Morag Part 10

"Is Kirsty Macpherson your grandmother?" said Morag in a surprised tone, raising her downcast eyes, and looking at Kenneth. "She never telt me about ye," she added, musingly.

They had now reached the spring, and Kenneth having quickly filled his pitcher, and looking gratefully at Morag, turned to retrace his steps in the direction of the tent.

The little girl ran on eagerly, more anxious than ever to fulfil her mission. Emerging from the forest at last, she crossed a small hillock, and came down at the back of Kirsty's cottage. She found the old woman seated at the door, knitting busily, as she watched the sunset. The amber clouds were beginning to gather round the dying sun, and Kirsty sat watching the cloudland scene with a far-away look in her tranquil gray eyes.

"Na! but is this you, my dawtie? I'm richt glad to see ye. I some thocht ye might be the nicht; but how cam' ye roun' by the back o' the hoose?" asked Kirsty, smiling as she welcomed her little friend, when she appeared round the gable of the cottage.

Instead of answering her question, Morag asked, hurriedly, "Kirsty, will ye be fit for a good bit o' a walk the nicht, think ye?"

"Weel, bairn, I wouldna min' a bittie, in this bonnie gloamin'; but I'll no say I'll gang sae fast or sae far as I ance could hae done," replied the old woman, smiling at Morag's breathless eagerness.

"D'ye think ye could gang as far as the other end o' the fir-wood, Kirsty?"

"Na, bairn; but I'm thinkin' ye're makin' a fule o' me the nicht. Ye ken brawly I hinna gaen that length this mony a day," said Kirsty, looking up with a shade of irritation in her calm face at the thoughtlessness of her usually considerate little friend.

"Weel, Kirsty, I'm thinkin' ye'll need to try it the nicht. There's somebody lyin' there that's terrible anxious to see ye." Morag's voice trembled, as she continued, "I've a message for ye, Kirsty. Your ain lost Kenneth's wife is lyin' i' the firwood, and wants to see ye afore she dees!"

For a moment Kirsty looked bewildered; but there was no mistaking the slowly spoken words of the message. Presently she held out her hand to Morag to help her from her low seat, with a sigh; and, leaning against the door, she stood thinking. Her usually calm eyes looked hungrily at the little messenger, and her voice sounded faint and hollow as she asked, "Is he there himsel?" And then she added, shaking her head, mournfully, "Na, it couldna be; he would hae come til his mither surely."

"There is a Kenneth, but I'm thinkin' he's no yer ain, Kirsty," replied Morag, with a pitying glance at the poor mother's yearning face.

"Tak' me til her, Morag. Kenneth's wife!--she's dyin' i' the fir-wood!

The Lord grant me the strength to gang." And the old woman laid her trembling hand on the little girl's shoulder as she moved to go.

Very soon they were toiling across the hillock together, and not till they were far into the forest was the silence broken.

Meanwhile, Blanche had seated herself on the grey d.y.k.e, and was keeping watch beside the sick woman. It was a strange vigil to keep, alone in the darkening fir-wood, beside this tossing, wild-eyed, dying woman; but, somehow, Blanche did not feel frightened in the least degree. Since she had taken her post, it began to seem the most natural thing in the world that she should be there. The sick woman took no notice of the little girl for some time, and, indeed, seemed hardly aware of her presence, till, turning round suddenly, she saw her seated there, her fair curls gleaming in the half darkness. She looked at her restlessly for a little, and said presently, "How came you here, my pretty dear.

You're surely far from home. Will your mamma not be getting anxious about you? It seems so dark in that wood."

"I haven't got a mamma," replied Blanche, vivaciously. "Miss Prosser will be cross, I daresay; but I don't think she'll mind when I explain.

I'm sure Morag won't be longer than she can help in bringing in Kirsty,"

added Blanche in a comforting tone, for she noticed that the weary eyes wandered restlessly toward the entrance of the tent.

Presently a terrible fit of a breathlessness came on, and the poor woman sank back exhausted on her hard stone pillow when it was over. Blanche gazed pityingly at the sufferer, and longed for the morrow, when she meant to return with various needful comforts. She had made up her mind to enlist Mrs. Worthy's sympathy, believing her to be more amiable than Ellis.

Meanwhile, she took off her soft jacket, and folding it, she slipped it under the poor restless head on the hard stone. The sick woman noticed the pleasant change, and smiled gratefully. And as Blanche looked at her, she thought how pretty she must once have been, before the cheeks had got so hollow, and the eyes so sunken.

