Morag Part 8

The keeper had gone to loose the dogs, to take them for a long walk, which he always did on Sunday. He was not a frequenter of the little kirk in the village, and somewhat disliked the cessation from his ordinary work which the day of rest imposed. This morning he had gone off in one of his darkest moods. Morag was used to his periods of grim silence; but, of this one, she thought that she could trace the cause, and she pondered ruefully over the utter failure of the wee leddy's sanguine plan for softening the keeper's heart towards Kirsty. The story of the visit to the cottage, and her share in it, had been narrated on the previous evening to her father without any other result than a bitter sneer, as he said, "Ye did weel, Morag, my la.s.s, no to darken Kirsty Macpherson's door; and gin ye be yer ain frien', ye'll jist better keep that chatterin' bit leddy outby."

Morag felt as if she had received a blow, but there still remained one other arrow in her quiver, and she drew it at a venture. "But, father, though I didna speak wi' Kirsty, I couldna shut my ears when she was speakin', ye see. I hae a bit o' a message for ye frae her--I'm thinkin'

I min' upon ilka word that she said--this was it: 'Will ye tell Alaster Dingwall that auld Kirsty is willin' to forgie him?' There was some more I'm thinkin', but I didna hear right," she added in low, troubled tones, lowering her eyelashes, and not daring to look into her father's face.

He was smoking his pipe at the time, and he sat gazing gloomily into the red embers on the hearth till he had finished. Morag knew that he had come in for the night, so she was not a little surprised to see him refill his pipe again and prepare to go out; but he gave no explanation, so she did not venture to ask any questions. It was a fine moonlight night; Morag came to the door of the hut, and stood watching him as he sauntered slowly down the hill, and went in the direction of a larch plantation, some distance off, which looked pale and shadowy in the clear s.h.i.+mmering light, with its background of dark fir-trees that stretched beyond.

These larches were young seventeen years ago, when Dingwall had known the place well; and a crowd of strange memories, conjured up by Morag's random shot, drew him towards it to-night. The little girl had sat watching and waiting by the whitening peat embers till she grew very sleepy; and before her father returned from his night walk, she crept away to bed.

So this bright Sunday morning opened very gloomily for the inmates of the hut among the crags. Morag had taken the old Bible from the depths of the _kist_, and it lay open before her on the turf, but somehow to-day she felt disinclined for the slow spelling of the words, and rather disheartened with her progress generally. She began to fear that her eye would never be able to go swiftly down the pages, understanding every word like her little teacher, or as Blanche had said, Kirsty was able to do; and then her thoughts went back to the events of yesterday.

How sorry the wee leddy would be to hear of the plan for melting the keeper's prejudice, and perhaps she might be angry and call her rude again the next time she refused to go into the cottage. It all seemed very hard, Morag thought; and, as she sat gazing up into the calm sky with its motionless clouds, she could not help thinking how very far away it seemed from her and her troubled ways. Presently these sad meditations were interrupted by the reappearance of her father, who, to her great surprise, seemed to be coming up the hill again, with the dogs all scrambling round him. He had only been gone a few minutes, and it was his custom to take a long walk, so Morag wondered what could have brought him back, but she did not venture to ask any questions. He seated himself on the turf beside her, and after playing with the dogs for a little, he glanced at her with a half smile, and said, hurriedly--

"Weel, Morag, la.s.s, is yer heid as sair turned as iver aboot that auld Kirsty Macpherson?"

"She looks a real nice old woman, father. I canna think why ye'll no let me speak wi' the like o' her. She surely canna be an ill woman, as ye think," returned Morag, emboldened by the smile on her father's face.

"Wha ever said she was an ill woman?" said the keeper, looking dark again, and ignoring all the bitter things which Morag had often heard him say concerning Kirsty. "We did ance quarrel, but I'll no say I wasna maist to blame. Gin Kirsty Macpherson speaks a ceevil word to ye agin, ye needna jist athegither haud yer tongue, la.s.s. D'ye understand, Morag?" asked the keeper, getting up from the turf as if he had said what was on his mind.

