Geordie's Tryst Part 3

When they prepared to leave the little still room, Grace handed Geordie his precious "Third Primer," which she found lying on the floor, and as he put it into his jacket pocket, he said with a smile, "I won't bring it back with me, I'm thinkin'. Ye'll maybe tell us some more about the Good Shepherd next time, and I can hold at the spellin' when I'm herdin', and maybe I'll soon be able to get into the Bible itself," he added, still firm in his belief that the only entrance lay through the spelling-book.

Grace, remembering little Jean's dislike to the exit through the dark pa.s.sages, led the way to a door which opened into a path to the garden.

Jean manifested undisguised satisfaction when the dim still-room precincts were fairly left behind, and they got into the pleasant old walled-in garden, where the yellow afternoon's sun was lying on the opening fruit-blossom, and bringing delicious scents out of the newly-blown lilac and hawthorn. She kept pulling Geordie's corduroys, to draw his attention to all that captivated her as they walked along the broad gravel walk. This was certainly a much pleasanter way home than along the dim pa.s.sage, and Jean decided that the best part of the afternoon had come last. Presently Grace opened the door of one of the greenhouses, and they stood among richer colours and sweeter scents than before. The children had been surveying with admiring wonder the dazzling house glittering in the sun, which was making each pane sparkle like a diamond, but they never dreamt that it would be given to them to enter it, or indeed that it had an interior which could be reached, so entirely did it seem to belong to the region of the sun, not to the world of thatched cottages and grey walls.

"Eh, but surely this will be something like the happy land you were singin' aboot," Geordie said at last, with a long-drawn breath, after he had wandered about in silence for some time, revelling in the exotic delights of the first greenhouse he had ever seen.

"Oh yes, Geordie; there will be all this, and a great deal more; things so beautiful and, glorious that our poor minds can't even imagine what they will be like," said Grace, glowingly, feeling a thrill of pleasure to hear that the hymn had any meaning for the boy, so desponding was she concerning her efforts. "Look here, I'll just read to you about the pleasant place where the Good Shepherd leads his flock, after their journey on earth is over." And leaning against an old orange-tree, Grace read to her little scholars about that wonderful mult.i.tude "which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore are they before the throne of G.o.d, and serve him day and night in his temple: and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and G.o.d shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." They stood quite still for a few moments after Grace had finished reading, each thinking some new thoughts.

In the mind of little Jean, to be sure, there certainly prevailed some confusion of ideas between the happy land of which she had been hearing, and the beautiful garden in which she stood. Indeed, to the end of her life, the yellow glitter of the sun on the Kirklands greenhouses brought to her mind the description of that "city of pure gold, as it were transparent gla.s.s;" and the tall tropical plants which were ranged round the s.h.i.+ning floor were to her the embodiments of the trees whose leaves were for the "healing of the nations."

But Geordie's thoughts were most about that Shepherd Saviour who seemed to be able to lead his flock away from bleak, scorching places to such a blessed land as these words told of.

In spite of old Adam's approaching shadow on the gravel walk, Grace plucked a few of the rare, beautiful roses and gave them to little Jean, whose small fat hands were eagerly stretched out to receive the prize.

They spent the remainder of their flouris.h.i.+ng existence in a broken yellow jug on the window-sill of Granny Baxter's cottage, and were a joy to Jean for many days. And when it was the fate of their companions still left in their stately gla.s.s home to be gathered into Adam's barrow when their charms had past, and ignominiously flung away, Jean's roses had a more honourable future. After they had done their duty faithfully on the window-sill, the dead leaves were tenderly gathered and scattered in the drawers allotted to Jean in the ancient chest, where they made a sweet scent in their embalmment for many a day.

The little party arrived at last at the farther end of the garden, where there was a door in the high, red wall opening on a path which led to the turnpike-road. Grace turned the rusty key, and the children saw the familiar face of their native valley again. Giving a lingering backward glance into the pleasant garden which they had just left, they trotted away towards the dusty high-road, while Grace stood watching them till they were out of sight.

CHAPTER IV.

ELSIE GRAY

"I'll tell you what it is, Grace; that scholar of yours is far too fine a fellow to be left to tie companions.h.i.+p of old Gowrie's cattle any longer."

