Morag Part 4

Nothing was to be seen from the window, except the rain, which came plash, plash on the soaking turf in a dreary monotone of dulness, and Blanche contrived to make her escape while Miss Prosser had fallen into brief, though sound slumbers. She took refuge in Ellis's society, whom she found sewing busily in her room. But here things did not go to her mind any more than in the school-room, for Ellis had taken the opportunity of warning her little mistress that if she were ever found 'addressin' of that tramp' again, she would feel in duty bound to inform Miss Prosser, nor could any coaxing of Blanche's persuade her to promise silence.

"No, missie; I'll not hold my tongue for n.o.body. My very heart came to my mouth when I saw you talkin' to that creature, just as friendly and unsuspectin' as if she'd been your very sister, and all alone in that dismal wood, too. Depend upon't there's a whole gang o' them lurkin'

yonder. Have you never heard of them as kidnaps children, missie? Why, they'd take you for the sake of your pretty curls, if for nothing else.

A nice endin' that would be for you, Miss Clifford!" and Ellis st.i.tched away in high indignation, as she dwelt on the alarming picture that she had conjured up, while Blanche called to mind some of the stories which she had read of gypsies who had run off with children. It seemed to her, however, that any excitement would be preferable to a time of dulness like the present; and she came to the conclusion that the kidnapped children must have, on the whole, rather a nice time of it in the greenwood, and feel sorry when they are recaptured by their anxious relatives, and sent back to their school-rooms.

Ellis went on st.i.tching in dumb silence, feeling displeased that her warnings seemed to be treated so lightly, and Blanche, finding these circ.u.mstances far from lively, glided away. After roaming through the winding pa.s.sages and turret stairs, in the hope of finding some variety, she lighted at last on a quaint, little room, which had evidently been unmolested by charwoman or housemaid for many a day. Its dusty desolation, however, quite suited Blanche's present disconsolate frame of mind. She managed to undo the rusty fastenings of the narrow window, and coiling herself into the deep stone embrasure, she looked dreamily out on the moorland. The storm seemed at last to have almost spent itself. Blanche could catch glimpses of the river, which still lashed itself into wild white foam as it hurried along; but the sunlight was shimmering upon it now. The wind had fallen, the great pine-trees creaked and swung no longer, and the gray sheets of mist, which seemed so stagnant a few hours before, were now slowly creeping from the hills, and making way for the clear shining after rain.

Blanche sat watching the changing landscape from her dusty nook, with the pale sunlight glinting in upon her; and as she gazed, all the discontented, restless thoughts seemed to vanish from her heart, disappearing like the gloomy mists which had been shrouding the pleasant hillsides. At last, after she had sat perched in her watch-tower for several hours, she fancied she heard her father's voice in the court-yard below, and she ran to meet him. Mr. Clifford was standing with all his wet wrappings when she reached the hall. "O papa!

how very funny you do look! You are just as wet as Chance when he comes out of the water."

"Well, I'm wet enough, to be sure. But you should see what a wonderful little specimen of the aborigines I've fished up, Blanchie. Come along, and I'll tell you the tale while I warm myself."

Blanche followed into the library with some curiosity. She had rather hazy ideas of what the "aborigines" might mean, but she concluded that it must be some sort of trout taken from the river during the storm.

The Major had returned home some time ago, and was comfortably seated in his arm-chair by the library fire, so Blanche had to wait, with as much patience as she could muster, till Mr. Clifford explained what had detained him. The other gentlemen had gone on to see the _Linn_, he said, but as he wanted to have some fishing next day, he thought it would be well to see the keeper, and arrange the matter before returning home.

"I had been to the kennels once before," continued Mr. Clifford, "and knew that the keeper lived not far from them. But I had no end of bother in finding the place, though there it was suspended above me all the while. I set out to go down the hill again, giving up the search in despair, when I noticed that smoke came from a wretched sh.e.l.l of a hut, perched on the corner of a crag. And this turned out to be Dingwall's abode. I really wonder his Grace doesn't house his tenants better."

"But what about the creature you fished up, papa?" asked Blanche, fearing that the conversation was going take too abstract a turn. "You promised to tell me, you know."

"Ah! Blanche, I see you're all eyes and ears. Well, I'm just coming to that now. I knocked at the door of this miserable erection, but no answer came; and, as it was pouring rain, I did not feel inclined to wait long, so I lifted the latch and looked in. Dingwall evidently was not at home. Indeed, I should say he was quite as comfortable among the heather as at his own fireside, in the circ.u.mstances. The rain was dropping in from the roof in all directions, and it was evidently its habit to do so, for it seemed to have excavated reservoirs for itself along the earthen floor. The only soul in the hut was a wretched atom of a girl, who, nothing daunted by this damp state of matters, was splashing contentedly through the wet floor with her little bare feet, trying to spoon away the water in the pools. Such a funny little thing it was. You should have seen her, Blanchie, as she stood looking at me, with her great eyes that peeped out from a tangled ma.s.s of black locks.