Morag could hardly believe her ears. She sat watching her father go down the hill again, as if she were in a dream. Presently an idea seemed to seize her, and she bounded off after him, and all trembling with eagerness, she said--

"Father, I'm feert Kirsty will be thinkin' me terrible rude for no speakin' yestreen. Would it anger ye if I jist ran past the cottage to see if she was outby? I needna speak gin she doesna, ye ken."

"Oh ay; ye can gang if ye like, la.s.s. I'm thinkin' that Kirsty is atween ye and yer wits, Morag," he added, smiling at the earnest face. "Jist tak a brace or twa o' the grouse hangin' there wi' ye. The auld wife will think mair o' them than us."

Morag was bounding back to the hut in wild delight, when her father called again, "Bide a wee, la.s.s. Ye mustna tak' the birds. I dinna think she would athegither like sic a present frae me."

Morag stood rather discomfited. The idea of a peace-offering had been very pleasant, and it was disappointing to be obliged to abandon it. She suddenly remembered the purple cl.u.s.ter of grapes which Mr. Clifford gave to her the day before. She had hidden it away as a delightful surprise for her father, during some period of to-day, and she said, doubtfully--

"I was keepin' some bonnie berries for ye that the maister gied me yestreen; but maybe ye wouldna min' if I gied them to Kirsty?"

"That'll do fine, my la.s.s," cried Dingwall, in his most good-humored tone, as he disappeared down the hill, surrounded by the scrambling pointers and setters.

In a very short time after, Morag might have been seen hovering near the little gate of Kirsty's cottage, with her peace-offering carefully balanced in her little brown hands. A few of the precious moments previous to setting out had been spent in performing a most careful toilette, and the opinion of a broken corner of the looking-gla.s.s was that the black locks had never looked so smooth and sleek before. Having scampered down the hill in a state of breathless excitement, she did not at first contemplate the bold step of entering the sacred precincts and knocking at Kirsty's door, as the wee leddy had done. She quite counted on seeing her "outby" somewhere, and she hung about on the roadside in that hope, but no Kirsty appeared. Then Morag remembered that it was Sunday, and she began to fear that the old woman might have gone to the kirk. The little girl felt bitterly disappointed; for she felt sure that this must be the case, since Kirsty was not visible anywhere, and no smoke came from the tiny chimney of the cottage. If she lost this opportunity, she might never have such another. What if her father changed his mind again? she thought. Indeed it seemed hardly possible to believe that she was here with his permission when she remembered his stern command on the previous evenings that she was never to darken Kirsty's door. At last, with exhausted patience, she resolved to take the bold step of entering the little gate and tapping at the door, for had she not a peace-offering?--and it was just possible that Kirsty might not have gone to the kirk after all.

Many a time in after years Morag Dingwall remembered that first knocking at Kirsty's door on the still Sunday morning, and smiled a quiet, thankful smile as the vision of the eager, breathless little girl, standing on the threshold of Life, rose before her in the shadowy distance of the Past.

The outer door stood open, but n.o.body answered the knock, though Morag fancied that she heard some movement within. The doors of both _but_ and _ben_ were closed, but she ventured to knock again, and this time a voice, which seemed to sound feebler than the old woman's did on the previous day, called "Come ben."

Morag obeyed the call, and at last stood inside the pretty cottage which she had so longed to see. The room looked as pretty as the wee leddy had described it, but the arm-chair at the ingle-neuk was empty, and there was not the faintest glow among the white peat embers on the hearth. The little girl looked round in dumb surprise, but presently a voice came from the bed in the dark-panelled wall, "Eh, la.s.sie, but is this you?

Ye're the keeper Dingwall's bairn 'at I saw yestreen--arna ye?" and Kirsty raised herself in bed, and holding out her hand, smiled kindly on the little Morag.