It was beginning to get very dark within the tent, and Blanche was not sorry to see Kenneth make his appearance with his pitcher filled with clear water from the spring. The sick woman seemed greatly refreshed by the draught, which she drank eagerly. But presently, she began to get very restless, and kept moaning, "Kenny! Kenny! are they not within sight yet? It's so long since that little girl went away."

At last, after Kenneth had drawn aside the tartan folds several times, he brought back the news that the little girl and an old bent woman were coming through the trees.

"Oh, it's all right!--Kirsty and Morag--here they come!" cried Blanche, joyfully, as she sprung out to meet them, saying eagerly to Kirsty, "Do come quickly; she's so very anxious to see you, Kirsty!"

The old woman made no reply, but walked silently towards the tent, looking intently at Kenneth, who stood in front of it. "My ain Kenneth's bairn," she murmured, as she laid her trembling hand on his head. Morag heard him say, "Grandmother, we've found you at last! Mother will be so glad!" and he led her to where the dying woman lay, and the tartan folds shut them out from sight.

In the meantime, two figures might be seen wandering through the forest, searching hither and thither in all directions. They were Ellis and the keeper, who had started in company to look for the missing girls.

Blanche's maid was in a state of high nervous agitation concerning her little mistress. She had been consigning her to various imaginary harrowing fates since she left the castle in search of her, but the keeper had smiled his grim smile, and a.s.sured her that girls were like kittens, and had nine lives. Nevertheless, he too began to feel rather anxious about them, after he had reluctantly led the way to Kirsty's cottage, where he expected to find them safely housed; but, to his surprise, they found it quite tenantless. Ellis began to wring her hands in despair when she detected a shade of anxiety on the keeper's face, after the neighborhood of the cottage had been searched without any result. Then Dingwall decided that the fir-wood must be thoroughly explored, for he knew that it was one of Morag's favorite haunts. They wandered on, searching everywhere, till at last the keeper's keen eye discovered, through the fir-trees, the dark tent resting against the old d.y.k.e, with its back-ground of pale larches. He began to feel rather uneasy, and to wish that he had brought some defensive weapon with him, for there was no trace of the girls, and it was more than likely they had been picked up by the gypsies, and sharp measures might be necessary for their recovery. He did not, however, confide his fears to Ellis, but went forward to take a nearer inspection of the encampment.

Meanwhile, the little girls were hovering about the tent, wondering what would happen next. Morag had quite made up her mind that the wee leddy must instantly be conducted homewards, and was relieved to find that she was not unwilling to go--the reason being that Blanche was full of hospitable ideas concerning the dwellers under the tartan, and she felt impatient to get home again to enlist all the sympathy possible in their favor.

Morag, before starting for the castle, had gone to reconnoitre a little round the tent, to try to find an opportunity of whispering to Kirsty that she would return presently, provided her father would allow her.

Just at that moment, Blanche spied Ellis and the keeper hovering about among the trees, and ran forward to meet them.

Ellis's anxiety immediately changed to indignation when she perceived that her little mistress was safe and sound, and she was about to break forth in angry words of remonstrance when Blanche held up a warning finger and pointed to the tent, which the little fire within was making more visible in the darkness.

"Gypsies, I declare!" shrieked Ellis. "You've been kidnapped. We're just in time to save her!" she added, wringing her hands, and turning to the keeper, who in his turn began to feel a shade of anxiety regarding his Morag, as she was nowhere visible.

"Hush, Ellis; they aren't gypsies a bit. There is a very sick woman lying there--dying, she says, but I hope she isn't quite that. They are strangers, and have come a long way."

"Didn't I tell you? They always come from the hends of the earth.

Gypsies, as sure's my name's Ellis. Are you kidnapped, missie--tell me now?" But Blanche appeared still in possession of a wonderful amount of freedom, and glanced with an amused smile at the keeper as she listened to her maid's suggestions. So Ellis continued, in an angry tone--

"What have you ever been about so long, missie? Miss Prosser's well-nigh into a fit about you, and Mrs. Worthy says she can't sit two minutes in one place for anxiety. And there's cook, as declares she has miscooked master's dinner for the first time in her life--all on account of her hagitation concernin' you." And Ellis went on to give a chronicle of the various distracted feelings of each separate member of the household.

"Has papa come home, then? and what did he say about my being so late?"

interposed Blanche at last.

"Oh, well, you see the master is a quiet gentleman, and never does make much ado," replied Ellis, rather crestfallen that she had nothing sensational to narrate from that quarter. "But he said we would be sure to find you at that old woman what's-her-name's cottage, where you're so fond of going to; and you see we didn't. Really, missie, it's too bad!

