Morag Part 15

There was something else which Morag longed to say to Blanche that afternoon, and many times before, but she had never been able to summon up courage to speak about it. She wished to tell her of the new feeling that had been taking possession of her heart, and which she longed to share with Blanche.

Since those first days of wonder and perplexity--which hearing the hymn in the fir-wood caused--Morag had never talked to the little English girl of those things which had been slowly sinking into her heart.

Kirsty had been her Evangelist, Morag sometimes thought, as she read the "Pilgrim's Progress." It was she who had pointed out the way to the Wicket Gate when the little girl was groping blindly; and to her alone could she speak freely as yet. But now that she had come to understand what a real, living, listening Friend the Lord Jesus Christ is, though unseen by earthly eyes, she longed intensely to share this new faith and hope with her wee leddy, whom she loved so well. And since Kirsty had hinted at the many dangers which the world beyond the mountains might have in store for her now guileless friend, she longed the more to ask her to take this unseen Friend for her Saviour and Guide. But somehow the opportunity pa.s.sed, and they had reached the loch before Morag could find words to say what she wanted.

Blanche did not like the sombre mood which appeared to have fallen on them both; and seemed bent on talking herself and her friend into a gayer mood by castle-building. She began to prattle about all that she meant to do next summer, of the many ambitious feats in the way of climbing which she meant to perform, and of the familiar places--written over with memories of those pleasant autumn days which they would have to revisit.

The yellow afternoon sun was shining on the rippling water of the loch, and the blue sky, with numberless white fleecy clouds, lay like heaps of snow reflected on its clear depths. On the soft mossy banks, sloping down to the loch, there grew ma.s.ses of scented bog myrtle, and alder bushes, while yellow flags and rushes fringed the edge of the water. The broad dark leaves of the water-lilies rocked about in tangled ma.s.ses on the loch; but Blanche looked in vain for a lily to take to Miss Prosser.

At last she gave up the search, and throwing herself lazily on the sunny bank, she lay watching the circles made by the trouts in pursuit of flies hovering upon the surface of the water.

Morag meanwhile spied a wild rose-bush at some distance off, on the bank, and she clambered up to gather the brilliant scarlet berries; and Blanche presently started off again on a fresh search after the water-lily; for she was unwilling to return from her last expedition without the flower which she had promised to find. At last she was rewarded by discovering a beautiful lily lying hidden away among the dark leaves. It seemed to be at a convenient stretching distance, so she knelt down on the moss, and put out her hand to grasp it, which she did with difficulty, for it was further off than she had thought. She was about to spring back in triumph at having captured the prize, when she felt the ground suddenly give way, and in spite of her efforts to save herself, she went slipping into the water--down, down among the roots of the floating lilies.

In her terror she gave a plunge to try to grasp some reeds growing near and to regain her footing, but she only landed herself further from the bank than before. All happened in the twinkling of an eye--so quickly that Blanche raised no cry. But now that all footing was gone, and she felt herself being fast submerged in the deep water, she shrieked with terror, and threw up her arms in wild dismay.

Morag was at the water's brink in a moment; but she only came in time to see the ripples closing over Blanche's golden crown. She stretched out her hands towards her, but saw in a moment that she had been carried too far out for any such help. Morag looked round in silent despair, for she could not swim, and she had presence of mind to realise that it would be impossible otherwise to save her; but she could not let her bonnie wee leddy die all alone there, and, in an instant two little girls, instead of one, were struggling for life among the rocking lily-leaves. Morag's wild plunge brought her alongside Blanche, who, with her remaining consciousness roused, clutched her arm, but very soon both the girls were sinking, sinking, and the cruel water closing over them!

Once again Blanche's hands were thrown up, and her closing eyes looked on the calm afternoon scene--the sun-lighted gra.s.s, with the scarlet berries scattered over it, dropped by Morag in her wild plunge towards the bank--once again, and then--

But what is that rustling among the alder bushes, and these sounds of heavy breathing after a hard race?

Kenneth Macpherson stands on the gra.s.sy bank just as the long, floating curls went under the rippling water, and Blanche Clifford's last struggle for life seemed over. She had loosened her hold on Morag's arm, who now began to make convulsive efforts to find her again, as she was drifted away. In a moment, Kenneth's arm was round Blanche, and with a few vigorous strokes he laid her on the bank--or all that remained of her, for his hasty glance gave him little hope that life was there.