The speaker was a bright, breezy-looking lad in mids.h.i.+pman's dress, who was sauntering up and down the old terrace at Kirklands, in company with our friend Grace. She is a year older than when we saw her last at the garden-gate, parting with her two scholars after their first Sunday together. They have had a great many afternoons in company since then.

Grace had remained in her summer home all through the long Scotch winter, and now autumn had come, bringing with it her brother Walter on a delightful holiday of six weeks, after an absence of years.

Miss Hume had got so frail the previous year, that she was unfit for the return journey to her house in Edinburgh, and the following months had only brought an increase of weakness. She now lay in her darkened room, with, her flickering lamp of life burning slowly to its socket, while some young lives beside her were being kindled by glowing fires which would cause their hearts to burn long after the "glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay."

The little company in the still-room had somewhat increased, four others haying been added to the two first scholars. One of them was Elsie Gray, the forester's daughter, a pretty little girl with a sweet voice, and able to sing a great many hymns, so that Grace had no longer to perform solos to the still-room audience, but was accompanied by more than one voice timidly following Elsie's example, and joining in the singing.

There were three other scholars from the borders of the next parish, and a very happy party they all made together. But it must be confessed that the warmest place in Grace's heart was reserved for the first scholar whom she had found that chilly spring day among the pasture lands which sloped down to the little stream. Judged by an educational standard, Geordie was certainly, with the exception of the little Jean, the most deficient of the company, in spite of his having manfully conquered the last pages of the "Third Primer," and got at last "intil the Bible."

The other boys and girls still attended the parish school on week days, and seemed more or less very fairly in possession of the rudiments of education. Some things, however, which they read and heard in the little quiet room at Kirklands sank into their hearts as they had never done when they read them as the stereotyped portion of the Bible-reading lesson amid the mingled jangle of slates and pencils and pattering feet, with the hum of rough northern tongues, which prevailed in the parish school-room.

To Geordie even this discordant medium of education had been denied.

Grace had set her heart on having him sent to school during the past winter. She saw what a precious boon such an opportunity appeared in Geordie's eyes when she suggested it to him. But Farmer Gowrie had to be consulted, and finding the herd-boy useful in winter as well as during the summer months, he decided that he could not possibly spare Geordie.

And as for Granny Baxter, she could not understand what anybody could want with more learning who was, able to earn money. So Geordie had one day lingered behind the other scholars to tell Grace that the idea of going to school even during the winter quarter must be given up. There was always a manly reticence about the boy which made one feel that words of sympathy would be patronising; but Grace could see what a bitter disappointment it was, though he appeared quite unalterable in his decision that he "belonged to Gowrie," when Grace tried to arrange the matter by an interview with the farmer. He could only claim the boy week by week, and the young teacher did not see the necessity for such self-denial on Geordie's part.

Then Grace's store of pocket-money had been devoted to sending little Jean to school. This arrangement had been a source of great delight to Geordie--much more of an event to him, indeed, than to the phlegmatic little Jean, to whom the primer did not contain such precious possibilities as it did to her brother's eyes. Grace had arranged that she should go to a girls' school lately opened in the parish. It was the one to which Elsie Gray, the forester's daughter, went. On her way to school she had to pa.s.s Granny Baxter's cottage, and after Jean was installed as her fellow-scholar, Elsie used generally to call and see if the little girl was ready to start, so that they might walk along the road together.

Elsie was a pale, fragile-looking girl, who looked as if she had grown among crowded streets, rather than blossomed in the open valley, with its flowing river and breezy hillsides. She was a very silent child, too, with a meek grace about all her movements; her large grey eyes shone out of her face with a luminous, dreamy light in them, which distressed her practical, rosy-faced mother, who used to say that she did not know where Elsie had come by "those ghaist-like eyes o' hers,"

and as for those washed-out cheeks, "there was no accountin' for them neither;" and the worthy matron would go on to narrate with what abundance and amplitude Elsie had been ministered to all her life; and yet Elsie glided about still and pale, with her large eyes s.h.i.+ning like precious stones, generally hungrily possessed by some book which she held in her hand. She had an insatiable appet.i.te for reading, and had long ago exhausted the juvenile library attached to the church, while the few books which comprised the forester's collection had been read and re-read by her many times. The farmer librarian, who remained half an hour after the congregation was dismissed on Sundays to dispense books for any that might wish them, in the room behind the church, had been obliged to give Elsie entrance to the shelves reserved for older people, after she had exhausted the youthful library. It is not to be supposed, however, that by this admission Elsie was allowed to plunge chartless into light literature. The shelves contained only books of the most sober kind, the lightest admixture being narratives of the persecutions of the Waldenses and stories of the Covenanting struggles.

