Morag Part 11

Morag stood watching her father, as he followed Kirsty, bending his tall figure to creep into the low tent, and then she sat down on the old grey d.y.k.e outside, to await the next scene of this strange evening. She could not help feeling very glad that her father and Kirsty were going to be friends at last, though it was such a sorrowful occasion which seemed to have brought the reconciliation about. Presently she saw Kenneth slip out of the tent, looking very grave and sad. He came and leant silently against one of the fir-trees, and stood gazing into the pale larch plantation, with its long dark gra.s.s shimmering in the white moonlight.

Morag knew that he was looking so sorrowful because his mother was going to leave him, and she felt very sorry too, and longed to be able to do something to comfort him; but she thought that perhaps it was best to keep quite quiet there, and let him think his own thoughts. She wondered whether Kenneth knew and loved his grandmother's Friend, and was able now to tell Him all his trouble.

When the keeper entered the tent, the dying woman fixed her great restless eyes upon him, and looked questioningly at Kirsty. The old woman stooped down, and said, "It's Alaster Dingwall--him, ye ken, that was Kenneth's"--friend, she was going to say; and then she glanced sadly at the keeper, and did not finish her sentence. But presently she added, "Eh! but He's been good and forgien us muckle, and we maun be willin' to forgie," and taking the thin, white fingers, she laid them in the keeper's broad, brown palm.

"Yes, yes," gasped the woman; "I remember the name. My husband said something about him when he was dying, too; but I can't recollect now."

Her memories of the troubled past were growing dim in the haze of death.

"My boy, where is he?" she asked, presently, turning to Kirsty. "I've brought him to you--you'll love him for your own Kenneth's sake, won't you? He's a good boy; it's hard to leave him in this wicked world alone; but you will look to him, won't you?" and she looked beseechingly at Kirsty. "We've travelled many a weary mile to reach you--he'll tell you all about it after. But it's all over now--all past, and the rest is coming," she murmured, and then she lay quite still for a few minutes, and her lips moved as if in prayer.

Presently she seemed to remember something, and, putting her hand into her breast, she drew out a little bag with one or two gold pieces in it.

Handing it to Kirsty, she said, "It's all there is left--he's very ragged I'm afraid, and I'll be to bury. But you are good and kind, he always said, and you'll be kind to my boy, for Christ's sake, and for your own Kenneth's, grandmother, won't you? I haven't remembered all his messages, I'm so tired to-night. He wanted your forgiveness so much--but you'll see him again--we'll both be waiting you and Kenny!"

"Eh! my bairn; but ye mauna forget that a sicht o' Christ's ain face will be better than a' the lave," said the old woman earnestly, as she wiped the cold damps of death from the white forehead.

"It's so cold, and gets so very dark," she moaned restlessly. "There was a candle left in the basket, I think; why doesn't Kenny light it?

Where is he? why does he go away?"

The candle was already burning near its socket, and Kirsty saw that the haze of death was fast dimming the eyes that would see no more till they awoke in that city "where they need no candle, neither light of the sun, for the glory of G.o.d doth lighten it; and there shall be no night there."

The old woman went to call Kenneth, who was still leaning silently against the fir-tree. "Come ben to yer mither, my laddie! Ye winna hae lang to bide wi' her noo, I'm thinkin'." And the boy came and knelt beside his mother. The keeper had been standing with folded arms, looking silently on, but now he crept away, and sitting down in a corner of the tent, he covered his face with his hands. The sins of his youth came crowding to his memory; one dark spot stood out in terrible relief, and made him cower with shame and remorse in the presence of this boy, and his mother on her lowly dying bed.

Meanwhile, Kirsty went out to look for Morag, whom she had not forgotten. Seeing her seated on the old d.y.k.e, she beckoned to her, saying, "Come awa, dawtie, dinna bide there yer lane! Puir thing, she winna be lang here, noo. It's a sair sicht for a young hert, but come ben, Morag. 'Deed they're best aff that's nearest their journey's end,"

murmured the old woman, as she stepped under the tartan folds again.

Morag followed, and stood gazing sorrowfully at the dying woman. She had been lying quietly for several minutes, but presently she looked wildly round, and, stretching out her arms, she cried, "Kenny, Kenny, lift me up!"