"Are ye no weel, Kirsty?" she asked, in low, sympathizing tones, as she drew near the bed.

"I'm nae jist verra weel the day. I had a bit blastie i' the nicht.

'Deed, bairn, I some thocht He was ga'en to tak' me hame til Himsel. An'

fat's brocht ye here the day, my la.s.sie?" said Kirsty, turning kindly to the shy little Morag, as she held her hand in her long thin fingers.

"I brought ye some bonnie berries the castle folk gied me yestreen.

Maybe ye'll tak' some," said the little girl, as she lifted the grapes from the table where she had laid them, and put them on the bed.

"Eh, bairn! but that was terrible mindfu' o' ye. They're richt bonnie graps, and will cool my mou'. 'Deed, they'll be the first thing I hae tasted the day." Morag felt immensely gratified when Kirsty plucked a grape from the purple cl.u.s.ter and put it into her parched mouth. She was now seated at Kirsty's bedside, by her invitation, and began, already, to feel quite happy and at home in this enchanted interior of her dreams.

"I'm richt glaid to see ye, Morag," said the old woman, smiling kindly on her. "The sicht o' a blythe young face does a body guid--and it's a rare ane to me, sin' mony a lang year," she said, sadly; and then, brightening, she added, "But we canna say we're unca lonesome, when we can hae a sicht o' His ain face, gin we lat Him in. Eh, bairn; but He's aye keepit His word wi' me. 'I'll no leave ye comfortless, I will come to ye,'" said Kirsty, as she closed her eyes and laid her head on her pillow again.

"Ye'll be meanin' the Lord Jesus, arna ye, Kirsty?" asked Morag, her face all quivering with eagerness. "Then He does come, efter a'?" she added, triumphantly. "The wee leddy o' the castle said how it wasna possible. I would like richt weel to see Him, mysel. He maun aye come i'

the nicht, surely, for I'll whiles be pa.s.sin' o' this road, and I never saw Him goin' inby."

Kirsty looked at the eager, young face, with a shade of perplexity in her calm, gray eyes. Morag noticed it, and felt a chill, but she would not give it up yet. "It will be the Lord Jesus who comes cheerin' ye when ye're feelin' some lonesome like, isna it, Kirsty?"

"Ay is't, my bairn. And He's willin' to come til ye, just the same.

It's ane o' His ain sweetest words, 'Suffer the children to come.'"

"But Miss Blanche says naebody iver saw Him, and that He doesna go aboot healin' and comfortin' folk, as He did lang syne. I dinna understan' it richt; for just the ither day she read til me i' the fir-wood that He cam' oot o' His grave efter wicked folk killed Him deid on the green hill, and was speakin' real kind to the woman that was cryin' inby there. I would like weel to see Him, Kirsty. I dinna think I would be feert."

"Eh, my bairn, but I see fat ye would be at, noo. But ye're jist for a'

the earth like the onbelievin' Thamas, that wouldna rest satisfeid till he pit his fingers intil His maister's verra side. We mauna forget that He says Himsel, 'Blessed are they who dinna see, and yet believe.'"

Kirsty's Biblical ill.u.s.tration was too much advanced to suit the little untaught maiden, but she gathered enough from it to begin to fear that the wee leddy must be right after all, and presently she said, in a mournful tone--

"Then, Kirsty, it's true that we canna see His face nor hear Him speakin' no more at all?"

"No wi' the eye o' sense, my bairn. 'The warl seeth me nae mair; but ye see me,' He says Himsel', and He aye keeps His word. Jist ye get a sight o' Him wi' the eye o' faith, bairn, and it will mak' ye rejoice and be glaid a' yer days;" and the old woman turned with a radiant smile to the little girl, who sat gazing wistfully, with folded hands.

It was evident that this good Lord was a real present person to Kirsty, however shadowy might be the conception which Morag could at present form of Him. But to understand in any degree that He was a real, present friend, though unseen, was more than Morag could know, just then.