Morag's consciousness partially returned as soon as he grasped her, and very soon she, too, was laid on the gra.s.s by the panting Kenneth. But the most difficult part of his work was yet to come, he thought, as he glanced at the motionless figures on the turf. Kneeling down, he began to chafe Blanche's cold hands, and vainly tried to detect some sign of life. Presently Morag got up from the turf, and stood shivering, gazing blankly round, as if she were at a loss to know what had happened. The sight of the water recalled everything with terrible vividness; she looked wildly round in search of Blanche, and saw her lying pale and motionless on the bank, her fair curls all drenched and tangled. With a cry of agony, Morag sprang to her side.

"I don't think she's dead, Morag!" whispered Kenneth, who still knelt beside her. "Do you think you are able to stay here while I go to the castle to get help? But I'm afraid you must be very wet and tired, yourself, poor Morag!"

"Oh, rin! rin to the castle! I'll easy bide wi' her! My bonnie wee leddy, speak but ae word til me!" And Morag bent eagerly over her; but the lips were silent and bloodless, and the eyes gave no sign of life.

It was terrible to be so helpless to do anything, Morag thought, as she kept chafing the cold fingers, while, in a low monotone of agony, she prayed that her wee leddy might come back to life again.

Meanwhile, Kenneth flew like lightning to the castle. On the way, he met the wearied remnant of the shooting party sauntering homewards, after their last day at the moors, all unconscious of what had been going on at the loch. Their pace was quickly changed as they hurried towards the water, while servants followed with a supply of blankets and all other necessaries. Mr. Clifford hardly listened to Kenneth's incoherent words, when, flinging down his gun, he hurried towards the bank where his child lay still unconscious.

"Blanche, darling, speak to me!" he cried, lifting her in his arms. But the head fell back, and the motionless frame gave no sign of life. The dearly won trophy, the water-lily, dropped at last from the unclasping fingers, and the white arm hung listlessly down.

All restoratives were eagerly tried, and at length the anxious group on the greensward fancied they could detect a slight quiver through the frame, and Blanche slowly returned from the borders of the far-off Land, as the last rays of the evening sun were gleaming upon the loch. The blue eyes opened wearily, and she glanced shiveringly round, evidently unconscious of where she was.

"Morag, Morag! don't let me go!" she cried, with a look of terror. "The river is so dark and cold! Do you not see the Golden City yet, Morag?"

"Hush, Blanche, darling! You must not think of the river any more. You are safe in papa's arms now!"

Gradually Blanche returned to consciousness, and remembered what had happened. After a bewildered glance at the group on the turf, and Miss Prosser seated at her side, she began to understand what had brought them all there. Presently she sat up among the blankets in which she was imbedded, and began to look eagerly round for one familiar face which she did not see. "Morag!" she whispered, looking inquiringly at her papa, and then she glanced towards the rippling water, all tinged with the gorgeous sunset hues, and there she saw floating the wreath of rowan berries which she had twined among Morag's black locks that afternoon. "Morag! where is she? Oh, surely not _there_? She jumped into the loch! I remember seeing her! I remember it all now!" and Blanche clasped her hands, and looked wildly into her father's face.

Morag was, meanwhile, seated farther up on the bank, where she could catch a glimpse of her friend, though she could not be seen by her. With her usual shyness, she had fled when the castle party surrounded Blanche; and hiding behind some alder bushes, she watched with intense anxiety the movements within the circle. But when, at last, she heard her own name called by Blanche, her heart gave a great throb of joy, and in an instant she was at her wee leddy's side.

"Morag, darling! it's all right then? I never felt so happy in my life,"

said Blanche, clasping the little brown hands in her trembling fingers.

"Oh, I was so frightened when I woke up. I couldn't see you anywhere, and felt almost afraid to ask, when I saw the rowan-wreath floating about. Oh! it was too terrible. But do tell me, how did it all happen?

how did we ever get out of the water?"

"We were droonin', ye ken, leddy; but Kenneth cam' runnin' doun the bank frae the peat-moss, and took's baith oot o' the water."

"Oh yes; by the way, where has the brave fellow gone?" asked Mr.

