Allison Bain; Or, By a Way She Knew Not. Margaret M. Robertson
and forbearing, but it was not a loving patience, or a considerate forbearance, as old Kirstin’s had been. Kirstin had been vexed often, and had sometimes complained of their thoughtlessness and foolishness. But nothing seemed to make much difference to the silent ruler of the kitchen. Everything but the work of the moment was allowed to pass unheeded.
The lads, cautioned by their father, and kept in mind by their mother, did not often go beyond the bounds of reasonable liberty in the use they made of her domain. When they did so, a sharp word, like a sudden shot, brought them to their proper place again and set matters right between them. The lads bore no malice. They never complained to their mother at such times, and if they had, she would have paid little attention to such complaints. That “laddies must be kept in order,” she very well knew.
And thus the early weeks of winter passed, doing for Allison some of the good which work well done is sure to do for the heavy-hearted. But the good which the busy days wrought, the nights, for a time, seemed to destroy.
In the long evenings, when Marjorie and the younger brothers were asleep, and the elder lads were at their books, there came a time of quiet to all the house, when Allison had the kitchen to herself and she could sit in silence, undisturbed, but not at rest. Then her trouble came back upon her, and night after night she sat gazing into the fire till it fell into red embers, and then into grey ashes, thinking of the painful days of the year now drawing to a close. And, poor soul! the anguish of pain and shame which, months ago, had touched her and hers, was as sharp and “ill to bide” as when the blow had fallen. Nay, in a sense it was worse. For in the first amazement of a sudden shock, the coming anguish seems impossible, and the natural resistance of the soul against it gives a sort of courage for the time.
But with Allison, the fear had changed to certainty. Trouble had fallen on her and hers, and had darkened for her all the past and all the future, she believed, for as yet time had not lightened the darkness.
It was not that she was thinking about all this. She was living it all over. She saw again the home she had left forever—the low house, with the sunshine on it, or the dull mist and the rain. A vision of a beautiful, beloved face, drawn with terror, or fierce with anger, was ever before her. Or a grey head moving restlessly on its last pillow—a face with the shadow of death upon it, and of an anguish worse than death. In her ears was a voice uttering last words, with long, sobbing sighs between.
“O! Willie, Willie!” the broken voice says. “Where are ye, Willie? Mind, Allison, ye hae promised—to watch for his soul as ane that maun gie account. And the Lord deal—wi’ you, as—ye shall deal wi’ Him.”
And in her heart she answers:
“Father, be at peace about him. I’ll be more mindfu’ o’ him than the Lord himself has been.”
She sees the anguish in the dying eyes give place to darkness, and sitting there by the grey ashes on the hearth, cries out in her despair. Thus it has been with her since her father was laid in the grave, and the prison-doors shut upon her only brother. Their faces are ever before her, their voices in her ears.
She cares for nothing in the wide world at such times. She does not even care for herself, or her own life, though a shadow dark and dread lies on it. If her life could come to an end, that Would be best, she thinks. But it must not come to an end yet. Oh! if she and Willie could die together, or get away anywhere and be forgotten. If they could only pass out of all men’s minds, as though they had never been! But all such thoughts are foolish, she tells herself. Nothing in their lives can be changed, nor mended, nor forgotten.
And having got thus far, it all begins again, and she lives over the happy days when, bairns together, they played among the heather, or followed the sheep on the hills; when their father was like God to them, ay loving them, and being kind to them; but not ay seeming just so mindful of them as their mother was. Their mother was ill whiles, and took less heed of things, and needed much done for her, but they loved their mother best. At least they never feared her, as they sometimes feared their father, who yet loved them both—Willie best, as did all who ever saw his face.
And thus on through all the weary way, her thoughts would travel through days of still content, through doubt, and fear, and anguish, to the end, only to begin again.
If Dr. Fleming had known what good reason there was for the fears which he had unconsciously betrayed to the minister, he would hardly have ventured to send Allison Bain to the house of his friend. But he could have done nothing better for her. A change was what she needed—something to take her out of herself, to make her forget, even for a little while, now and then, what the last year had brought her. With new scenes and faces around her, new duties and interests to fill up her time and thoughts, she had the best chance of recovering from the strokes which had fallen upon her, and of “coming to herself” again.
For nothing had happened to her that is not happening to some one every day of the year. Sin and sorrow and terrible suffering had touched her and hers. One had sinned, all had suffered, and she was left alone to bear the burden of her changed life, and she must bear it for her brother’s sake. And she had no refuge.
For her faith in God had been no stronger than her faith in her brother, and her brother had failed her. And God had not put out a hand to help him—to save him from his sin and its consequences, and nothing could be changed now.
Yet the first months of winter did something for her, though her mistress hardly discovered it, and though she did not know it herself. Her day’s work tired her in a natural, healthy way, so that after a time her sleep at night was unbroken, and she had less time for the indulgence of unhappy thoughts. But she did not, for a good while after three months were over, take much conscious pleasure in anything that was happening around her.
She had much to do. The short days of winter were made long to her. For hours before the slow coming dawn she was going softly about the kitchen in the darkness, which the oil-lamp that hung high above the hearth hardly dispelled. When she had done what could be done at that hour within the house, there was something to do outside. For cripple Sandy, whose duty it was to care for the creatures, did not hurry himself in the winter mornings; and Allison, who knew their wants and their ways, and who all her life had had to do with the gentle creatures at home, would not let them suffer from neglect. By the dim light of the lantern hung from the roof, she milked the cows and fed them, and let in the welcome light upon the cocks and hens; and went to all corners of the place, seeing at a glance where a touch of her hand was needed. And she was conscious of a certain pleasure in it after a time.
Then there was the house “to redd up,” and the porridge to make, for the elder lads had to set out early to their school, and their breakfast must be over when their father came down to have worship before they went away. Then came the parlour breakfast, and then the things were to be put away, and dinner-time was at hand, and so on till the day was over. Truly there was enough to do, washing and ironing, cleaning and cooking, coming and going—the constant woman’s work which is never done.
As for the cooking, there was no time for the making of dainty dishes in the manse, even if there had been no better reason for dispensing with them. Oatmeal was the staple of the house, of course—the food which has made bone and muscle for so many who stand in high places on both sides of the sea. There was the invariable porridge in the morning, supplemented by the equally invariable cakes. Not the sweet morsels which the name may suggest to some folk—but, broad discs of meal and water, cut into quarters for the sake of convenience, and baked on a griddle—solid but wholesome.
There was a variety of them. There were soft cakes, and crisp cakes, and thick bannocks, and sometimes there were “scones” of barley-meal. The “loaf-bread” came from the baker’s; so did the rare buns and baps, and the rarer short-bread for great and special occasions. Beef and mutton were not for everyday use. They had fowls and they had fish of the best, for in those days the London market did not devour all that the sea produced, and the fishwives tramped inland many miles, with their creels on their backs, glad to sell their fish to the country folk. They had soup often, and always potatoes and some other vegetables; but milk and oatmeal, prepared in various ways, was the principal food for the bairns of the manse,