Allison Bain; Or, By a Way She Knew Not

by Margaret M. Robertson

“Have they been long dead?” asked Mrs Esselmont gently.

“A long while it seems—but it is not so very long. There was little time between them, and all things seemed to come to an end when they were gone.”

Mrs Esselmont listened in wonder to the low, pathetic voice which told her this. Was this the girl who had never spoken of her past life in the hearing of any one—who had never named father or mother or home, except perhaps to little Marjorie? Mrs Esselmont was a wise woman. She would have liked well to hear more, but she asked no question to startle her into silence again. After a little she said:

“They were happy in having a loving daughter to close their eyes.” And she sighed, thinking of her own dearest daughter who was faraway.

Marjorie stirred in Allison’s arms, and there was no need to answer. By and by Jack came with the lantern, and it was time to go home.

After this, in their brief intercourse—during a few minutes in the garden, or by the parlour fire, while the child was being wrapped up to go home—Mrs Esselmont had many a quiet word with Marjorie’s faithful nurse and friend, and their friendship grew slowly but surely. Allison’s revelation of herself, and of her past life, was for the most part quite unconsciously made. Mrs Esselmont listened and made no comments; but in her own thoughts, when she “put this and that together,” she owned that not often in the course of a long life had she come into contact with one in whose character, strength and gentleness, firmness and patience, were more happily combined. Without being aware of it, she was beginning to regard this strong and silent young woman not as a mere maid-servant in the manse, who came and went, and worked for wages like the rest, but as one who, for reasons not to be revealed, had chosen, or had been forced by an untoward fate, to begin a new life in a sphere in which she had not been born. But much as she desired to know more about her, she waited for Allison herself to speak.

Summer passed all too quickly and the “dowie fall o’ the year” was drawing on. There was no more going through the lanes to follow or to flit the cows for Marjorie. The harvest was over, and the patient creatures had the range of all the narrow fields, and cripple Sandy had leisure to do his duty toward them without the help of any one. But whenever a bright day came, or even a gleam of sunshine when the day was dark, the child had still a turn in the lanes, or round the garden in Allison’s arms. All the days were busy days, but none of them were so full of work or care as to hinder Allison in this labour of love, which indeed was as good for herself as for Marjorie.

For there were times as the days began to grow dark and short when Allison needed all the help which her love for the child could give her to keep her thoughts from the cares and fears which pressed upon her. No word came from Willie, though she had written to Mr Hadden to tell him that her brother was free, and that she hoped he would soon be in America, and that he might safely write to her now.

It was time for a letter unless Willie had lingered longer at home than he had promised. Was he there still? or had any ill happened to him? She could wait with patience for the sight of him, even for years, if she could but be sure that he was safe and well. And she could only strive to wait with patience whether she heard or not.

She was saying something like this to herself as she sat in the silent house one night, when the kitchen-door opened and Saunners Crombie came in. The minister was not at home, and Mrs Hume, who was not very well, was up-stairs with her little daughter. All this Allison told him, and asked him to sit down, with no thought that he would do so, for few words had ever passed between them. He sat down, however, and leaned over the fire with his hands spread out, for “the nicht was cauld,” he said.