Clifford, getting up from the turf, where he had been kneeling by his daughter's side, and looking about for Kenneth.

"But Kenneth--I don't understand," said Blanche, looking perplexed. "He wasn't with us, Morag. How did he ever come here?"

It was, indeed, a strange coincidence that Kenneth Macpherson should have been within sight and hearing of the loch this afternoon. It was the first time he had been so near it since he came to Glen Eagle. He had come to a peat-moss in the vicinity to lay in Kirsty's winter supply of peats, having borrowed Neil's cart for the occasion. Early in the afternoon he noticed the little girls pa.s.s on their way to the loch, as he conjectured. He stopped his work for a moment to watch them, and wished he had been a little nearer, so that they might have spoken to him, as he heard Blanche's ringing silvery tones through the keen air.

And not long afterwards, when he heard the wild shriek from the loch, he thought he recognized the voice, and leaving cart and peats, bounded off in the direction from which it came, reaching the spot, as we know, just in time to rescue the little girls. After his return from the castle he had hovered near the watching group till he satisfied himself that Blanche had recovered, and then he went again to work at the peat-moss.

Morag had watched him slip quietly back to his work, unheeding of thanks or praise; and from that hour he became enshrined as a hero in her little woman's heart. She longed to see the joy and pride which would be reflected in Kirsty's gray eyes when she heard of her grandson's share in the doings of this afternoon; and she felt a glow of pride when Mr.

Clifford called him a brave fellow.

As soon as Blanche had recovered sufficiently, they prepared to carry her away from the scene of the catastrophe. She was looking as pale as the water-lily lying on the turf beside her. Catching a glimpse of it, she picked it up, and handed it to Miss Prosser, saying, "You see I have got it for you. Isn't it a beauty? It was the very last one I could find; I remember holding it so tight when I was in the deep water. I suppose Kenneth fished it up with me," she added, smiling, as Miss Prosser took the dearly-won trophy from the trembling fingers, and kissed her little pupil with more tenderness than she was wont to do.

Poor little Morag watched her bonnie wee leddy being borne away to the castle with the desolate feeling of being left out in the cold. The reaction had come after the intense experiences of these past hours. She stood watching the glad procession set out with wistful eyes, and then she moved away in the direction of her solitary home, for she felt cold and weary enough now. Her father had gone to the kennels before the shooting party heard of the accident, and he now sat at home in the hut, wondering what had become of his little daughter.

"Papa, I remember it all now!" exclaimed Blanche, who had been lying pale and meditative in her father's arms, as he carried her home. "I slipped into the water just as I got hold of the lily. Morag wasn't in sight, I remember, and I got very frightened when I felt the dark water coming all round, and carrying me quite away from the bank. I recollect hearing myself scream quite well, and then, in a minute, Morag stood on the bank, stretching out her hand; but I couldn't reach it, and only got further away than before. And just as the water was going right over me, I saw Morag jump in, and then I don't remember anything more. Dear, brave Morag! it was just like her, wasn't it, papa? I'm sure I should have been much too frightened to jump into the water. But she must be as cold and tired as I was, papa! Where are you, Morag?" asked Blanche, looking round.

"Yes, to be sure, p.u.s.s.y; we should have thought of that before. You have been absorbing all our attention in a such troublesome manner, you see.

Where are you, little black-eyes? I saw her flitting about quite briskly a little while ago, as if the ducking in her native waters had not affected her unpleasantly. I declare, if she hasn't redeveloped her propensity for scudding, Blanchie! She's nowhere to be seen," said Mr.

Clifford, glancing round the group.

Blanche was so distressed at the disappearance of her friend, that one of the servants was despatched in quest of her, and the little girl being presently recaptured, she was, in spite of her entreaties, carried off to the castle, and put under the old housekeeper's care.

She was made quite a lion of in the servants' hall that evening, though she was somewhat at a loss to understand why. She recounted, quite eloquently for her, how Kirsty's grandson had saved them both, and seemed much surprised when somebody commended her for her efforts to save their little mistress; for it never occurred to her that any other course would have been possible than to die with her bonnie wee leddy.