But I daresay I looked rather an alarming apparition in my waterproof and umbrella, which I had the prudence to keep over my head. She looked terrified for a moment, but she did not forget to make her rags touch the soaking floor in a low curtsey, and offered in the sweetest voice to run for her father, who was 'watchin' the _spate_,' she said. You should have seen her, Blanchie; it would have quite suited your love for the sensational."

The portrait was photographic; Blanche's heart began to beat, for she felt certain that she had seen her.

"O papa! do tell me, did she really go away to the river to look for her father? Do tell me, please," said Blanche, in eager tones.

"Well, seeing that she didn't seem to mind the weather, and wasn't likely to catch cold, I thought I might as well bring her here for a little, since her father was not at home, and put her under old Worthy's care, to be warmed and fed and generally comforted. I couldn't get her to open her mouth again, but she followed me down the hill on my invitation."

"O papa! you don't mean to say that she is with Mrs. Worthy now?" and without waiting for a reply, off Blanche bounded in search of the housekeeper's room. And there, in front of a bright fire, seated in a comfortable arm-chair, looking serenely happy in the midst of such unwonted comforts, sat Morag.

"It is really you! Of course I knew it was," exclaimed Blanche, rather incoherently, as she sprang forward with a cry of delight.

Morag rose with an eager bewildered look on her face, but she did not speak, while the impulsive little Blanche threw her arms round the tangled locks, and kissed the brown cheek.

"O Morag! I'm so very glad to see you again. I've been so sorry all day that I did not go to meet you in the pine forest yesterday. So, you are the keeper's daughter," and a shadow of vexation stole across Blanche's sunny face, for the remembrance of the dark, sinister-looking man whom she had disliked rose before her, and she felt a pang of regret that he should be connected with Morag.

"I'm so glad papa brought you here, Morag. What a horrid house you must have to live in! Papa says that it's a great shame of somebody--I forget who. I do wish that the sun might always shine, and then you could sit among those delicious pine-trees, instead of in-doors," and Blanche went on in a silvery torrent of words, while Morag gazed at her, eagerly listening in glad silence.

Mrs. Worthy, who was seated opposite in her arm-chair, reading the newspaper, viewed this scene through her spectacles with unfeigned astonishment.

"Bless my soul, Miss Clifford, you seem quite intimate like already! The like of you for 'aving a warm 'art to all critters, I never did see,"

said that worthy personage rubbing her spectacles, as if her old eyes had deceived her. She was a kindly woman, and had been delighted to show all hospitality to the poor little drenched vagrant; but to see Miss Clifford on terms of seemingly old and intimate friendship was more than she could comprehend.

"Oh! it's all right, Mrs. Worthy. I know Morag quite well; we met in the pine forest. But where is Ellis? has she been here?" And Blanche bounded off in triumph to tell her maid that the dangerous little gypsy of the greenwood was seated in the housekeeper's own private sanctum, having tea and b.u.t.tered toast, by her papa's special invitation too.

Ellis did not seem so much impressed by this wonderful piece of news as Blanche expected, and loudly disapproved of the proposal which followed, namely, that one of Blanche's dresses should be given to the little damsel to replace the tattered tartan.

"'Deed, missie, I'll not listen to such a thing for n.o.body. Your frocks are all much too good for the likes of her, what I've brought here. If you'd told me you were agoin' to clothe all the poor of the parish, I might have brought something from your boxes of old clothes at home."

"I'm sure you might find something, if you only wanted," pleaded Blanche.

At that moment Miss Prosser's voice was heard calling Ellis, and Blanche overheard her governess say to the maid presently, "Oh, by the by, Ellis, the master wants you to find a frock of Miss Clifford's for a little urchin who has been picked up in the Glen somewhere, and appears to be in a very dest.i.tute condition, from all accounts. You had better select something suitable. I believe she is in the housekeeper's room now; so you can go and see what she looks like. Have you anything that will suit the creature, I wonder?"

"Yes, ma'am. There's the crimson dress, that will do. Missie will never wear it again."

"Well, I dare say not, though certainly it does seem much too good for a child of the description. Where is Miss Clifford? Have you seen her?

I've been looking for her for the last half hour, but I can't find her anywhere."

"She's just going to get dressed for the evening, ma'am," replied Ellis, evasively, not indicating that she was within call, nor hinting at her little mistress' previous knowledge of Mr. Clifford's protegee; and finally Miss Prosser retreated to perform her own toilette. Blanche was hovering about in a great glee, having heard the result of the conversation.

"Oh! you dear good Ellis! So you are going to find a dress for Morag after all? I knew you would. Do let me take it to her."

