Morag Part 13

X.

_THE KIRK IN THE VILLAGE._

"HAVE you heard your pupil's latest request, Miss Prosser?" asked Mr.

Clifford, laughingly, as he turned from Blanche, who had been pleading her suit in low, coaxing tones. "She actually wants to go to the kirk in the village for some high festival occasion next Sunday--and in company with that wonderful Kirsty, too, whom we hear so much about just now.

She refuses with disdain my kind offer of the carriage for herself and party--wants to go in a wheel-barrow, or something of that description--is it not, Blanche?"

"Oh no, papa! how can you think such absurd things? We are going in Neil's cart, of course. It will be such fun! Kirsty says there will be lots of straw for seats, and Kenneth is to drive. You know you have more than half promised to let me go, papa," added Blanche, beseechingly clinging to her father in the hope of an immediate decision in her favor, for her governess had raised her voice in strong disapproval of such an irregular proceeding.

Mr. Clifford had noticed with pleasure how much his little daughter seemed to be enjoying these autumn days in the Highlands, which he feared might prove duller than she expected. It was evident, too, that her enjoyment of them consisted chiefly in the companionship she had made with those peasant friends in the Glen.

Blanche's glowing description of Kirsty, and her repet.i.tion of several of the old woman's shrewd sayings, gave Mr. Clifford a favorable impression of Kirsty. And for the little Morag he had always entertained a special liking since the stormy day on which he had found her, all alone, at work on the soaking earthen floor of the hut, and he congratulated himself on having secured her as an appendage to the little Shetlander. He frequently a.s.sured the doubting Miss Prosser that the child would get no harm from her intercourse with these dwellers in the Glen; and, in the present instance, he did not object that she should see a new phase of life, in company with her Highland friends.

Before Blanche went to bed, she had gained her father's consent to the Sunday project. She lay awake for a long time, thinking how very delightful it would be to go to church with Kirsty and Morag--and in a cart, too; and to be obliged to stay so long away that she should not be at home either for early dinner or afternoon lessons with her governess, so that the latter would have to be dispensed with altogether. Blanche thought it would be the most delightfully out-of-the-way Sunday which she had ever known; and she fell asleep at last, to dream that she and Morag, with Kirsty and Kenneth, had come rumbling in Neil's cart into Westminster Abbey while service was going on.

Morag, too, on that same evening, after a more brief and tremulous suit than her wee leddy's, had gained her father's permission to go to the kirk, for the first time in her life.

To the little English girl the prospect was merely a pleasant ploy; but to Morag Dingwall it was the fulfilling of a dream of years. How often she had watched, and how much she had longed to join, the little straggling companies wending their way along the white hilly roads from all parts of the Glen to meet in that little kirk in the village, which she had never seen but closed and silent. Kirsty often told her that the Lord Jesus Christ loved to have His people gather to worship Him. Only a few days ago she had been reading to the little girl the story of how He had once come, after He rose from the dead, into the midst of a little company which had met to worship, and of how He had stretched forth His hands, saying, "Peace be unto you."

Morag had remarked, in a mournful tone, "He never does the like noo, Kirsty; would ye no like to see Him, jist ance?"

"An' have I no seen Him?" answered Kirsty, triumphantly. "'Deed, bairn, I've whiles felt as near 'til Him as gin His fingers were wavin' aboun'

my heid, wi' the verra words i' His mou', an' 'Peace be wi' ye.' I aye gaed oot o' His hoose wi' a blither hert an' o lichter fit than I gaed tilt."

The old woman had never been strong enough to go to the kirk since Morag's acquaintance with her, and she mourned over it as a great privation. Neil's cart was a rare luxury, only procurable indeed on Communion Sabbaths, which were held once a year in the Glen, when the scattered inhabitants came from its remotest parts,--many of them across miles of pathless hills, to share in the services of the day.

