Allison Bain; Or, By a Way She Knew Not. Margaret M. Robertson
ay comes to that.”
“Ay, dear, soon or late, it ay comes to that.”
“But, father, I wouldna like it to be soon with me. And if only a wise woman would come here—But never mind, father,” added she, laying her soft little hand on his as his kind eyes grew grave; “I can wait. I’m only little yet, and there’s plenty of time, and now Allie has come, and she is strong and kind. I like Allie,” she added, caressing the hand which she had been holding fast all the time. “Allie says that maybe the best thing that could happen to me would be to die, but I would like to live and go about like other folk a whilie first.”
“I am sure Allie will be good to you,” said her father.
“Ay, that will I,” said Allie, looking gravely down upon the child.
“Come, now, tea is ready,” said the mother’s cheerful voice. And rather quietly, considering their number, the boys took their places at the table.
There were five of them; the sixth was asleep in the cradle. Robert, the eldest, just fifteen, was a “good scholar,” and dux in the parish school. He was ready for the university, and was going there when the way should be made clear for him. As a general thing, he had a book in his hand while he munched the oaten bannocks, which formed the chief part of the boys’ evening meal. But to-night he listened and put in his word with the rest. And there were words in plenty, for their father had been away ten whole days, and he had much to hear.
The others were handsome, hardy boys, with dark eyes and sun-browned faces, and the fair hair of so many Scottish laddies, darkening a little already in the elder ones. They were seen at their best to-night, for their father had been expected, and clean hands and faces had been a matter of choice, and not, as was sometimes the case, of compulsion, and “the lint white locks,” longer and more abundant than we usually see them on boyish heads nowadays, were in reasonable order.
If a hundredth part of the pride and delight which filled their father’s heart, as he looked round on them, had been allowed to appear on his face, it would have astonished them all not a little. His eyes met those of their mother with a look in which was thankfulness as well as pride, but to the boys themselves he said quietly enough:
“I am glad to hear from your mother that you have been reasonably good boys while I have been away. If there is anything that any of you think I ought to hear of, you’ll tell me yourselves.”
A look was exchanged among the older lads.
“The nicht, father?” said one of them.
“Well, to-morrow may do, unless it be something more than usual. Is it Jack?”
Of course it was Jack. He looked at his mother and hung his head, but said nothing.
“Hoot, man! get it over the nicht,” whispered Robin.
And so he did. But poor Jack’s mischief need not be told. It was not really very serious, though his father listened seriously, and kept his smiles till he was alone with the boy’s mother. Mischief is a generic term in the Scottish tongue, including some things bad enough, but also some things in which fun is one of the chief elements, and Jack’s mischief was mostly of this kind. Sometimes his father laughed in private, even when he found it necessary to show displeasure to the culprit.
But he was reasonable in his punishments, which was not invariably the case with even good men and good fathers, in that land, in those days. There were whispers among some of the frequenters of the little kirk, to the effect that the minister’s laddies needed sharper discipline than they were like to have at home, and there were prophecies that they would be likely to get their share of discipline of one kind or another when they should be out of their father’s hands.
Jack got easily off, whatever his fault had been, and had his knife besides. They all grew a little noisy over their father’s gifts. As it was Saturday night, his first thought had been that they should not be distributed till Monday. But their mother said they might, perhaps, think all the more about them if they had not seen them. So each got his gift, and their delight in them, seeing there was so little to rejoice over, was in the eyes of the father and mother both amusing and pathetic.
But little and great are comparative terms when applied to money’s worth as to other things, and considering the amount which must be made to stand for all that was needed in the home, the presents were not so trifling. Still, the minister was a rich man in the opinion of many about him, and it cannot be said that he was a poor man in his own opinion. At any rate, between them, his wife and he had made their comparative poverty answer a good many of the purposes of wealth, not to their children only, but to many a “puir bodie” besides, since they came to Nethermuir.
“And now, my lads, we’ll to worship and then you’ll to your beds, for I have my morrow’s sermon to look at yet, and I see your mother’s work is not done.”
So “the Books” were brought out and Allison Bain was called in from the kitchen. The minister asked God’s blessing on the reading of the Word and then he chose a Psalm instead of the chapter in Numbers which came in course. It was the thirty-fourth:
“I will bless the Lord at all times; His praise shall continually be in my mouth,” and so on to the end.
“The Lord redeemeth the soul of His servants, and none of them that trust in Him shall be desolate.”
“He believes it all,” said Allison Bain to herself, lifting once again her sad eyes to his face. And then they sang:
“Oh! God of Bethel, by whose hand
Thy people still are fed—”
which was their family song of thanksgiving, as it was of many another family in those days, on all special occasions for rejoicing. It was the mother who led the singing with a voice which, in after years, when her sons were scattered in many lands, they remembered as “the sweetest ever heard.” The father sang too, but among the many good gifts which God had given to him, music had been denied. He did not know one tune from another, except as it might be associated with some particular Psalm or Hymn, and his voice, both powerful and flexible in speaking, had in singing only two unvarying tones. But he was never silent when the time came “to sing praises,” and truly his voice did not spoil the music to those who loved him. The boys had their mother’s gift and they all sang with good will to-night. Allie’s voice was mute, but her lips trembled a little, and her head drooped low as they sang—
“God of our fathers be the God
Of their succeeding race.”
She was not forgotten in the prayer which followed. It was not as “the stranger within our gates” that she was remembered, but as one of the household, and it was reverently asked that the casting in of her lot with theirs might be for good to her and to them for all time and beyond it. But there was no brightening of her face when she rose and passed out from among them.
The minister’s sermon was not his first thought when he returned to the parlour, after carrying his little daughter up-stairs. By and by his wife sat down with her stocking-basket by her side. They had many things to speak about, after a ten days’ separation, which had not occurred more than twice before in all their married life, and soon they came round to their new servant.
“Well, what do you think of her?” said the minister.
“I cannot say. I cannot quite make her out,” said Mrs. Hume gravely.
“You have not had much time yet.”
“No; I mean that I do not think she intends that I should make her out.”
“She says little?”
“She says nothing. She has passed through some sore trouble, I am quite sure. She looks, at times, as if she had lost all that she cared for, and had not the heart to begin again.”
“I think you have made her out fairly well,” said the minister smiling.
“Why