The crimson garment was at length forthcoming, in the midst of many grumblings on Ellis's part; and Blanche, accompanied by her maid, set out in procession towards the housekeeper's room. They found Morag alone; she had risen from her seat in the big arm-chair, and was now standing at a small table on which the housekeeper's books lay. An ill.u.s.trated edition of the "Pilgrim's Progress" was lying open, and when Blanche walked in, Morag was looking intently at one of the pictures.

She started and closed the book with an almost guilty look, and when she caught a glimpse of Ellis, her little brown cheek flushed all over, for she had not forgotten her loud-spoken suspicions regarding her. Gliding up to Blanche, she said softly--

"I'll need to be goin' hame, noo, leddy. Father will be back, and his supper maun be ready; and there's a heap to do forby."

"But you don't really mean to say, Morag, that you get supper ready, and do everything? Why! where's your mother, or the servant?"

Morag's eyes twinkled, and she laughed her rare merry laugh at Blanche's look of astonishment.

"We havena got no servant. I'm thinkin' they're no but for gentry. My mother deid lang syne. I never min' upo' seein' her. There's no jist terrible muckle work, except whiles, when the weet comes in, like the nicht."

"I should like so to go and see you, Morag. Do you think I may some time?" asked Blanche, filled with admiration at the thought of the usefulness of a little girl smaller than herself.

"The floor is some weet the nicht, I'm thinkin'," replied Morag, glancing doubtfully at Ellis.

"Oh! but I didn't mean to-night. Perhaps one day soon, when the sun shines, and your father is at the moors with papa," added Blanche, for she had not forgotten the dark-looking keeper; and she did not think that she should like to find him at home.

Meanwhile, Ellis had been standing with the dress in her hand, listening to the conversation. Her closer inspection of Morag rather softened her towards the little native, with regard to whom she had been harboring such dark suspicions. She began to make sundry signs, to the effect that her little mistress should now proceed to present the dress. But somehow, at this juncture Blanche seemed suddenly seized with a fit of shyness. Morag certainly appeared to stand greatly in need of a new garment, but still Blanche felt in doubt whether she would care to receive one. She was so unlike any poor person she had ever seen--so useful, so brave, so complete in herself. At last Ellis got tired of waiting for Blanche, and unfolding the dress, she held it up with a flourish and a toss of her head, saying--

"Now, little girl, Miss Clifford is kind enough to give you this beautiful frock. See you say 'Thank you' for it, and take good care of it too. I declare it looks as good as the day it was bought!" added Ellis, casting regretful glances on the garment, as she laid it on the table beside Morag. The little girl stood looking at the gift with extreme astonishment for several minutes, and then, glancing at Blanche, she went slowly up to her, and said in a low tone--

"Thank you kindly, leddy. But I would jist be spoilin' a braw goon like that. It's no for the like o' me."

"Oh! but indeed, Morag, dear, you must wear it. I don't think it a bit too good for you to wear on week-days; but if you like you can keep it for Sunday, you know. It used to be my church-frock, wasn't it, Ellis?"

"Ay, maybe. But it's no for the like o' me. I dinna never gang to the kirk forby,' added Morag, in a low, melancholy tone, as Ellis left the room to discuss with Mrs. Worthy the strange little native who did not seem to care for the grand frock, although she was in such rags.

"I would like richt weel to ken what this bit bonnie picter is," said Morag, as she turned towards the little table, on which the open "Pilgrim's Progress" was still lying, and pointed to one of the ill.u.s.trations towards the end of the first part. Blanche had not read the "Pilgrim's Progress," and she did not know what the picture meant at the first glance. There was an expanse of dark rippling water, and struggling through it were two men. One of them looked on the point of sinking, while the other seemed to be trying to hold him up, and pointed to a shining city, which was lying far away in the sun. Seeing how eager Morag was to know what it all meant, Blanche began to feel interested; after turning some pages, she said--"Oh! I see now. That town in the light, far off, is heaven, and those men must be trying to get there, I suppose. But I'll ask Mrs. Worthy to lend me this book, and shall try and find out all about it before I come to the pine-forest next time, Morag."

"Ye'll be able to read a' books, I'm thinkin', leddy," said Morag, looking wistfully at Blanche, as she glanced at the pages.

"Oh, yes, of course, I can read any book that I care to read. But, indeed, Morag, I'm not very fond of reading," added Blanche, in a confidential whisper, as if the fact were a very shocking revelation.

"To be sure, I do like a few story-books very much, indeed; but then Miss Prosser does not allow me to read many. I've got some delicious story-books at home, in London. I wish I had them here, and I should lend them to you, if you are fond of reading. I don't think I have anything except those lesson-books here. The 'History of England' is rather interesting sometimes, by the by. Perhaps you might like it.

There are lots of nice stories here and there. Miss Prosser says I like to read them because they are stories, and not for the sake of the facts and the dates, and I suppose that is very wrong," sighed Blanche, penitently.

Morag stood listening in silent wonder. The conversation had gone far beyond her depth, poor little woman! and she was about to explain that it was so, when Blanche continued--