Never did Jewish peasant go up to the Holy City on the great day of the Feast with more joy and hope than did Kirsty Macpherson to the yearly communion at the village kirk. And, to the present occasion, she looked forward with special gladness; for had she not to give thanks for a dear one whom she knew, at last, to be safe in the home of G.o.d--the homeless wanderer, whose name had often been borne by her in agony from that communion-table to the ear of Him who came to seek and save the lost?

Morag was waiting in the castle court-yard on Sunday morning, long before the little _chatelaine_ had completed her toilette to her maid's satisfaction. At last the door was swung open, and the wee leddy came running out to meet her friend, looking fresh and dainty in her spotless white dress and pretty blue hat, with which Ellis had adorned her--not without many regrets that such elegant garments should descend to such degraded uses as a seat in a cart; but, since she was going to church, her maid concluded that, of a necessity, she must wear her best attire.

"How bonnie ye look!" exclaimed Morag, gazing at her wee leddy with unfeigned admiration. "Ye're jist like the sky itsel', a' blue-and-white like."

"So I am! how funny! But oh, Morag, is not this a glorious morning?

Won't Kirsty be pleased? I really think it's the finest day we've had since I came to Glen Eagle. I'm so happy," and Blanche danced gleefully on the soft turf. "Now, Chance, you needn't be wagging your tail. You are not to be invited to come with us to-day, my dear dog. It's Sunday, you know, and we are going to church with Kirsty and Kenneth; and dogs never do go to church you know, Chance."

"Ay do they, whiles!" interrupted Morag, patting the pleading Chance sympathizingly; "they gang to the kirk onyway. For I've often thought I wad jist like to be auld Neil's collie, when I've seen him pa.s.sin' wi'

Neil on a Sabbath mornin', and I was feelin' terrible lonesome at hame.

Kirsty says, 'The dogs are mony a time quaieter than the bairns at the kirk, and that attentive-like.'" But Morag agreed that since Chance was not a dog of church-going habits, it would be wiser to leave him at home.

Neil's cart already stood on the road at the cottage gate when the little girls reached it. Kenneth was waiting at the horse's head, and Kirsty came forth in all the glory of a spotless white _mutch_ (a high cap of muslin, worn by the old peasant women of Scotland). She wore also a pretty scarlet cloak, which had been her best attire for the last fifty years. In her hand she held her big, worn Bible, carefully wrapped in her ample white pocket-handkerchief, and from it there projected some stalks of thyme, and mint, and southernwood, as a preventive against possible drowsiness, during the long services of the day.

"Welcome til ye, my bairns," said she, greeting the little girls kindly, as she closed the little gate behind her. "Havna we gotten a bonnie Sawbbath-day? It's jist an oncommon fine mornin' for this time o' the year. May the Sun o' Richtyousness arise wi' healin' intil His wings the day, lichtin' up a' the dark herts,--jist as the bonnie sun this mornin'

garred the drumlie licht weir aff the glen," added Kirsty, with a glad light in her calm gray eyes.

Blanche had already mounted into the cart, and was jumping about among the straw, greatly to the destruction of Ellis's careful morning toilette.

"O Kenneth! isn't this so very jolly? It will be such fun going to church like this. I'm sure I shall never forget it all my life. I do wish papa could see us start. Do you know I almost think he wanted to?

Doesn't Kirsty look beautiful? I wish she'd always wear that red cloak; don't you, Kenneth?"

The old woman came leaning on Morag's shoulder, and stepped into the cart, followed by the little girl. Kenneth cracked the whip with an air of business, and the little company started.

It was certainly a perfect autumn day, and Glen Eagle was looking its loveliest. Kirsty's face wore a look of holy peace, as she sat silently with folded hands, and gazed upon the calm, still scene around. "I hae jist been minin' o' that glaidsome word o' David's," she said presently, turning to Morag, who was seated by her side. "'The Lord is good til a', an' His tender mercies are ower a' His warks.' I'm thinkin' it maun jist hae been on some bonnie quaiet day like this, when he was awa' frae the din an' the steer of Jerooslem, 'at he thocht on makin' that bonnie psalm."