These Elsie read and pondered with intense interest, interweaving the scenes in her imagination with the familiar places and people round her, and living a far-away dreamy life of her own in the forester's cozy little nest, while her active-minded, busy-fingered mother made her cheese and b.u.t.ter, and reared her poultry, and was withal so very capable of performing her own duties, that the forester sometimes ventured to think, when Mrs. Gray complained of Elsie's "handlessness,"

that seeing the mistress was so well able for "her own turn," it was fortunate his little daughter chanced to be of a more contemplative disposition.

Mrs. Gray had heard from Margery of the Sunday cla.s.s which her young mistress had opened at Kirklands, and though, as the forester's wife remarked, "Elsie had enough and to spare of schoolin' already," yet it would only be a suitable mark of respect to the lady of Kirklands to send her there on Sunday afternoons; and so it happened that Elsie became one of Grace's scholars, sitting in the little still-room on Sunday afternoons, her large tender eyes answering in sympathetic flashes as the young teacher talked with the little company of those wonderful days when the Son o Man lived upon the earth, or told them some story of the earlier times of the world, when G.o.d's voice was heard in the beautiful garden in the cool of the day, or when he guided his chosen people by signs and wonders.

In those days, however, the gospel tidings were not more to Elsie than many another pathetic story which she knew, and served simply as food for her imagination, though Grace's earnest words did throw a halo round the familiar incidents which the daily reading of a chapter in the New Testament had failed to do. Yet it was not till some of the sharp sorrows of life had fallen upon Elsie that those words which she heard in the still-room came with living power to her heart, and became to her a light in dark days, a joy in sorrowful times, which nothing was able to take away from her.

And this was the little girl who used to knock gently at the door of Granny Baxter's cottage every morning as she pa.s.sed along the road to school, arrayed in her pretty grey stuff frock, and with her snowy linen tippet and sun-bonnet. Sometimes she found little Jean's round smiling face peering against the peat-stack at the end of the cottage awaiting her coming, for a great friends.h.i.+p had sprung up between these two, though they were certainly very different in character. Elsie seemed to have a brooding protective care over the little unkempt Jean, exercising a sort of guardians.h.i.+p of her in the new life at school. She would often come to her rescue when Jean sat pouting over a blurred slate, en which she was helplessly trying to reproduce the figures on the blackboard, or give her timely aid amid the involvements of some question in the Shorter Catechism. It was Elsie who tied the bonnet-strings now, with more dexterous fingers than Geordie's, and performed many similar kindly offices besides; and little Jean was already learning from the forester's daughter many habits of tidiness which her poor, failing grandmother had not been capable of teaching her.

Sometimes, on their way from school, the girls would find Geordie perched on the paling of one of Gowrie's fields, while the cattle grazed within the fences, watching for their coming to enliven a lonely hour with their talk and news of school doings. His eye used to glisten with pride and pleasure as he watched the little Jean appear, carrying her books and slate, and already bearing many traces of civilising influences. And it is not to be wondered at if his eye rested with admiration sometimes on the sweet maiden, who was generally her companion, and that he learnt to watch eagerly for the first glimpse of the snowy sun-bonnet along the winding green lane which led from the girls' school to the high road. Sometimes Elsie used to bring one of her favourite books in her plaited-cord school-bag, and then the trio would sit in a shady corner, where Geordie's vigilant eye could still keep watch over his charge, while the little girl introduced her friends to some of the favourite scenes of her ideal world. Elsie seemed to understand, though she had never been told it in so many words, all about Geordie's intense desire for knowledge, and to appreciate his self-denial in remaining in his present post. And so it happened there grew up in her mind a tender sympathy for all that he had missed, side by side with an admiring belief in his character.