I'm near wore off my feet between the fear and the draggin' after you.

I only hope you won't be let go out at the door again without Miss Prosser--that's all I've got to say."

Blanche hoped it was, but she feared not. She had a painful consciousness that she was jacketless, and felt certain that, sooner or later, that fact would be discovered and inquired into.

Meanwhile, Morag joined them, not having been able to get a word with Kirsty, though she could hear her voice mingle soothingly with the eager, gasping tones of the dying woman, who appeared to have a great deal to say to this long-sought friend. Morag seemed to feel more relief than alarm at the sight of Ellis in possession of her little charge. But when she discovered her father's tall form leaning against one of her pillars of fir, she started, and looked nervously towards the tent. The keeper accosted her rather sternly, saying, "I wonder at ye, Morag. I thocht ye had mair wit--takin' up wi' a set o' tinkers, and bidin' oot so lang, forby."

Morag did not venture to explain the cause of their delay, nor did she mention that Kirsty Macpherson was so near at hand. She observed that, though her father seemed quite willing now that she should go to see the old woman, yet he evidently wished to avoid meeting her; and Morag felt sure that to disclose the fact that Kirsty was one of the alleged tinkers within the tartan folds, would not help to smooth matters.

"Missie! wherever is your jacket?--well, I never!" screamed the maid, with uplifted hands, when, for the first time, she observed the absence of that garment.

"My jacket? Oh, never mind, Ellis; it isn't cold," replied Blanche, looking rather uneasy, but attempting to a.s.sume a careless tone.

"Never mind! Did I ever know the like? Where's your jacket, missie? I insist on knowing!" screeched the excited Ellis. "Stolen by them vagrants you've been a-takin' up with, I'll be bound," and the maid looked at the keeper, as if she thought he ought to take immediate steps towards the recovery of the stolen property.

Morag glanced anxiously at Blanche. She did not know what had become of the missing jacket, and she began to wonder whether it could have been dropped in their flight from the supposed dangerous gypsy. She was about to suggest that she might go to look for it, when the indignant Ellis continued--

"Well, keeper, what _is_ to be done? You see Miss Blanche doesn't even deny that they've stolen her jacket--her beautiful ermine one, too. I gave it her on because she sneezed this morning. Pity there isn't a policeman to set at them," snorted Ellis, in great wrath, as she glanced at the keeper, who stood stolid and immovable, looking at Blanche.

The little lady began to feel at bay, and, being again challenged by her maid to tell what had become of the missing garment, she planted herself against a fir-tree, and flinging back her curls, she folded her arms, saying in a dramatic tone--

"Now, Ellis, listen! I'd rather suffer all the tortures we read of yesterday at Kirsty's, in Foxe's Book of Martyrs, than tell you where that jacket is!"

Morag had been about to expostulate with the wee leddy; but now she felt much too awed to utter a word. As she stood gazing at her, the fir-tree was immediately transformed in her imagination to a stake, and visions of lighted f.a.ggots and rising flames coursed through her brain. Ellis, too, seemed rather impressed, and Blanche took advantage of her position to remark in her most imperious tone, as she quitted her dramatic pose, "Now, Ellis, if you say another word about that jacket, I shan't go home with you a step. Perhaps to-morrow I may tell you what has become of it," she added, bending her head graciously, as she volunteered to start for home under these conditions.

At this juncture, Kirsty suddenly emerged from the tartan folds. She had been reminded that the little girls still waited by hearing the sound of voices, and she came now to urge them to return home at once.

The moon was now giving a clear, plentiful light. It shone on Kirsty's placid face, and showed her another face which she had not looked on for many a year, and it seemed strange that she should see it to-night. The keeper looked as much startled as if he had seen a ghost, when the old woman moved slowly towards him, and holding out her hand, said, solemnly, "Alaster Dingwall, is that you?" and still holding his hand, she added, "Weel do I min' the nicht I saw ye last. But come ben, and hear o' the goodness o' the Lord frae this dyin' woman. Eh! but He's slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy. The soul o' my lang-lost Kenneth is safe wi' Himsel'. He has granted me the desire o' my hert. Com ben, and see Kenneth's wife!"

Dingwall's usually inflexible face showed traces of strong emotion as he listened to Kirsty. He made no reply, but was about to follow her into the tent, when Ellis, more mystified than ever by these strange dealings with these disreputable gypsies, who had already given her so much trouble that afternoon, shouted in angry tones, "Well, keeper, if you're going to stay in this wood longer, I'm not. Come along, missie, we must find our own way as best we can." And without waiting for a reply, the indignant maid hurried off with her reluctant charge.