Kirsty stepped forward, and raised the weary head on her arm, saying, in her low, firm tones, "Dinna be feert, my bairn. The valley is dark eneuch, but there's licht on the t.i.ther side. Jist ye haud His han'

siccar, and ye'll see His face gin lang." For a few moments she lay peacefully, with her hand resting on Kirsty's breast, but presently a great spasm of agony crossed the wasted face, some lingering breaths were drawn, and the poor, quivering frame lay at rest.

Neither of the children knew that it was death. After a long silence Kenneth rose from his knees, and whispered to Kirsty--"She's gone to sleep; we must not wake her for a while--it's so long since she slept before."

"Ay, ay, my laddie," replied Kirsty, shaking her head, mournfully; "she's gane to sleep, til her lang, lang sleep. Nae soun' o' ours will waken her noo; it will be His ain blessed voice i' the Day that's comin'."

Poor Kenneth understood now. With a low cry of agony, he knelt beside the body, which Kirsty had laid tenderly on its lowly bed among the brown fir-needles again. And as she did so, Morag caught a glimpse of the wee leddy's missing jacket; she understood now why she was so vehemently unwilling that it should be searched for.

The keeper had been a silent spectator of the sad scene. At last he turned to Kirsty, and brushing a tear from his eye, he said, in a husky voice--"Kirsty, woman, I've whiles afore rued yon dark nicht's work sore eneuch, and all that came o't, but I niver rued it sae muckle as I do the nicht."

"Dinna say nae mair, Alaster Dingwall," replied Kirsty, holding out her hand. "I'll no say that it wasna sair upo' me for mony a day, but I see it a' the nicht. Ye were jist the instrument in His hands for sendin'

the puir prodigal safe hame til the Father's hoose. Will you no come intilt yersel', man? The far countrie o' sin is an unca lonesome place, Alaster Dingwall," and Kirsty laid her hand on his arm, and looked earnestly into his face.

"It's no easy wark for an auld sinner like me, Kirsty; but, I'll try,"

Dingwall replied, as he glanced kindly and pityingly at the orphan boy, and lifted him from his dead mother's side.

"Noo, keeper, ye and Morag mauna bide a minute longer. The puir la.s.sie maun be deid tired," said Kirsty, rousing herself to think what must be done next. "I'se watch aside the corp; and maybe, when the morn's come, ye'll hae the kindness to speir gin the wricht i' the village will come ootby here, and we'll lay her in her lang hame, and the puir laddie will come hame and bide wi' me."

The keeper would not hear of leaving her, and Morag seated herself on the d.y.k.e, saying quietly, "I canna be goin' home and leavin' Kirsty, father."

The poor boy seemed so faint from grief and fasting, that Dingwall at last decided to take him away from the sorrowful scene, and to leave Morag, who determinately clung to her old friend.

Kenneth stood gazing mournfully at the silent form, murmuring, "Mother, mother!" in a low monotone of agony. He would not be persuaded to quit the spot till Kirsty unfastened the tartan plaid from the stakes, and laying it reverently on the body, she covered the dead face out of sight. And as she unwound the plaid from its fastenings, she remembered with a sharp pang of sorrow the morning on which she had last seen that old plaid. While the keeper and Kenneth are wandering through the fir-wood on their way to the shieling among the crags, and the old woman, with Morag by her side, keeps her strange, lonely watch beside the dead, we shall explain why it was so terrible for the keeper to remember, and so difficult for Kirsty to forget, the events of a certain night long years ago, which had driven the older Kenneth from the Glen an outlawed man, and left his mother a desolate, childless woman.

Kirsty's husband had been the village smith. He was a much-liked and respected inhabitant of the little hamlet. He was suddenly cut off by fever at a comparatively early age, leaving his wife one son, who was henceforth to be her sole earthly hope and care. The smith had been a sober and diligent man, and Kirsty was a frugal housewife, so a little money was saved, and the widow had been able to move to the pretty cottage in the Glen, which had been her home ever since.