Ellis had never taken the little native to her heart, in spite of her little mistress' frequent triumphant reminders that the ragged maiden of the fir-wood had proved no dangerous gypsy after all; but to-night she was most gracious, patting the trembling little Morag condescendingly on the head, as she led the way to Blanche's room, where Morag was summoned in the course of the evening.

The little bare, weather-beaten feet trod much more uneasily on the soft carpet than among the bracken; and the friendship which had sprung up and flourished among the woods and braes did not seem likely to thrive in the atmosphere of a luxuriantly-furnished apartment. Blanche was lying on the sofa, wrapped in a blue flannel dressing-gown, looking very feeble and subdued, when Morag entered the room. She looked wistfully at her little mountain friend, but did not speak, and Miss Prosser, who was seated at her pupil's side, noted the mutual shyness, and considerately withdrew.

Beckoning to Morag to come and sit beside her, she took the little brown hand into her fluttering fingers, and said, nervously, "Morag, dear, I want so much to speak to you. Do you know, though it was only such a moment of time, I thought so much when I felt going down, down among the dark moving water all alone. And you left the pleasant, sunny turf, and came to drown with me in that dreadful water. How could you venture, Morag? It was too brave and kind!" and Blanche's lip quivered.

Morag was going to interrupt her, but she went on. "Do you remember that chapter of the Bible we were reading to Kirsty yesterday, Morag? I'm afraid I didn't care much for it at the time, and only read it to please her; but since I've been lying here, I seem to hear one verse of it always. Wasn't it Jesus Christ who said that it was the greatest love to lay down one's life for a friend? Morag, that's what you did for me. I saw you do it. Oh, Morag, when I awoke and saw the rowan-wreath floating about in the water, and you not anywhere to be seen!" and Blanche covered her face and sobbed.

All Morag's shyness seemed to vanish when she had to take the part of a comforter. The little brown arm was quietly slipped round the bent head, and she whispered gently, "Ye mustna think nothing o' my slippin'

in efter ye til the water. I couldna hae bidden ahin' for onything. But ye see if it hadna been for Kenneth, none o' us would hae been gotten oot o' the loch." And after a pause she continued, "I'm no thinkin' that word frae the Bible would even mean the like o' Kenneth, though. Will it no be meanin' the Lord Jesus Christ, that died o' the green hill,--as ye're bonnie hymn speaks o'? I weel min' the day I heard it;" and then she added, with an evident effort, "and I've aye been wantin' to tell ye that I love Him richt weel mysel' noo, sin' yon day i' the fir-wood."

"And is it because you love the Lord Jesus so much that you were so brave at the loch to-day, Morag?" said Blanche, looking questioningly at her.

"I'm no thinkin' that exactly," replied Morag, slowly, as if she were pondering her motives; "I'm thinkin' it was because I looed you, little leddy, and forby, life wouldna hae seemed muckle worth gin ye had been awa."

"D'ye min' the bonnie picter oot o' the 'Pilgrim's Progress?' I was jist thinkin' to mysel', on my road hame the nicht, that gin Kenneth hadna come, we would hae gotten thegither to the bonnie toon lyin' i' the sun,--like the droonin' folk i' the picter," and Morag looked at Blanche, and smiled brightly.

The little girl shook her head sadly. "You would have gone to the Golden City, Morag; but I'm afraid I shouldn't. You see I never really thought I should like to go to heaven. It seemed to me that it would be so much nicer to stay always here, in this beautiful world we know and love, than to be sent away to an unknown land. Do you know, Morag, I thought of all that to-day, as I looked at the pleasant sunny banks of the loch, just before the cruel, creeping water covered me all up. It made me feel so terrified."

There was silence for a few minutes. At last, Morag said, quietly--

"But I'm no thinkin' heaven isna a kin' o' land we dinna ken, when Jesus is there Himsel', waitin' for us. He made ilka body so happy-like when he was i' the warl'; and though we canna see Him, I'm thinkin' He's jist the same yet. When we get til the golden gates o' the City we read aboot i' the hinner en' o' the Bible, he wad jist be puttin' His han's on us, and sayin' something kin' like, and we wad be feelin' at hame. He speaks that plain like til folk here, tho' we canna see Him. I dinna think I would be feared to gang til get a sicht o' Him."

There was a light in Morag's eye that made Blanche feel she was speaking of what she knew.