Allison Bain; Or, By a Way She Knew Not

by Margaret M. Robertson

It was astonishing to herself when she considered the matter, how many of the lady’s thoughts were given to this stranger.

“We are curious creatures,” she mused. “It is little to my own credit to say it, but I doubt if this Allison had been just a decent, plain lass like Kirstin, I might have been left to overlook her and her sorrows, though I might have helped her when I knew her need. I will bide my time, and when it comes I will do what I can for Allison Bain, whatever her need may be.”

Almost every week Marjorie spent a day at Firhill, and she was usually carried there, or home again, in the arms of Allison; but there could be no lingering there because of all that was to be done at home. Marjorie needed no one to stay with her. If it were “a garden day,” as she called it when it was fair and the wind blew softly, she was content to be quite alone for hours together. She could be trusted to walk no farther and make no greater exertion than was good for her.

In the house she had a book, or her doll, or the stocking she was knitting, to pass the time. In the garden she did not need these. She had the flowers first of all, the trees and the changing sky, the bees and the birds. The crows, which came and conversed together on the great firs beyond the wall, had much to say to her as well as to one another. She put their speech into words for her own pleasure, and looked with their eyes on the distant hilltops and into the valleys between, and saw what they saw there. A late laverock springing up now and then thrilled her with his song and set her singing also, or the cooing of the doves soothed her to peaceful slumber and happy dreams.

But there came a day when all did not go so well with the child. The sky was overcast and rain threatened; and Marjorie fretted and was “ill to do with,” while her mother hesitated as to the propriety of her going to Firhill. The coming of the pony carriage decided the matter, however, and the child went away, a little ashamed of herself, but never doubting that all would be as usual when she reached the garden.

But she did not have a happy day. The weather was warm and close, and as the afternoon wore on the sky darkened, so that it was gloomy even in the garden, and a sudden pang of homesickness smote the child when they carried her into the deeper gloom of the house. She struggled bravely against it for a while, telling herself how foolish she was, and how ungrateful Mrs Esselmont would think her if she were to cry, or even seem to wish to go home before the time.

Poor little girl! She was ill and uncomfortable, and did not know it. She thought herself only naughty and ungrateful; and when she could no longer keep back her tears, and in spite of a determination not to do so, cried out that she wanted her mother, she believed that the end of her happy days had come.

Into the confusion which all this caused, Allison came, earlier than usual, in the hope of getting the child home before the rain. At the sight of her, Marjorie’s tears flowed faster than ever, but not for long. Allison’s touch, and her firm and gentle words, soothed and quieted her. The broth which she had refused at dinner was brought her, and was eaten, and the worst was over.

But the rain was falling in torrents by this time, and while they waited, Marjorie fell asleep in Allison’s arms.

It had not been a very good day for Mrs Esselmont. She was not strong, the heat and gloom had depressed her, and she sighed now and then as she sat beside Allison and the child in the darkening room. Allison wondered whether she had any new sorrow to trouble her.