Allison Bain; Or, By a Way She Knew Not

by Margaret M. Robertson

They were rather rough lads some of those who came, but they were mostly “laddies weel brocht up,” and rarely was there a word uttered among them which it would have harmed the youngest child to hear. There was Scotch of the broadest in their songs and in their talk, and the manse boys, who were expected to speak English in the presence of their father and mother, among their companions made the most of their opportunities for the use of their own more expressive tongue. But there was no vulgarity or coarseness in their talk.

As silent here as elsewhere, the presence of “the new lass,” as the visitors, long accustomed to old Kirstin, called her, did not interfere in the least with the order of things. She might have been blind or deaf for all the difference it made to them, and, except on the rare occasions when little Marjorie was permitted to be there, for all the difference their coming made to her. When Marjorie was there, Allison’s wheel, or the stocking she was knitting, was put aside, and the child rested at ease and content in her arms. No one of them all took more pleasure at such times than Marjorie. She liked the stories and the songs and the quaint old ballads, of which Robin and some of the others had a store, and she was a sympathetic little creature, and could not be happy unless Allie enjoyed them also, so her attention was never allowed to wander when the child’s hand could touch her cheek.

But better than either song or story, Marjorie liked to hear about all that was going on in the town. Nothing came amiss to her that any one had to tell. She liked to hear about their neighbours, and the bairns, their goings and comings, their sickness and recovery. Even their new gowns and their visits to one another interested the friendly little child, who could not visit herself, nor wear new gowns, and the lad who had the most to say about them all was the one who pleased her best. All they used to tell her made her a little sad sometimes, for she could not come and go, or run and play, as those happy children could, and her chief desire was to be strong and well and “to go about on her own feet like other folk.”

January was nearly over before there came any frost to speak of, and the first bright, sharp weather, it was said, did much good to the sick folk in the town. Then they had snow—not just a shower to excite first expectation and then disappointment among the lads and lassies who rejoiced in its coming, as they mostly delighted in any change that came—but a heavy fall, and then a high wind which drifted it here and there between the hills and made some of the roads impassable for the time. Many of the lanes were filled full, and some of the folk had to be dug out, because the snow had covered their doors.

There was no end to the great balls which were rolled along the streets. A strong fort was built on the square beside the pump, which was fiercely attacked and bravely defended, and battles were fought through all the streets before the snow was trodden into black slush beneath the feet of the combatants. Even the dreaded “kink-hoast” (whooping-cough) failed to keep some of the bolder spirits out of the fray, and those of them who took the fun in moderation were none the worse, but rather the better for the rally.

But Marjorie saw none of this, and she longed to see it all; and though she had been less ill with the cough than some of the others had been, she lost ground now, refused her food, and grew fretful and listless as Allison had never seen her before.

It was hard for the eager little creature to listen quietly to all her brothers had to tell of what was going on among the young folk of the town. They boasted of Robin’s strength and skill, and of Jack’s unequalled prowess when “snawba’ing” was the order of the day, and she wanted to see it all. And she longed to see the rush of the full burn and the whiteness of all the hills. Allison looked at her with a great longing to comfort her, but what could she say? Even the mother thought it wisest to listen in silence to the child’s murmurs.

“But it’s no’ just the snawba’ing and the white hills I am thinking about, mother. This is the way it will ay be, all my life long. I must just sit still and hear the sound of things, and never be in the midst of them like other folk. All my life, mother! Think of it!”

“My dear,” said her mother gravely, “all your life may not be a very long time.”

“But, mother, I would like it to be long. There is Robin going to be a great scholar and astonish the whole world; and Jack is going in search of adventures; and Davie’s going to America to have a farm of a thousand acres, all his own. And why should I have to stay here, and not even see the snawba’ing, nor the full burn, nor the castle that the boys made?”