Morag Part 17

Miss Prosser was busied with the index to "Bradshaw," so that, fortunately, or the reverse, Blanche was left to her own reflections.

She kept an eager watch, as they drove swiftly on in the forlorn hope of catching a glimpse of Morag. But the familiar spots were quickly being left behind, and there was no trace of her anywhere; and Blanche's hope died quite away when they got into the wider range of the strath,--away in the direction of her southern home.

If only Blanche had not buried her face for a moment among the furs as she was pa.s.sing the larch plantation, which at a certain point skirted the high road, her quick eye might have discovered the person she so longed to see.

Morag stood among the larch trees, bending under a heavy bundle of f.a.ggots, which she had been gathering, and which she had just managed to strap on her back. Hearing the sound of wheels on the road, she turned to look, but was only in time to catch a glimpse of the carriage, as it pa.s.sed swiftly along by the old winding d.y.k.e. Some traces of luggage were visible, and Ellis was seated on the box. Morag's heart sank. Was it possible they were leaving the Glen, to-day, after all? And she had been going cheerily on with her work that morning, in the hope of another afternoon with Blanche. For had not Ellis told her, when she went to inquire at the castle the day before, that the southward journey had been postponed for several days. Only a short time ago she had been smiling as she gathered her fire-wood, thinking how pleased Kirsty would look when the wee leddy walked into the cottage that afternoon. But now, the more she thought of it, the more sure she felt that those cruel, swift wheels were carrying her away beyond their reach, to a land that seemed terrible and unknown indeed to the little mountain maiden.

She ran to the edge of the wood, and climbing on the lichen-spotted d.y.k.e, she gazed wistfully along the winding road, where the s.h.i.+ning carriage was rolling swiftly along. And after she had watched it till it could be seen no longer, the little girl sat down and wept bitterly. Her bonnie wee leddy had gone without one parting word. Surely she must have utterly forgotten her, or else she could not have acted thus. Gladly would she have walked miles across pathless hills to touch her wee leddy's hand, and now she had gone without ever sending to ask her to come. And, as she sat weeping on the old grey d.y.k.e, the friends.h.i.+p of these autumn days seemed to grow dreamlike all of a sudden. Had she ever really walked by s.h.a.g's side with the little lady of the castle among the moors, or sat with her in the _ben-end_ of Kirsty Macpherson's cottage?--or, had she been in fairyland all these weeks? The past seemed to grow so shadowy; and the bundle of dead sticks was so real and heavy, as she wearily rose, at last, to take her solitary way to the hut among the crags.

She had only gone a few steps in the direction of home, when she saw coming towards her through the larch trees Kenneth Macpherson.

"Who would have thought of meeting you here, Morag?" he cheerily accosted her. "And with such a heavy bundle of sticks, too. Let me carry it for you--do! Why it's bigger than yourself!" he added, with a pleasant smile, as he unfastened it and threw it across his own broad shoulders.

"You're going home, I suppose, Morag; ar'nt you?" he asked as he walked by her side. "I didn't know you ever came here. I often do. I can hardly ever pa.s.s the place without crossing the d.y.k.e. You mind the tartan folds, Morag?" said the boy, smiling sadly, as he glanced at the lonely spot from whence his mother's soul had gone home to G.o.d.

"Ay do I! I mind upon't weel," replied Morag, with quivering lip. The remembrance brought such a rush of mingled recollections that she could not say more just then.

"Oh, by the by, Morag, I wish I had known a few minutes ago that you were to be found here. I saw somebody who was very anxious to get a sight of you. Who do you think? The bonnie wee leddy, as you call her, on her way back to London!"

Morag stood still to listen, and as she looked earnestly into Kenneth's face, he noticed that she had been crying. "I never kent she was awa till I got a blink o' the cairage no lang syne. She never telt me she was goin' the day," and the little girl struggled vainly to keep back the tears.

"But I'm sure it wasn't her fault that you did not know she was leaving the Glen to-day, Morag. She seemed very sorry-like herself, and sent a message to you. When she noticed me on the road she jumped up from among a lot of furs, and stopped the carriage. The lady beside her was reading a book, and she looked up some angry like, and said something sharp. I think the wee leddy wanted to get out of the carriage to come and speak to me, but she wouldn't let her. Then she stretched her hand down and smiled very pleasantly, though I think she had been crying, too," added the kind-hearted Kenneth rather pathetically, as he glanced at Morag.

