for great interest was taken in public affairs at that time. These books and papers were to be thought over, and considered, and then discussed with her husband, and sometimes with the two or three hard-handed farmers or artisans of their flock, who had, under their teaching, learned to care for books, and even for "poyms," and for all that the great world in the distance was trying to say and to do.

It was well for her that she had learned to do two things at once, or even three,--that she could enjoy her book quite as well with her knitting-needles glancing busily in her skilful fingers, and her foot on her boy's cradle, and withal never forget to meet and answer the smile of her patient little daughter, or by glance or word or touch to keep her restless lads in order.

Her brown eyes seldom looked troubled or weary, and her voice, though at times imperative enough, never grew sharp or fretful. Her steps went lightly up and down the stair, and through the streets of the town, and her smile was like sunshine at home and abroad.

And the help that Allison's willing and efficient service was to her mistress cannot be told. It would have helped her more if the girl had been happier in the giving of it.

"But," said her hopeful mistress, "that will come in time."

CHAPTER FOUR.

"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 b.a.l.l.s, 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sed, 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."