How many thoughts and ideas he surely must have, she used to think, after one of those meetings, when she took her solitary way home, after parting with Jean, and remembered Geordie's remarks, which seemed to throw new light on her favourite histories, and to touch with insight all that was most beautiful and true in them. Often Elsie used to delight the unvocal brother and sister by singing one of her hymns, which for days afterwards would echo in some "odd corner" of the lonely little herd-boy's brain. Sometimes, too, they discussed what they had been hearing on the previous Sunday at Kirklands; and Elsie always felt more interested in the lesson after hearing Geordie's gentle, reverent talk. And to Elsie, who had neither brother nor sister, there was an infinite charm in Geordie's devotion to his sister Jean, and his unwearied anxiety for her happiness. She noticed, too, the tender, chivalrous care with which he ministered to his old grandmother, never wearying of her selfish, querulous ways, and sacrificing himself to her smallest wishes.

So it happened that a warm friends.h.i.+p sprang up between those three who sat side by side in Grace Campbell's little school-room; and their daily lives had become pleasantly interwoven during these past months. To Jean, Elsie appeared the embodiment of all that was worthy of imitation, from her snowy sun-bonnet to her gentle voice, both seeming equally unattainable to the little girl. When Geordie returned to the village on Sat.u.r.day night, he used generally to hear from Jean some glowing narrative in Elsie's praise, to which Geordie's ears were quite wide open, though he sat bending over his books in the "ingle neuk" of the cottage kitchen.

When her idea of a winter at school had to be abandoned, Grace gave him a few helpful cla.s.s-books, and tried to direct his efforts to learn as much as was possible; but, during the past year, her aunt's increasing weakness and dependence on her companions.h.i.+p made it impossible for Grace to give the boy such practical help as she would fain have done.

But Geordie had been fighting his own battle manfully, and had made more progress than Grace guessed.

Walter had first been telling her as they walked on the terrace together, that the day before he had found Geordie busy with a geography book as he tended his cattle, and how pleased he had been to hear about the new lands Walter had seen. Like Elsie, Walter felt that, in Geordie's mind, things seemed to gather a richness and an interest with which his own impressions had not clothed them.

"You've no idea how many queer questions the fellow asked me about everything," continued Walter. "Indeed, Grace, I couldn't help thinking how much more good Geordie would have got out of all the things and places I've seen since I went away, than I have. And yet he's much too clever for a sailor's life. What can we do with him, Grace? I really can't bear to think of his drudging on as a farm servant to old Gowrie, though he seems quite contented with the prospect," and Walter turned to Grace, who glanced at her brother's kindly face with pleasure, though not unmixed with surprise, that he should take such an interest in her Sunday-scholar.

Walter seemed to look on Grace's cla.s.s rather in a humorous light when he first heard of its existence on his return to Kirklands. And presently he had begun to grudge that she should devote herself to it, and thus deprive him of the pleasure of her society during the long Sunday afternoons, when they used to be together in the old days. And, in the midst of all her joy in having her brother with her again, Grace had been feeling with sadness that there was as yet no response in Walter's heart to those unseen, eternal things, which, in her efforts to share them with the little company on Sunday, had become increasingly vivid to her own mind. He used occasionally to rally her on her new fancies, which he seemed to think quite harmless and suitable for a girl, provided they did not cross his plans and fancies.

One day, when he was on his way to fish, he had happened to meet Geordie, who was herding his cattle near the stepping-stones. Geordie was a clever angler, and could wile more trout out of the river than most people, and Walter had been delighted with his information as to the fis.h.i.+ng capabilities of the Kirklands river. Since that day they had always been friends when they chanced to meet. Walter could never see the sun-bleached locks gleaming in the distance without crossing whatever gate or field happened to lie between, and going to have a talk with him; so the boys had seen much more of each other than Grace knew.

She had often been obliged to leave "Walter to solitary rambles, owing to her aunt's, increasing dependence on her during her long illness, so it happened that she felt some surprise when she saw Walter more moved than was his wont as he eagerly discussed plans for helping Geordie.

"I'll tell you what it is, Gracie," said Walter, in his blunt way, as his quick eye detected Grace's slight surprise that he should have so warmly espoused the cause of her Sunday-scholar. "You know I have seen Geordie a good deal lately. We have had a lot of fis.h.i.+ng talk, and all that, and I like the chap--he's a first-rate fellow. I can't bear to see a fellow so much better than myself trudging away behind those beasts of Gowrie's day after day. And, besides, Grace, the fact is I owe him something more than anything I may be able to do for him can ever repay. It isn't every fellow, I can tell you, who would have had the courage to say to me what he did," stammered Walter.