"Then she began to thank me for what I did at the loch. I'm sure it wasn't anything to thank a body so much for. Such a pretty voice she has. It just sounded like the chimes of silver bells, Morag. And after she had thanked me, she stooped down quite low, and whispered as if she were afraid that the lady would hear, 'Oh, Kenneth, do you think you could find Morag anywhere? I'm sure she can't know I've gone, or else she would surely have come to see me.' But just then the lady rose very angry like, and said, sharply, 'Come now, Blanche, I cannot permit this.

Drive on, Lucas!' she called out to the coachman; and then she sat down to her book again. The wee lady seemed very vexed, and when the horses started, she stretched down once again, and her curls came falling about her face and she cried, 'Give Morag my dearest love!'"

When Kenneth had finished his narration, Morag began to sob again, and he felt greatly at a loss to know how to comfort her. But they were tears of joy now. The feeling of bitterness was all gone. Her bonnie wee leddy had not forgotten her, and the friends.h.i.+p of those autumn days was no bit of fairyland after all.

Kenneth did not leave her till the bundle of firewood was deposited in the hut, and Morag had promised to come and pay them a visit at the cottage that afternoon.

And as he went sauntering down the hill with his hands in his pockets, whistling a tune, he thought what a very nice girl Morag was; and how glad he felt that it was not she who had gone away from the Glen. And he further decided that such a great bundle of sticks was much too heavy for a girl to carry, and resolved that, in future, he should always be in attendance to carry home the firewood.

As Morag re-entered the cottage, and glanced round the empty room, she saw something lying on the earthen floor which she had not dropped there; and stooping down, she picked up a little, half-worn glove, which told a tale. She looked eagerly round, as if some lingering presence of its owner must still pervade. Her bonnie wee leddy was leal and true after all, and she felt remorseful that she had doubted her for a moment. Kissing the token reverently, she opened the old _kist_, and slipped it between the folds of her most precious book, where it remained a sacred relic of that morning's visitor for many a long year.

XIII.

_BACK IN LONDON._

IT was a foggy November afternoon; the color of the surrounding atmosphere was almost as yellow as the gorgeous damask hangings which draped Mr. Clifford's handsome drawing-room. Our friend Blanche was wandering listlessly up and down the room, in one of her most restless moods, her governess remarked, as she looked up from a piece of elaborate lace-work which was growing rapidly under her diligent fingers.

It was the usual hour for walking, but the unpleasant weather had kept them indoors. Blanche seemed to find this play-hour extremely dull, and appeared to have failed in all her efforts to amuse herself. On one of the couches there lay open a beautiful drawing-room book of engravings, which she had been looking at, but she knew all the pictures by heart already, so she soon tired of turning the leaves. Then she went to the piano to try over some old chorales of her mamma's copying, which she had found among her music; but Miss Prosser presently remarked that she might play something more lively on such a dismal day as this, so Blanche, at last, glided away among the curtains, and stood looking out on the dense fog. The amber gloom enveloped even the nearest objects, so there was really nothing to see from the window, though Blanche stood gazing out intently. But there was a far-away look in her eyes which seemed to betoken that it was a mental picture which absorbed her.

Miss Prosser again glanced uneasily at her little charge; but this time she did not speak. Her pupil had been rather a puzzle to her of late, and she would gladly have shared her thoughts as she stood there. It was not her habit, however, to elicit confidences of any kind from her pupils; and, indeed, till quite lately, it had not been necessary in Blanche Clifford's case. Her nature was so frank and gay that her thoughts were generally shared by those nearest to her, whether they were sympathetic listeners or not. But, of late, a change had been stealing over the little girl. She had grown more quiet and self-contained than she used to be. Less wayward and troublesome she certainly was, but her governess sometimes thought, as she looked at her thoughtful face, that she would gladly welcome back some of the old boisterous ways which she used to characterize so severely.

Presently Blanche emerged from among the yellow draperies, and, seating herself on a low stool, looked meditatively into the fire.

"Miss Prosser, I am afraid you will think it a very silly question I'm going to ask," she said presently, as she threw herself at her governess' feet, laying her hands on her knees. "Do you think I begin to get any better at all? I have been trying so hard to be good ever since I came from Glen Eagle; but it is so difficult," added Blanche, with a deep sigh. "There now, I tried ever so hard to write that French letter correctly last night, and yet I had several mistakes to-day, you know."