Morag had never heard the psalm, but she resolved she would try to find it that evening, and perhaps her father might help her. She said the verse over to herself, and thought Kirsty must be right in imagining that the poet-king would think his beautiful thoughts on such a day as this.

But Kenneth, who had been listening quietly, as he walked by the side of the cart, presently looked up, and said, "I'm not so sure of that, granny. Don't you think King David would just be as likely to say that after a long day's fighting at the head of his soldiers, or after a busy day in his palace, as among sunny green fields when he had nothing to do but enjoy himself? Do you no think, granny, that folk maybe need to believe in the tender mercies of the Lord most in the din and the fret of big towns, when, besides perhaps being lonely, and in want one's self, you see so many people still more sad and worse off? D'ye no think, granny, that it would be more comfort to think of the tender mercies of the Lord, living in such dreary streets, than in such a bonnie glen as this?" said Kenneth, smiling sadly as he remembered how much he and his mother had needed, and how often they had found, these tender mercies in such places.

"'Deed, laddie, I'm thinkin' ye hae the richt o't efter a'; I'm glaid ye thocht o' that," said Kirsty, looking down at her grandson with her most pleased smile.

As Morag sat silently listening to the conversation, she thought how good it was that these "tender mercies" seemed to be over all,--among the busy, crowded haunts of men, as well as with the lonely dwellers among the mountains. And as the cart rumbled slowly along the winding road, the little girl repeated the verse to herself till she knew it well.

Many a time in after days that verse came back to her memory, sometimes as a prayer, but more often as a thanksgiving. Across the waste of years, with graves between and many a sorrow, she would look back and remember this still Sabbath morning when she went for the first time to the little village kirk, and the vanished faces that were round her then; and she would sum up the tender mercies of the Lord.

The sound of the old church bell now began to be heard across the still moorland. The little straggling companies quickened their pace at its sound, and the nearer roads began to stir with a.s.sembling worshippers.

Blanche looked with eager interest at the gathering groups, occasionally asking whispered information from Morag concerning them. Among them were old bent men and young children, who had come many a mile through the pathless hills that morning. There were shepherds in their plaids and broad bonnets, with their collie dogs following, just as Morag had said, Blanche noticed; and she resolved to keep an eye on their behavior in church, and perhaps give Chance a similar privilege another time if her impression of the conduct of the collies was favorable.

The kirk stood in the centre of the village green, and when Kirsty and her young party came in sight, there were already many groups gathered round it. The old minister was threading his way among them, and there was many a broad bonnet raised and many a curtsy dropped, as with kindly, gracious, though silent greeting he pa.s.sed into the church.

The old bell was still pealing, sweet and musical, just as it used to do centuries ago in the convent chapel down in the hollow, from whence it had been taken when the ancient chapel became a roofless ruin; and now it called the dwellers in the Glen to the kirk with the same soothing chime as it used to summon the nuns to matins and vespers, and remind the scattered peasants that the hour of prayer had come.

Suddenly it ceased to chime, and the thronging groups on the greensward moved quietly in at the open doors of the kirk.

Many eyes were turned on Kirsty and her young friends as they pa.s.sed slowly up the aisle. Some recognized the bonnie wee leddy of the castle; and not a few knew the nut-brown Morag by sight, and smiled kindly on her. The story of the poor woman, who had come to the Glen to die on such a lowly bed, was known to many, and they looked with interest on Kirsty's grandson.

The kirk was almost filled when they entered. Two long, narrow tables, covered with white, stretched from the pulpit the whole length of the church, at which the communicants were to sit. Before taking her place there, Kirsty led the children to seats at the side of the church; and then she moved away slowly to take her solitary post at the long white table.