Kirsty had one earthly ambition, and one which she shared in common with many a Scotch peasant--namely, that her son should become a scholar. This desire seemed, however, to meet with no response from the boy himself. He hated books, and loved, above all things, to roam about the Glen, finding his pleasure there, frequently, when he should have been at school in the village. Thither every quarter-day his mother duly went, full of anxiety to hear about his progress, and with the school fees wrapt in a corner of her pocket-handkerchief, while a small offering for the schoolmaster's wife, from the garden or barn-yard, was never forgotten. But she always returned from these visits crestfallen and grieved. "He does not take to his books, Mrs. Macpherson; I fear we'll never be able to make a scholar of him," the parish schoolmaster would say, shaking his head, and adding, as he noticed the mother's disappointed face, "He's a fine, manly, truthful boy, though; you'll find he will be good for something yet."

But Kirsty was not satisfied, and went on praying that G.o.d would give her son a hearing ear and an understanding heart in things intellectual and spiritual. And so the years of boyhood pa.s.sed, and Kenneth grew up a great anxiety to his widowed mother. Sometimes he would leave home for whole nights and days of rambling among the hills with other lads. He was an immense favorite among his companions, and their chosen leader in every wild exploit. Bold and frank and fearless he certainly was, and possessed much of seeming unselfishness, but it was a quality of a very different kind from that which his mother practised at home. n.o.body could wile so many trouts from the river as Kenneth; and n.o.body so generously shared his basketful among his comrades. He knew every foot of the Glen by heart, every lonely pa.s.s, each deceptive bog. He had set his heart on being a gamekeeper, but his mother looked upon it as an idle trade, and always hoped that he might yet show some leaning towards another employment.

Alaster Dingwall was many years older than Kenneth, though a great friendship sprang up between the two. Dingwall had been under-gamekeeper at some distance from the Glen, but he had lost his situation, and returned to lounge about the village, on the outlook for work. He admired the bold, reckless young Kenneth, and the boy was greatly attracted by his older companion, and felt flattered by his appreciation. Kirsty noticed that the companionship only served to foster Kenneth's idle habits, and she did all she could to discourage it, but in vain.

One Sunday evening Kenneth had been induced to stay quietly indoors, and sat reading to his mother, who was feeling intensely happy in having him with her. But presently she heard a whistle outside, which she had learned to know and dread, for she knew that it was a summons for her boy to join his idle companions.

"That's Dingwall's whustle; I ken it fine. Dinna gang out til him, Kenny--bide wi' me the nicht, my laddie. He'll no want ye for ony guid."

But the warning, "My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not,"

fell unheeded on the foolish Kenneth's ear, and a sorrowful reaping-time for all after-life was the result of this brief sowing-time of folly.

"It's only for a bit o' a walk, mother. There's no ill," pleaded Kenneth, as he hurriedly shut the book; and taking his bonnet, he prepared to go out. "I'll no be long, mother," he added, as he went out whistling, and Kirsty could hear through the clear frosty air his merry laugh re-echoing among his companions, and stood listening to it at the door of the cottage till the sound died away in the distance. Then the mother went back to the empty room, and prayed for her son till the grey morning broke, and still he did not return.

At last she crept away to bed, and in the morning she was awakened from her troubled slumbers by a loud knocking. On opening the door, she saw Kenneth standing, pale and haggard, with blood-besmeared clothes, between two strange men. One of them stepped forward, and said to the bewildered Kirsty--

"Sorry for it, missus; but this chap must go with me. Found a snare set in the larch plantation yonder--all but caught him at it, in fact. It's not the first offence, I'm thinking. There's been a deal of poaching lately in the neighborhood; but we've caught the thief at last."

"Mother, I didna do it! I never set the snare! I didna even ken that it was amang the gra.s.s!" gasped Kenneth, looking pleadingly at his mother, as if he cared more that she should not think him guilty of the deed than for the serious consequences which seemed to threaten him, whether he was guilty or not. And his mother looked into his eyes and knew that he was innocent, as indeed he was. He had been simply used as a tool by his false friend.

Since he had been out of employment, Dingwall had gained his livelihood by poaching. But, having reason to suspect at last that he was being watched, he resolved to shift the suspicions on Kenneth by enlisting him in the service, and offering him a share of the gains. He thought, too, that if the offence were discovered, it was more likely to be lightly treated if the offender were a mere boy, like Kenneth, so he resolved on that evening to divulge the plan to his boy-friend, who, as yet, was entirely ignorant of the way in which Dingwall gained a livelihood, and little guessed on what mission he was being led into the larch plantation.

