Allison Bain; Or, By a Way She Knew Not. Margaret M. Robertson
themselves with such simple, unvarying fare? They did not think so, for except in books, they knew nothing of any other way of life. I do not think so, because I have seen other ways and their results. Besides, luxury is a comparative term, like wealth, or a competence; and the occasional slice of loaf-bread, with jelly or even treacle on it, probably gave greater satisfaction to the children of that country, and that time, than the unlimited indulgence in cakes and pastry, or creams and ices can give to the experienced young people of the present day, in some other countries, who, taking the usual comprehensive survey of the luxuries prepared for the frequenters of city hotels or watering-places, are sometimes obliged to confess themselves “disappointed in the fare!”
One thing is sure, plain food made strong men and women of most of them; and no lingering dyspepsia of childhood spoiled the pleasure of those of them who won their way to the right to live as they pleased in after-life.
During Allison’s reign in the manse kitchen, the bairns were exceptionally fortunate in their daily fare. For though she seemed to go about in a maze, like the man in the ballad, as Robin said, “whose thoughts were other-where,” she never burned the porridge, nor singed the broth, nor put off the weekly baking of “cakes,” till they were obliged to content themselves, now and then, with less than the usual portion.
It was wonderful how well the work was done, considering how little her heart seemed to be in the doing of it, her mistress sometimes thought. She would have been better pleased had an opening been left now and then for the “putting in mind,” which had been necessary sometimes, even in the case of the much-valued Kirstin. She would have liked to see whether a sharp word or two would have moved the silent Allison for a moment out of the dull, mechanical performance of her duty.
Praise did not do it, and she had been lavish of praise at first. Allison heard it, as she heard all else, without heeding, as though doing well were a matter of course, needing no words about it. She did not respond, by ever so little, to her mistress’ kindly attempts to make friends, till something else had moved her.
The tact and patience of her mistress in dealing with her were helped by the belief which gradually came to her, that this silent withdrawal of herself from all approaches of kindliness or sympathy was hardly voluntary on Allison’s part. It was not so much that she refused help as that she had ceased to expect it. Under some terrible strain of circumstances her courage had been broken, and her hope. She was like one who believed that for her, help was impossible.
Of course she was wrong in this, her mistress thought. She was young and time brings healing. If her trouble had come through death, healing would come soon. If it were a living sorrow, there might still be more to suffer; but her strong spirit would rise above it at last—of that she was sure.
All this she had said to the minister one night. He listened in silence a while, then he said:
“And what if sin, or the love of it, makes her trouble? There are some things which cannot be outlived.”
“Tell me what trouble touches any of us with which sin—our own, or that of other folk—has not to do. Yes, there has been sin where there is suffering such as hers, but I cannot think that she has been the sinner. Allison is an honest woman, pure and true, or my judgment is at fault. It is the sin of some one else which has brought such gloom and solitariness upon her. Whether she is a real Christian, getting all the good of it, is another matter. I have my doubts.”
All this time the minister’s “new lass” had not been overlooked by those who worshipped in the little kirk, nor by some who did not. The usual advances had been made toward acquaintance—friendly, curious, or condescending, as the case might be, but no one had made much progress with the stranger. Her response to each and all alike was always perfectly civil, but always also of the briefest, and on a second meeting the advances had to be made all over again.
When business or pleasure brought any of the cottage wives to the manse kitchen, as happened frequently, their “gude-day t’ye” was always promptly and quietly answered, but it never got much beyond that with any of them. Allison went about her work in the house or out of it, and “heeded them as little as the stools they sat on,” some of them said, and their husbands and brothers could say no more.
When she was discussed, as of course she was at all suitable times and occasions, the reports which were given of her were curiously alike. Friendliness, curiosity, condescension—the one had sped no better than the other. The next-door neighbours to the manse had no more to tell than the rest. There was no lingering at the kitchen-door, or at the mouth of the close in the long gloaming, as there used to be in Kirstin’s time.
“Ceevil! ay, if ye can ca’ it civeelity. She maistly just says naething and gaes by as gin she didna see ye,” said the weaver’s wife.
“For my pairt, I hae nae feast o’ sic civeelity,” said Mrs. Coats from the other side of the street. “I should like to ken mair aboot her ere I hae muckle to say to her.”
“It winna trouble her though you sae naething,” said the weaver. “She’s valued in the manse, that’s weel seen.”
“Ay, she is that,” said his wife. “I never thought they would soon get one to step so readily into auld Kirstin’s shoon. She gets through far mair than ever Kirstin did in the course of the day, and the hoose is like a new preen (pin).”
“I daursay. New besoms sweep clean,” said Mrs. Coats with a sniff.
“There’s a differ in besoms, however, be they auld or new,” said the weaver.
“She’s the kin’ o’ lass to please the men it seems. We’ll need to keep a calm sough the lave o’ us,” said Mrs. Coats.
“It’s ay safe to keep a calm sough,” said the weaver. “Gin she suits the minister’s wife that’s the chief thing. The warst we ken o’ her yet is that she’s no’ heedin’ ony o’ us, and she micht hae waur fauts.”
“That may be. But something must ail a young lass like yon when she is sae slow to open her lips, and goes by a body—even a young lad, as gin there was naebody there.”
“That’s her loss,” said the weaver with a laugh.
That she went about “without heeding” was a more serious matter in the case of the new lass than might at first be supposed. If she had not lived at the manse, which was so much frequented by all sorts of people, or if she had been plain, or crooked, or even little, it would have mattered less that she was so preoccupied and so difficult to approach.
Fewer people, in that case, might have noticed her. As it was, many eyes were on her when she went down the street with her water-buckets, or sat in the kirk in a dream. She would have been called a beautiful woman anywhere. In the street of this dull little town, where men had eyes as well as in larger places, it was not surprising that she should be watched and wondered at.
Her face was beautiful, but it wanted the colour and brightness which made “a bonny face” to the eyes of most of the folk of Nethermuir. It was thin and sallow when she first came there, and the gloom upon it, and “the dazed look” which came when she was suddenly spoken to, did much to mar and shadow its beauty. And so did the great mutch, with its double “set-up” border of thick muslin, which was tied close around it, covering the ears, and the round throat, and hiding all the beautiful hair, which after the fever was beginning to grow again. But nothing could disguise the firm, erect form, which might have been thought too tall, perhaps, if it had not been round and full in proportion; and the short gown confined at the waist by the long strings of her apron, and the rather scant petticoat of dark winsey that fell beneath it, are not such unbecoming garments as might be supposed by those accustomed to garments of a more elaborate fashion.
Her strength was quite as highly appreciated by the stooping weavers and shoemakers of Nethermuir as was her beauty, and the evidences which she unconsciously gave of it were much admired and often recounted among them. When “Auld Maggie” fell on the slide which the town laddies had made in the street, and tailor Coats ran to get some one to help to carry her home, “the minister’s