Allison Bain; Or, By a Way She Knew Not. Margaret M. Robertson
it long. For though he had recognised no one about the door, many a one had recognised him, and in a little time one man slowly followed another to the garden-gate, where he leaned, and hands “with a strong grip in them” were held out and grasped, and not one but said how glad they were to see him home again for his father’s sake. And by and by as they waited, one after another had something to say and a question to ask.
There was time enough. The minister had to rest awhile and refresh himself, and the burial-bread had to be passed round, and that which usually accompanied it as well. Besides, there was no haste, for they had given the day to do honour to the occasion; and if they got safely home before it was very late, it was all that they expected or desired.
The questions were asked with lowered voices and in softened tones, but they were asked eagerly and anxiously, and with a purpose. For one had a Jock, and another had a Tam, and a third had a Jock and a Tam and a Sandy as well, who were all pushing up fast, and who had their own bread to win. And it was “whiles no’ just that easy to get work the laddies were fit for, or which was fit for them.”
“And you’ve done weel out there yourself, sir.”
“And was it land ye were on?”
“Oh, man! it’s the land I would like.”
“And is the cold as bad as folk have whiles said: and the heat in summer?”
“And would there be a chance for the laddies out there? Would they be made welcome if they were to pack their kists and go?”
Mr. Hadden answered all questions kindly and fully, making no such rosy picture of life in America as some wandering lecturers on the subject had been doing of late through all the countryside. Yes, there was good land, and there was plenty of it, and in some places it was cheap. A man could get good land and time to pay it in, and when it was paid for it belonged to him and his forever. Yes, of course they would have taxes to pay and roads to keep up, and all that. And they would have to work, hard at first, and they would always have to work if they were to succeed. They would be welcome there, no fear of that. No well-doing lad from Auld Scotland but would find work and friends, and a home of his own after a while, in that free country. Would they like it? Scotch folk mostly liked it. One that would do well at home would be able to do far better for himself out there. And some who had failed to do anything at home, had succeeded there. It was not a country where gold grew on the trees, as some would like; but no man need be afraid to go there if he had a will to work—and so on for a long time; and so close grew the crowd and so eager the questioning, there was some danger that the solemnity of the occasion might be forgotten in the growing interest, for more people were coming in by twos and threes, and not one of them all but was glad of a word with the minister’s son.
In the meantime the minister was standing beside the dead master of the house, with his hand resting on the bowed head of poor Allison Bain. She had lifted her face once, when the first sound of his kind voice had reached her ear—a face weary and worn, and utterly woebegone. But kind as voice and words were, they had no power to reach her in the darkness and solitariness of that hour. Her face was laid down again upon the coffin-lid, and she took no heed of all that was going on around her.
Now and then a friend or neighbour came and stood a while looking at the closed coffin and the motionless figure of the desolate girl, but not a word was spoken in the room, till the minister rose and said:
“The time is come.”
Then there was a movement in the house, and those who were without came toward the door. Two or three kinsmen of the dead man drew near and stood ready “to lift the body.” At the head, where the son of the house should have been, Allison still sat mute and motionless, with her face hidden on her arms, which rested upon the coffin. There was a minute’s silence, so deep that the ticking of the clock seemed to smite with pain upon the ear. The minister prayed, and then he touched the bowed head and said gently:
“Allison Bain, the time has come.”
The girl rose and, still leaning on the coffin-lid, turned herself to the waiting people. There was a dazed look in her eyes, and her face was so white and drawn—so little like the face of “bonny Allie Bain”—that a sudden stir of wonder, and pain, and sympathy went through the throng. Her lips quivered a little as she met their sorrowful looks, and the minister hoped that the tears, which had been so long kept back, might come now to ease her heavy heart, and he laid his hand on hers to lead her away. Then a voice said:
“This is my place,” and Brownrig’s hand was laid upon the coffin where Allison’s head had lain.
At the sound of his voice a change passed over the girl’s face. It grew hard and stern; but she did not, by the slightest movement of eye or lip, acknowledge the men’s presence or his intent.
“Now,” said she, with a glance at those who were waiting. And with her face bowed down, but with a firm step, she “carried her father’s head” out of the house which was “to know him no more.” In breathless silence the friends and neighbours fell into their places, and she stood white and tearless gazing after them till the last of the long train had disappeared around the hill. Then she went slowly back toward the house. At the door she stopped and turned as if she were going away again. But she did not. When her aunt—her mother’s sister—put her hand on her shoulder, saying softly, “Allie, my woman,” she paused and put her arms round the old woman’s neck and burst into bitter weeping. But only for a little while. Her aunt would fain have spoken to her words which she knew must be said soon; but when she tried to do so, Allie held up her hand in entreaty.
“Wait, auntie. Wait a wee while—for oh! I am so spent and weary.”
“Yes, my dearie; yes, I ken weel, and you shall rest—but not there!—surely not there!”
For Allie had opened the door of the room where her father died and where his coffin had stood, where her mother had also suffered and died. She would not turn back. “She was tired and must rest a while and there was nowhere else.” And already, before she had ceased speaking, her head was on the pillow, and she had turned her face to the wall.
In the early morning of the next day the minister’s son, the returned wanderer, stood leaning over the wall which separated the manse garden from the kirkyard. He was looking at the spot where the grass waved green over the graves of his mother and his two brothers who slept beside her. As he stood, a hand touched his, and Allison Bain’s sorrowful eyes looked down upon him. Looked down, because the many generations of the dead had filled up the place, and the wall which was high on the side of the garden was low on the side of the kirkyard.
“The minister is not up yet?” she asked without a pause. “Was he over-wearied? I had something to say to him, but I might say it to you, if you will hear me?”
“My father will be up soon, and he will see you almost immediately if you will come into the manse and wait a little while.”
“Yes, I could wait. But he is an old man and it might spare him trouble—afterwards—not to know that I passed this way. Are ye Mr. Alex who once took our Willie out of the hole in the moss?”
“Yes; I mind poor Willie well. Poor laddie.”
“Poor laddie ye may well say,” said Allison, and the colour came to her pale face, and her eyes shone as she added eagerly: “You will be in Aberdeen—will you go to see Willie? I canna go to see him because—one might think o’ looking for me there. You are a good man, I have always heard, and he needs some one to speak a kind word to him, and I sore misdoubt that he’s in ill company yonder.”
“I am going to see him soon. My father was speaking about him yesterday. I shall certainly go.”
“And you’ll be kind to him, I’m sure,” said Allison, wistfully. “He is not bad, though that has been said. He is only foolish and not wicked, as they tried to make him out. And ye’ll surely go?”