Allison Bain; Or, By a Way She Knew Not. Margaret M. Robertson
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 illustrated 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 passed, 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 God’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 balls, 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