Morag did not venture to raise her eyes for some time. The scene was so new and strange to her that for a moment she felt something of the terror-stricken feeling which possessed her on the evening when she was brought before the party at the castle. But when, at last, she ventured to look up, she caught a glimpse of Kirsty's calm, worshipping face, and she began to feel more rea.s.sured. Meanwhile, Blanche kept gazing about in a vivacious manner, taking notes of everything. On the whole, she felt much disappointment with the interior of the little kirk. It looked so bare and stern, she thought, as she searched in vain for the altar, or the organ, which she expected to peal forth every minute.

At last the silence was broken, not by the organ, but by the grave, deep voice of the minister, who reared his gray head from the pulpit, and began to read a grand old psalm, which the congregation joined in singing. Then followed a prayer, and all the people rose, the men covering their faces with their broad bonnets.

Morag stood listening with closed eyes and moveless posture. Blanche tried very hard to do so also, but she could not help opening her eyes occasionally to see what the dogs were about, and presently she began to wish that the prayer was done and they would begin to sing again. She occasionally made exploring tours with her eyes over the church, and at last she caught sight of Kirsty's red cloak and familiar face, and by her side she saw a figure which she thought she recognized. To facilitate observations, she raised herself on tiptoe; and at last she was satisfied that the stalwart form at the long white table, beside Kirsty, was none other than the keeper Dingwall. She could hardly restrain an exclamation of surprise at this discovery. The keeper, she knew, was not in the habit of going to church; and, certainly, Morag would have told her if she had expected him there to-day. Very impatiently did she listen to the concluding pet.i.tions, for she could not get Morag to open her eyes till the prayer was done. At last, while the congregation were engaged in turning the leaves of their Bibles, in search of the chapter about to be read, Blanche contrived by a variety of signs to make Morag's eyes alight on the spot where her father stood.

If Blanche's astonishment had been great, Morag's was still greater, when she caught sight of her father's tall form rearing itself beside Kirsty's bent head. This, then, was the reason why he had smiled so strangely that morning when she laid her hand on his arm, and said, with a great effort to break through her reserve, "O father! I would like richt weel gin ye were comin' til the kirk wi' us. I ken fine the Lord Jesus Christ would be glaid to see ye. Kirsty says He's aye weel pleased to see folk intil His ain hoose."

And now he was seated beside Kirsty at the communion-table, where, as the old woman had told Morag, none but those who loved the Lord might come. The little girl felt a thrill of delight, greater than she ever did in her life. She felt sure that her father must have begun to know and love the Lord Jesus Christ, or he never would have come there. So happy and thankful was she, that she could not wait till the minister prayed again, but said, low in her heart, words of deep thanksgiving.

There were many besides Blanche who noticed with astonishment the tall form of the keeper in his unwonted place at the communion-table; and many along with Morag gave thanks to Him who "turneth men's hearts as rivers of water whither He will," and who had brought this proud, rebellious spirit to the foot of His cross.

Dingwall had been welcomed to the place he occupied to-day by the old minister some evenings before in the manse. He disclosed the picture of his past life, with its darkest shadows unrelieved; and had told of his late repentance. The pastor recognized it as genuine, and there was a light in his eye to-day as he read his Master's message, "This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners."

After the usual service was over, Blanche's interest, which had been flagging, began to revive, and she felt glad that her maid was not in attendance to take her home, as she felt curious to know what was coming next.

Presently a hymn was sung to a sad wailing tune, which suited the words.

It told of that night on which the Son of Man endured the "eager rage of every foe;" and Blanche felt a knot rise in her throat as she listened to it and tried to join. Never before, she thought, had she felt so sorry for the Lord Jesus Christ, who was "crucified, dead, and buried," though she had heard all about it so many times. And then she suddenly remembered Morag's anxiety to know all about the "good Lord who died on the green hill," and how many questions she used to ask about Him during the first days of their acquaintance; but she never mentioned the subject now, so Blanche concluded that she could not care so much as she did before.