Allison Bain; Or, By a Way She Knew Not. Margaret M. Robertson
at a neighbour’s door, between the pump and her own, “the minister’s lass,” turning neither head nor eye, moved on without a pause, till she disappeared round the close that led to her kitchen-door.
“And, for that matter, except for the way her face is turned, ye wud never ken whether her buckets were fou or toom” (full or empty), said an admiring observer, as he watched her steady and rapid steps along the street.
So poor Allison, for one reason and another, could not be overlooked. Her name—or rather the name which her place gave her—“the minister’s lass,” was on many lips for a time. Absolutely nothing was known about her except what the kindly and guarded letter of Dr. Fleming had conveyed; yet much was supposed and said concerning her, and some things were repeated till they were believed, which she might have resented had she heard of them. They might have angered her, and so have helped to shake her out of the heaviness and dulness that had fallen upon her. But she “never heeded.” She saw neither the hand which was held out to her in friendliness nor the face that turned away in indifference or anger.
And perhaps, on the whole, it was as well that she heeded nothing. For as weeks and months passed on, and other folk came or went, and new events—which would have hardly deserved the name elsewhere—happened to give subject-matter for discussion at proper times and places, Allison became just “the minister’s lass,” tolerated, if not altogether approved, among the censors of morals and manners in the town, and she still went her way, for the most part, unconscious of them all.
Chapter Five.
“He wales a portion with judicious care, And ‘Let us worship God,’ he says with solemn air.”
In the minister’s home on Sabbath morning, the custom was for the two eldest lads to take turns with the “lass” in keeping the house, while all the rest, except Marjorie and the two youngest, went to the kirk. It cannot be said that this was felt to be a hardship by the lads—rather the contrary, I am afraid—when the weather and the season of the year permitted them to spend the time in the garden, or when a new book, not in the “Index expurgatorious” of Sabbath reading was at hand, or even a beloved old one.
Of course there were Sabbath-day tasks to learn. But the big boys were by this time as familiar with the catechism as with the multiplication table, and a psalm, or a paraphrase, or a chapter in the New Testament, hardly was accounted by them as a task. Frequent reading, and constant hearing at family worship, and at the school, had made the words of many parts of the book so familiar to them that only a glance was needed to make them sure of their ground. It needed, perhaps, a second glance if another repetition was suddenly required. It was “licht come, licht go” with them—easily learned, easily forgotten—in the way of tasks. But in another way it was not so. The Word thus learned “in the house and by the way,” and so associated with all else which their young, glad lives held, could never be quite forgotten; nay more, could never—in theory and opinion at least—cease to be authoritative as the law by which, wherever they might wander, their steps were to be guided. But the chief thing to them at present was, that even with “tasks” to learn, there was still time to enjoy their books.
The lads had the firmest belief in their father’s power as a preacher. But it must be remembered that those were the days when a full two hours were not considered, either by preacher or hearers, too long to give to a discourse. And the minister’s sons were expected so to listen that they should be able to give to their mother, at evening worship, all the “heads and particulars”—and they were usually many—and a good deal besides of the sermon. In those circumstances it is not surprising that their turn in the summer garden, or even at the kitchen fireside, should sometimes be preferred to going to the kirk.
So when it began to be noticed that Allison quietly made her arrangements to be in the house every second Sabbath, instead of every third, as would have been fair, Robin remonstrated.
“It’s my turn at home to-day, Allie. No, Maysie, you mustna grumble. It’s but fair that Allie should have her turn at the kirk as weel as the rest of us. You must just content yourself with me. I’m to bide to-day.”
“I’m no’ carin’ to go to the kirk to-day,” said Allison.
“But that’s no’ the question. I’m carin’ to bide at home,” and as his mother had already gone, and no appeal could be made to her, bide he did, and so did Allison.
When this had happened two or three times, it was considered necessary to take notice of it, and Mrs. Hume did so, telling her, quietly but firmly, how necessary it was that the minister’s household should set a good example in the place. And, beyond that, she sought to make it clear that it was the duty of all to avail themselves of the privilege of worshipping with God’s people on His day, in His house. If Allison—being the daughter of one who had been in his lifetime an elder in the established kirk, as Dr. Fleming had informed them—had any doubts of the propriety of worshipping with dissenters, that was another matter. But she should go to her own kirk, if she could not take pleasure in coming to theirs.
“It’s a’ ane to me,” said Allison.
But on the next fine Sabbath morning she availed herself of the permission, and took her way to the parish kirk. She would like the walk, at any rate, she told herself, and she did enjoy the walk down the lanes, in her own sad fashion; but the lanes took her out of the way a little, and made her late.
That night, at worship-time, when Allison’s turn came to be questioned as to what she had heard at the kirk, she could tell the text. But she did not tell that she had learned it by overhearing it repeated by an old man to his neighbour, as they came after her up the road. Nor did she tell that, being late at the kirk door, and shrinking from the thought of going in alone among so many strange folk, she had passed the time occupied by the preaching sitting on a broken headstone in the kirkyard.
She never went there again. It was truly “a’ ane” to one whose mind, the moment her hands and her head were no longer occupied with the round of daily work, went back to brood over the days and joys that could never return, or over the sorrow which could never be outlived.
“I see no difference. It’s a’ ane to me,” repeated she when Mrs. Hume, not wishing to seem to influence her against her will, again suggested that, if she preferred it, she should go to the kirk.
“Difference!” There was all the difference between truth only dimly perceived and truth clearly uttered, in what she would be likely to hear in the two kirks, in the opinion of the minister’s wife. And if that might be not altogether a charitable judgment, it might at least be said that it would be but a cold exposition of the Gospel that old Mr. Geddes would be likely to give, either in the pulpit or out of it. But she did not enter into the discussion of the matter with Allison. She was well pleased that she should decide the matter for herself.
“For though she sits in the kirk like a person in a dream, surely some true, good word will reach her heart after a time,” said her kindly mistress. She had a good while to wait before it came to that with Allison. But it came at last.
“Allison,” said Mrs. Hume, coming into the kitchen one afternoon, “we’ll do without the scones at tea to-night, in case the baking them should make you late with other things. You mind you did not get to the meeting at all last time, and the minister wishes all his own family to be present when it is possible.”
Allison raised herself up from the work which was occupying her at the moment, and for once gave her mistress a long look out of her sad brown eyes.
“It was not that I hadna time. I wasna carin’.”
“I am sorry to hear you say that. The meetings are a means of grace which have been blessed to many; and though there may be some things said now and then which—are not just for edification, yet—”
Allison shook her head.
“I