Allison Bain; Or, By a Way She Knew Not. Margaret M. Robertson
“He had not known her very long. This is the way he came to know her: She was brought to the infirmary, ill of fever. She had gone into a cottage on the outskirts of the town ‘to rest herself,’ she said. But she was too ill to leave the place, and then she was sent to the infirmary. She had a struggle for life, which none but a strong woman could have won through, and when she began to grow better, she made herself useful among the other patients, and was so helpful, that when one of the nurses went away, they kept her on in her place. But evidently she had not been used with town life, or even indoor life, and she grew dowie first, and then despairing, and he was glad at the thought of getting her away, for fear of what might happen. It was change which she needed, and work such as she had been used with.”
“But it was a great risk to send her here.”
“Yes, in one way. And I hardly think he would have ventured to do so, but that, quite by accident, he had heard about her from an old college friend. It seems that this gentleman came to see Dr. Fleming at the infirmary, and getting a glimpse of the young woman’s face, he betrayed by his manner that it was not for the first time. He was bound, he said, for her sake, not to seem to know her, nor would he say anything about her home or her station in life. But he said that he knew well about her, that she was an orphan who had suffered much, that she was a good woman, one to be trusted and honoured, and he begged his friend to ask her no questions, but to get her out of the town into some quiet country place where she might outlive the bitterness of the past. And his last words were, ‘Fortunate will they be who can have her as a helper in the house.’ ”
“It is a pity for her sake that she should refuse to trust us.”
“Yes. There is one thing which you ought to know, though Dr. Fleming rather betrayed it than expressed it openly. I think, from what he said, and also from what he did not say, that there had been some fear that her mind might give way under the strain of her trouble, whatever it is. She seemed to have lost the power of turning her thoughts away from it, and yet she had never uttered a word with regard to it. She was sometimes, he said, like one walking in her sleep, deaf and blind to all that was going on about her. She had a dazed look, painful to see.”
“I ken the look well.”
“She had been used with country life, he thought, for in the town she was like a creature caged and wild to get out. Her best chance was, he said, an entire change of scene and of work, and he thought it providential that we were to lose our Kirstin at this time. Our house, he thought, would be a good place for her. She will have plenty to do, and will have every allowance made for her, and she will be kindly and firmly dealt with. And then, there are the bairns, and our bonny Maysie. I confess the glimpse I have gotten of her has already greatly interested me.”
“I acknowledge I have felt the same. But others will be interested in her also. Does she really think that she can keep a secret in a place like this? What she will not tell, others will guess. Or worse, they will imagine a story for her.”
“We must do what we can to guard her from ill or idle tongues.”
“Yes, and if she were just a commonplace servant-lass, like our Kirstin, it might be easy to do so. But with a face and eyes like hers, to say nothing of her way of carrying herself, every eye will be upon her.”
“She is a stately woman truly. But her dark, colourless face will hardly take the fancy of common folk. They will miss the lilies and roses. She has wonderful een,” added the minister.
“Yes, like those of a dumb creature in pain. Whiles I feel, looking at her, that I must put my arms about her and let her greet (weep) her heart out on my breast. But she has hardly given me a chance to say a kind word to her yet. That may come in time, however.”
“It will be sure to come,” said the minister heartily. “What sorrowful soul ever withstood you long? And you have reason to trust her? She has done well thus far?”
“I have had no cause to distrust her. Yes, she has done wonderfully well. Though I doubt whether she has ever occupied a servant’s place before. And she gets on well with the lads. Jack has once felt the weight of her hand, I believe. I do not think he will be in a hurry again to vex her with his nonsense.”
“I must have a word with Jack, and with them all.”
“As for our Marjorie, her heart is taken captive quite.”
“My precious darling! She may do Allison good. And we must all try to help the poor soul as we may, for I fear she is in an evil case.”
Chapter Three.
“For the highest and the humblest work had been given them to do.”
Yes, Allison Bain was in an evil case, but if an entire change of scene and manner of life, and hard work and plenty of it, were likely to have a beneficial effect upon her, she had come to the right place to find them. And she had come also to the right place to get faithful, patient, and kindly oversight, which she needed as much as change.
When she had been longing to get away—anywhere—out of the great town, which was like a prison to her, Dr. Fleming had spoken to her about taking service at the manse of Nethermuir, and she had said that she would go gladly, and at once.
The only manse which she knew much about was in her mind when she made the promise—a house apart, in a sheltered, sunny spot, having a high walled fruit garden behind it, and before, a broad, sloping lawn, with a brown burn running at the foot. Yes, she would like to go. She would get away from the din and closeness of the town. In a place like that in which the old minister lived alone among his books, with only his children or his grandchildren coming home to see him now and then, she would be at peace. She would be away from the curious eyes that were ay striving, she thought, to read her sorrowful secret in her face. Yes, she would be glad to go.
But it was a very different place in which she found herself when she reached Nethermuir. Anything more unlike the ideal Scottish manse than the house to which she had come could not well be imagined. There was no walled garden or lawn, or “wimplin burn” to see. If it had even a right to be called “The Manse,” might be doubted.
For it was only the house of the “Missioner Minister,” a humble abode, indeed, in comparison with the parish manse. It was a narrow, two-storied house, with but the causey (pavement) between it and the street. Across the close, which separated it from a still humbler dwelling, came the “clack, clack” of a hand-loom, and the same sound, though the night was falling, came from other houses near.
“A poor place, indeed,” was Allison Bain’s first thought, as she stood regarding it from the darkening street, with a conscious, dull sinking of the heart, which had already fallen so low. Not that the place mattered much, she added, as she stood looking at the lights moving here and there in the house. She was too weary to care for anything very much that night. The morning stars had lighted her way the first two hours of her journey, and there had been little time for rest during the short November day. Footsore and exhausted after her thirty miles of travel, she went slowly and heavily in. She could only listen in silence to the kindly welcome of her new mistress, and then go silently to the rest and quiet of her bed.
Morning came. Rest and quiet! These were not here, it seemed. The sound of many voices was filling the house when Allie, having long overslept herself, awoke at last and lifted her heavy head from the pillow. There were shrill, boyish voices, laughing, shouting, wrangling, without pause. There was racket on the stairs, and wrestling in the passage, and half-stifled cries of expostulation or triumph everywhere, till a door opened, and closed again, and shut it all out.
And so Allison’s new life began. She had not come to seek an easy time. And as for quiet, if she had but known it, the noise and bustle and boyish clamour, the pleasant confusion of coming and going about the homely little manse, and the many claims upon her attention and patience and care, were just what she needed