"My dear child, you are getting morbid. This unpleasant fog has a most depressing effect, I know. You are a very good child, my dear. There is no reason to reproach yourself as you do, I a.s.sure you. Only this morning, in my report to your father, I stated that I was pleased with your progress, and Signor Lesbini was expressing his satisfaction with you, also," added Miss Prosser, who, however, felt rather disconcerted by the new _role_ she had to play in taking her pupil's part against herself. It was so unlike the bright, careless Blanche of a few months ago; and as she glanced at the wistful, upturned face, she noticed that the outline of the cheek was sharper than of old, and the delicate tracery of veins on the forehead more visible. Still the child was well enough, to all appearance, and Miss Prosser began to think that she, too, must be growing fanciful.

"But you don't see my heart, Miss Prosser, or you would not say I was good," replied Blanche, looking into her governess' face with a perplexed gaze. "You have no idea how naughty I felt to-day, when you decided that we should not go out to walk. I think I feel oftener cross than I used to do; and yet I try so very hard to be good," sighed Blanche, despondingly. "Will you tell me, Miss Prosser, if you thought much about the Lord Jesus Christ, and tried to please Him, when you were about my age? I wonder whether my mamma did!" continued the little girl, as she looked musingly into the fire.

"My dear Blanche, of course it is proper that we should lead Christian lives. You know our parents and sponsors undertook that for us, in baptism. And one day you will be confirmed, I hope. I should like you to go up at the same time as your cousin, Lady Matilda. By the way, Blanche, I think I shall write and ask her mamma if she may come and spend a day with you. You have hardly seen her since you came home. And you shall have a whole holiday, and do whatever you like. You quite deserve it, for you have been a most diligent child lately. We have really been getting over a great deal of ground. And these harp-lessons, which your papa is so anxious for you to have, do take up so much time.

Yes, I think I shall write this afternoon and ask the little Lady Matilda to come on Friday."

Blanche sighed, and continued her meditations among the glowing coals.

She was thinking of another friend whom she would much rather have to spend the day. One afternoon's ramble in the fir-wood with Morag Dingwall, she thought, would be worth half-a-dozen walks in the Park with any Lady Matilda in the world.

These autumn days already began to gather round them that halo which seems always to surround past periods. The very names and places connected with those days thrilled Blanche like the music of a song.

But, unlike her usual frank disposition, she never had these names on her lips, but kept them like a stolen casket of precious gems, only to be taken out and looked at when alone. So noticeable, indeed, was her silence concerning Glen Eagle, that Miss Prosser concluded the Highland experiences were quite out of mind; and she was not sorry, on the whole, to think that the bond had been so quickly loosened between her pupil and the little mountaineer.

The maid Ellis was absent on a visit to her friends, or probably her many garrulous memories of Stratheagle might have broken through Blanche's reserve; but, as it was, she dwelt silently among her mental pictures of the Highland glen.

When Signor Lesbini, her music master, was announced, Blanche's thoughts were far away in the _ben-end_ of Kirsty's cottage. Starting up from her seat by the fire, she ran to find her music, while the servant placed her harp in its usual position, and Miss Prosser and the music master were exchanging stately salutes.

Mr. Clifford was anxious that Blanche's taste for music should be cultivated in every direction; and these lessons were inserted in the educational programme by his special desire. Blanche was very anxious that she should be able to make some pleasant sounds on the harp before her father came home; and she was succeeding in doing so, to judge from her master's frequent, soft, "bene,--benissimo, Signorina!"

Miss Prosser, meanwhile retired to a distant corner of the room to write various small scented notes to her friends. Among others, an invitation was duly despatched to the small Lady Matilda, asking her to spend a day with her cousin, and to go to the pantomime in the evening. The latter part of the programme Miss Prosser kept as a reserve treat for Blanche, who had never been to a pantomime, and wished very much to see one.

The invitation was duly accepted on behalf of the little Lady Matilda.

She appeared on the day appointed, alighting from her smart pony carriage, escorted by her maid and footman. She was a lean, dark, sallow child, very different in coloring and expression from her cousin Blanche. She always appeared in the most sleek, unruffled state of tidiness and propriety; she looked, in fact, as if she had come into the world precisely as she stood--at the same stage of growth, and in the same faultless toilette. At least such was the reflection which sometimes rose to Ellis's mind as she surveyed her with half envious, half contemptuous eyes, side by side with her careless and often dishevelled little mistress, whose shoulders would somehow get out of her frocks; and one of whose shoes had been actually known to go amissing during dinner, being afterwards brought to her, on a silver tray, by her aunt's solemn butler. Of this terrible _faux pas_, the Lady Matilda's maid occasionally reminded Ellis when they quarrelled over the respective merits of their little ladies.