Kenneth had seated himself on the lichen-spotted d.y.k.e to smoke, while the more cautious, because guilty, Dingwall stood darkly by, having slipped his pipe into his pocket long before they reached the wood. He was pondering how he should best confide his secret to Kenneth, and was about to propose that he would show him the snare which he had set, when his keen eye detected traces of danger and discovery. He immediately crept away in base silence to hide himself, and presently his innocent boy-friend was seized by the emissaries of the law. Then Kenneth understood that he had been betrayed; but he would not betray in return. He simply a.s.serted that he had not set the snare, and knew nothing whatever about it.

"Come, come, now; that's all very fine--didn't do it, forsooth. Strange place for a walk on a winter night--the larch plantation," said the man, smiling sneeringly to his companion, as he listened to Kenneth a.s.suring his mother that he was innocent, while they stood at the cottage door.

"Come along with us. In the meantime," he continued, as he laid his hand on Kenneth's arm to drag him away, "if you're able to prove that you didn't do it, all the better for you, my boy, I can tell you."

Kenneth turned with a look of anguish to his mother, who stood gazing at him with a face of marble. She asked no questions; it was no time for reproaches then, and, somehow, Kenneth felt that she understood how it had all happened, she looked so pitiful and so loving. When she saw that the men were really going to take him away, she went and prepared him some breakfast; but Kenneth said he could not eat, and turning to the men, volunteered to accompany them at once. He looked cold and faint in that chilly November morning: and just as he was starting, his mother brought his father's plaid, and wrapped it tenderly round him, but she did not utter a word.

"Come now, there must be no more coddling of this bird, old lady! Time's valuable, and there isn't a minute to spare!" said the man roughly, as he led the boy away.

When Kenneth had got beyond the garden gate, and was being hurried along the highway by his jailer, he turned and looked with unutterable agony and remorse toward his mother, who stood, stricken and desolate, at the door of his home, which was to be blighted during so many years for his sake.

A few weeks afterwards he was tried, and sentenced to a short term of imprisonment. He had pleaded not guilty; but could not explain how he came to be in the larch plantation at such an hour, and declined to give any information concerning the real offender.

Kirsty knew him to be none other than Alaster Dingwall. In her anguish she went to him, and implored that he would not sacrifice the innocent, speaking burning words from the depths of her broken mother's heart; but she only met with the sneering rejoinder that she would find some difficulty in proving that he had anything to do with the matter.

And then the news came that the wretched boy had escaped from prison; and from that day forward Kirsty heard nothing of her son. Seventeen long years she sat at her lonely fireside, waiting, and hoping, and praying! For a long time she left the door nightly open, in the hope that he might at least come and visit her in the dark. But he never came; and long ago Kirsty's deferred hope had changed itself into a prayer, that wherever he might be roaming throughout the wide world, they might meet in the home of G.o.d at last.

Sometimes, after a long night of prayer for her lost son, the mother felt as if she heard a voice, saying, "I have seen his ways, and I will heal him;" and she would begin the lonely day with lightened heart. And now, at last, she had the joy of knowing from the lips of his dying wife that the wanderer, who feared to come again to the Glen, and had sought refuge for his blighted life in distant lands, had, at last, been led unto the fold above, and had learnt to know the Shepherd's voice, and to follow it in the midst of many earthly trials and hard experiences through which he had to pa.s.s.

So this sorrowful night was mingled with great joy to Kirsty, as she kept watch in the fir-wood. Morag felt sure that she must have much to say to her unseen Friend, as she sat resting her head on her long thin hand, and gazing into the red embers among the stones. The little girl crouched silently by her side, often glancing at the tartan folds that covered the weary sleeper below, and pondering over the events of this strange afternoon.

And as she sat keeping vigil, there came to her memory the story of a very sorrowful night, of which she had been reading with Kirsty only the day before. It was the scene in the old garden of Gethsemane, where the Lord Jesus Christ spent those terrible hours, "exceeding sorrowful even unto death."