The yellow autumn sun came streaming in at the little window, and shone on Kirsty's face, showing how wan and wearied it was after her sleepless night. Morag was full of motherly, ministering instincts, and it made her little heart ache to see the kind old woman look so ill and feeble.

Glancing at the cold hearth, she remembered, wondering how she could have been so long of thinking about it, that Kirsty could not have had any breakfast yet, and must be cold and faint for want of it.

"Wouldna ye be better wi' a cup o' tea, Kirsty? I'll jist licht a bit fire, and be puttin' the kettle on," said Morag, as she rose and began to break some dead branches which Kirsty's careful fingers had gathered in the gloaming on the evening before.

"'Deed, bairn, I would tak' it richt kin' o' ye," replied Kirsty, who had always the good grace to receive a favor simply.

The branches soon began to crackle merrily, the peats caught the glow, and the kettle commenced to sing in the midst of the cheerful blaze.

Morag moved quietly about, filled with contentment that she was able to be of use to Kirsty. She had shut her eyes, and was lying quietly, so Morag did not trouble her with questions, but seemed to know by instinct where all the component parts of a cup of tea were to be gathered. When Kirsty opened her eyes again, it was to see the little maiden standing by her bedside with the restoring beverage all ready, and a bit of beautiful toasted bread into the bargain.

"Eh, but it's unca kin' to be comin' ministerin' til an auld body like me," said the old woman, as she sat up in bed. "But winna yer faither be wonderin' what's come ower ye? ye mauna anger him, ye ken."

"Wha wad hae thocht that Alaster Dingwall's bairn would be makin' a cup o' tay til auld Kirsty?" continued the old woman in a soliloquy, as Morag washed the cup and plate when she had finished her breakfast, and replaced them among the rows of s.h.i.+ning delf. How very clean and pretty they looked, Morag thought; and she resolved that she would immediately arrange the slender stock of unbroken dishes belonging to the hut after the same fas.h.i.+on, and make them look bright and s.h.i.+ning too. Then she proceeded to build up the fire with skilful fingers, and surveyed the room, with a thoughtful air, to see what the possible wants for the day might be. The pitcher which held the supply of water was almost empty, so Morag ran quickly down to the spring under the tree, and brought it back refilled, and then she poured some into a cup and set it by Kirsty's bed. "Thank ye kindly, bairn. The Lord reward ye for yer helpin' o' an auld frail craeter. Afore ye gang, wad ye jist rax me that Bible, an' maybe ye wad read a bittie til me; my eyes are some dim the day?"

"I would be richt glaid to read to ye, Kirsty, but I canna read ony,"

replied Morag, sadly, with an ashamed look; and then she added, "the wee leddy's been tryin' to learn me, though, and maybe I'll be fit to read to ye some day, but it'll no be for a lang time yet, I'm thinkin'."

"Eh, my puir bairn, I never thocht but ye could read. 'Deed it was ill dune o' the keeper nae to sen' ye til the schule," remarked Kirsty, in a more severe tone than she generally used.

"How could he sen' me til the schule, and it such a lang road frae this,--and him aye needin' me forby," replied Morag, kindling up in her absent parent's defence.

"Weel, weel, bairn; maybe I shouldna hae been judgin'. We're a' ready eneuf at that. But gin ye'll come to see me, whiles, when I'm a bit stronger like, I'll gie ye a' the help wi' the reading 'at I can. I've a gey curran buiks there."

"I'll be real glaid to come back and see ye, and I'm thinkin' father will no hinder me, noo. I maun be goin' hame, but I'll try and get back the morn, to speir how ye're keepin'. I'm real sorry to leave ye yer lone, Kirsty," said Morag, pityingly, as she glanced at the lonely, frail old woman. Then she remembered what Kirsty said about not being lonesome when the Lord Jesus was with her, and she added, "I'm thinkin'