Notwithstanding Miss Prosser's well-meaning efforts to create a friends.h.i.+p between the cousins, they did not appear to draw to each other in the least. The earlier hours of the day pa.s.sed in uneventful dulness--at least so thought Blanche, who shocked her governess by yawning twice in her visitor's face, and exhibiting various other tokens of her want of appreciation of her society. Finally, she disappeared for a period, and returned with the cook's white kitten rolled in her smart blue velvet dress--a trophy from among the pots and pans, and showing too many traces of its former playground to deserve its name of Snow.

The calm little Lady Matilda surveyed her companion's restless movements with a look of mild surprise, glancing up, now and then, from a piece of lace-work, on which she was bestowing great thought and care. Miss Prosser had been admiring it greatly; and commended her diligence in a way which reflected somewhat on her own pupil's want of that quality, particularly as regarded needlework.

"But what's the use of it? What do you mean to do with it, Matty?" asked Blanche, unrolling the elaborate piece of work in question.

"My dear Blanche, you are not always so practical, I am sure," said Miss Prosser, coming to the rescue. "Do you not know that it is a part of every young lady's education to be able to sew fancy work? And, besides, the habit of diligence is so good, my dear Blanche; you ought to remember that."

"Well; but it seems to me that there is no use of some people being diligent--about sewing, at all events. Don't you remember these slippers I sewed for papa, Miss Prosser? He certainly seemed very much pleased when I gave them to him; and I felt as if I had been really useful in having made a pair of shoes; and thought it would be so nice to see papa going about in shoes of my making. But, not long afterwards, I heard him say to somebody that he detested sewed slippers, and never wore them. I suppose he had forgotten all about the pair I made for him then, because I'm sure he would not have wanted to hurt my feelings," added Blanche pathetically.

The conversation was here interrupted by the servant coming to ask at what hour the carriage would be required; and then the delightful secret came out at last. Blanche was in an ecstacy of delight at the prospect of seeing a pantomime. Some time ago her governess would have checked her glee as an unbecoming outburst, but now she hailed it as a proof that her little charge was regaining that elasticity of spirit which she had somewhat lost of late, and she congratulated herself on the success of her efforts for her amus.e.m.e.nt.

The pantomime that evening was "The Babes in the Wood," though it certainly contained marvellous variations not suggested by the old English ballad which it was meant to ill.u.s.trate. In fact the Babes themselves were hardly distinguishable, so surrounded were they by moving troops of wee green folk, peeping out in all directions, and marvellously suspended from the boughs of trees. Indeed, it is doubtful whether the original robins could have found a branch throughout the forest to hop on--so covered were they by dazzling fairies performing all manner of wonderful evolutions in mid-air.

Lady Matilda surveyed the marvellous scene with considerably more repose of manner than her cousin. She was quite an old frequenter of such exhibitions, so she was able to compare it with yet more gorgeous performances, and to feel pretty sure what was coming next.

But to Blanche, the pantomime had all the charm of novelty. She stood entranced, gazing at the stage with eager, upturned face. More than one frequenter of the theatre observed with amus.e.m.e.nt the eager little girl, who was not content to view the scene from her comfortable chair in the box, but kept leaning forward, in a bewilderment of happiness, notwithstanding her cousin's mild suggestions that she would be very tired before the end of the play if she did not sit down.

Every scene was more charming and wonderful than the one which went before. The fun among the wee green folks was getting more fast and furious every minute. Blanche thought they looked like dragon-flies in the suns.h.i.+ne, as they went flitting about. It had not occurred to her that they were real flesh and blood creatures like herself, till, suddenly, one dazzling little elf fell from a giddy height, on to the stage. For a moment, Blanche fancied that the descent of the fairy was all part of the fun; but presently a shrill cry of human pain, and a few compa.s.sionate voices from the crowd below, caused her to realize that underneath the ma.s.s of gauze and gilt there was a poor body in pain.

In an instant the poor crushed fairy was borne away from the bright scene, and the fun went on again in mad hurly-burly. But, somehow, Blanche's eyes had grown dim, and she shrank back on her seat with a shudder.

"Why, what's the matter, cousin Blanche?" whispered the imperturbable little Lady Matilda, as she surveyed her cousin's movement with mild surprise.