"What did he say, Walter?" asked Grace, more astonished than ever. "I thought you hardly knew more of Geordie Baxter than his name. You know he is my favourite scholar. But it is a long time since I have had a quiet talk with him. I well remember the first conversation we had, standing on the stepping-stones near that bend of the river where the birches grow."

"Ah, yes, I know the place. It's curious, it was just about that very spot I was going to tell you. I met him there, one day, not long ago, and he happened to say that he had been asking Gowrie to stop sending the cattle to that bit of pasture, because the stepping-stones made it a thoroughfare, and that bull had been getting more savage lately, and he could not always persuade people that it was dangerous to pa.s.s near him; but Gowrie had said it was nonsense, and so forth. Well, you see, I'm not very fond of old Gowrie, and when I saw how meekly Geordie submitted to him, I felt provoked, and began to speak a little strongly, as we middies sometimes do--swore, in fact. And if Geordie didn't make me feel more ashamed of myself than ever I did in my life. You've tried your hand on me before now, Gracie, and I'm sure you'll be glad to hear--well, that I'm going to try to lead a very different life now."

Walter's voice faltered, and Grace looked at him with glistening eyes.

After a few moments' silence, she said, "But Walter, dear, you haven't told me yet what Geordie said."

"Well, Grace, I hardly think I should like to tell you all he said. But he came, and laying his hand on my shoulder, looked at me with those earnest eyes of his. 'You've been very kind to me, Maister Campbell,' he began, 'and it would be ill-done no to min' ye that ye are giving a sore heart to your best Friend ye have by takin' his dear name in vain,' and then he said a little more about it. I was so taken aback, Grace, I could hardly believe my own ears. It must have required a lot of downright courage to speak like that; there isn't a mid in all our crew who would have ventured to do so. And yet I dare say I'm in for something of the same kind when I go back again to the s.h.i.+p. For you know I must be a 'good soldier,' Grace," added Walter, with a gentle, fearless look in his eyes that carried Grace's thoughts back to an early scene, when she stood in the crowded street in her nurse's hand, and watched her father's face as he rode alongside his men to his last battle. And as she looked at Walter's face, she remembered some old words which say, "He that ruleth his spirit is better than he that taketh a city;" and she lifted up her heart, and gave G.o.d thanks that this young spirit, so dear and precious to her, had taken him for his Leader and Lord.

CHAPTER V.

HOW GEORDIE'S HERDING DAYS CAME TO AN END.

It was a lovely autumn evening. The valley of Kirklands lay flooded in the sunset glow. Its yellowing fields were tinged with warm-crimson and purple, and the golden light s.h.i.+mmered on the trees and fringed the dark fir tops. Never had her home looked more beautiful, Grace thought, when, at last, the brother and sister turned to go indoors, after their earnest talk. She stood leaning on the old carved railing of the steps, taking one more glance at the peaceful scene before she followed Walter into the darkening entrance-hall, when her eye caught sight of a stumpy figure which she thought she recognised.

It was little Jean Baxter, who hurried along the elm avenue as fast as her short legs could carry her. She looked breathless and excited, and when she came nearer Grace saw that she was tearful and dishevelled. She hastened down the steps to meet her, wondering what childish grief could be agitating the mind of the usually imperturbable little Jean.

When she caught eight of Grace, she threw up her arms with a loud, bitter wail that rang among the old elms, echoing through their arching branches, and startling the birds that had just gone to roost. "Oh, Miss Cam'ell! Geordie, Geordie!--he's hurt; he's dyin'; Blackie's gotten hold o' him."

It was vain to ask anything more. Jean could only repeat her wailing refrain, so taking the child's hand, Grace quietly asked her to lead the way to where Geordie was, trying to quiet her bitter weeping by such soothing words as she could muster in the midst of her own distress at the possibility of any serious accident having happened to her favourite scholar. But poor little Jean's sad monotone still rang mournfully through the soft evening air as she trotted along by Grace's side--"Geordie's dyin'; Blackie's got hold o' him."