CHAPTER VI.

AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW NAME

"Now, children, here we are at Kirklands, at last," said a lady with a pleasant voice, to an eager-looking group of boys and girls, who were cl.u.s.tering round her, in a large open travelling carriage, which had just drawn up in front of an old gateway, and waited for admittance.

"Kirklands at last," was re-echoed among the little party. The two boys seated beside the coachman glanced round at the occupants of the inside seats, feeling sure that, their higher position secured them superior information, and shouted in chorus, "Mamma, mamma, Kirklands at last."

"As if we didn't know that as well as you do," shouted back Willie, a curly-headed little fellow, seated beside his mother, who had a secret hankering after the higher place of his elder brothers, along with a desire to prove to them that their position was in no way superior to his own.

The old gates closed behind them, and the carriage bowled swiftly along the smooth avenue, with its branching elms overhead. The pleasant vistas of green, on all sides, were very grateful to the eyes of the young travellers, wearied with miles of a white dusty turnpike-road, on a hot July afternoon. They looked with delighted gaze on the new fair scene, and thought what happy evenings they would have among those green glades during the long summer days.

But there was one of the party to whom this scene was not new, but old and familiar, written over with many memories, some well-nigh overlaid in the turmoil of life, but which flickered up with new vividness as she looked on the calm sunlighted scene, and thought of other days. The years had brought many changes to her, and it was with mingled feelings that she gazed on this unchanged spot. Each grey-lichened rock stood out from the mossy floor with a face that was familiar; all the little winding woodland paths, she knew where they led to, and could take the children to many a nook where wild flowers and delicate green ferns still loved to grow, at they did long ago when she used to gather them in these woods.

"Seventeen years ago! is it possible?" she murmured, as she leaned back in a corner of the carriage, and thought of the many leaves in the book of her life which had been folded-down since she took farewell of these green glades in her girlish days. And as she sits, quietly thinking, while the little group round her are making the green aisles resound with their merry laughter, we fancy, as we glance at her face, that it is one we have seen before in this valley. The "stealthy day by day" has certainly done its work; the outline of Grace's cheek is sharper than it used to be, and the eager, speaking eyes have lost somewhat of their fire, but there is a calm gladness in their gaze as she glances at the joyous faces round her, that speaks of lessons learnt, and sorrows past, during chequered days which have lain between the autumn evening, when we saw her last, and this July afternoon, when she is coming with her "two bands" to the home of her girlhood.

Miss Hume, Grace's aunt, had pa.s.sed away from this world during that autumn seventeen years ago, and Grace had never revisited Kirklands since. Walter, to whom it belonged, was still a naval officer. His home on the sea had still more fascination for him than the inland beauties of Kirklands, which had been left to strangers during the intervening years.

For some time past it had stood empty and tenantless, and Walter had suggested that his sister, who had just come from a long sojourn abroad, should, with her children, take up her abode there. Her husband, Colonel Foster, was still on foreign service; and Grace, who longed to see the old home after all her wanderings, had readily agreed to go with her little flock and introduce them to the spot which was their dreamland of romance, the historic ground of all the pleasantest stories in their mother's mental library, often ransacked for their benefit.

Mrs. Foster's servants were already at Kirklands, making preparations for the arrival. The old rooms were being opened up once again, and shafts of golden sunlight streamed through the long-darkened windows, on the dark-panelled walls, as if to herald joyously the good news that "life and thought" were coming back to the deserted house.

As the carriage followed the windings of the avenue, the grey gables of the old mansion began to peep through the green boughs, their first appearance being announced by a jubilant chorus from the elder boys on the box, which made little Willie feel painfully that his range of vision was far from satisfactory. Presently, however, the timeworn walls could be seen by all the party, as the carriage wheeled round the old terrace, and the travellers reached the end of their journey. Then eager feet began to trot up and down the gra.s.s-grown steps, and climb on the old carved railing, where the griffins fascinated little Grace by their stony stare, as they used to do her mother years ago. The long-silent corridors began to resound with joyous laughter, as the merry party rambled through the old rooms, wishing to identify each place with historical recollections, founded on their mother's and Uncle Walter's stories. And was that really the tree that Uncle Walter made believe to be the rigging of a ship, and one day fell from one of its highest boughs? And where used they to keep their rabbits, and in what room did they learn their lessons? These, and such questions, were generally asked in chorus, to which their mother had to endeavour to reply, as she wandered among the familiar rooms with her merry boys and girls.

"Mamma, do you know what I should like to see best of all? Two things, mamma," whispered little Grace, as she caught hold of her mother's dress.

"And what would my little girl like to see--the toys mamma used to play with when she was a little girl like Gracie? I believe I've carried the key of the chest where they lie buried about with me all these years;"

and Mrs. Foster began to look in the little basket she held in her hand for a shining bunch of keys.

"It wasn't the toys I meant, though I should like to see them very much," replied the little girl, who was more timid and gentle than her brothers and sisters, and generally required more encouragement to unburden her small mind, "it is the room where you taught Geordie that I want to see--and Geordie's grave among the heather."

Some quick ears had caught a name that seemed to be a household word, and louder voices said, as the boy's cl.u.s.tered round their mother, "Oh yes, mamma, do show us where you taught Geordie and little Jean."

So Grace led the way through the dim pa.s.sages that had once frightened little Jean, and whose gloom now made the small Grace cling close to her mother's side. The still-room was dark and unopened, for the servants had not thought it necessary to include it in their preparations. Grace went to the window and undid the fastenings, and the yellow afternoon sun streamed on the dusty wooden bench where Geordie, and Jean, and Elsie used to sit.

The merry voices were hushed for a moment, and the children looked in awed silence into the little room, as if it had been a shrine.

After they had gazed long and silently, and their mother went to fasten the window again, she said, "Children, we will come here and read G.o.d's Word on Sunday afternoons, as the little company you know about used to do long ago; and I hope you will all listen to the Good Shepherd's voice, and follow it as Geordie did;" and presently the children trooped quietly away along the dark vaulted pa.s.sages.

There was no faithful Margery now to be trusted with everything, and able to put things straight in the twinkling of an eye, as her young mistress used to declare she alone was capable of doing, so Mrs. Foster had some unpacking and arranging preliminaries to superintend before she could join her eager little party out of doors. But when tea was over, and the sun had begun to scatter its orange and crimson tints over the Kirklands valley, Grace thought she would like to take a stroll among some familiar places before the darkness came.

After lingering on the old terrace for a little, she gathered her boys and girls round her, and said she was going to take them across the park. She wanted to visit a place she remembered well, a pleasant angle of a rising glade of birches, where she once stood mourning over the traces of an uprooted cottage. But Grace knew that another home had grown on the ruins of the former dwelling, and to it she bent her steps now, for there was one of its inmates whom she longed to see. There was something of the mingled feeling of interest and romance with which her children wore viewing these now yet familiar scenes, in Grace's desire to look on a face she had not seen for many years. Its image would rise before her, chubby, smiling, and childlike, as of old; and then she remembered the evening when she had first seen it tear-stained and sad, as she crossed this path with the little fat hand in hers, as her own Grace's was now.

But Joan had not shed many tears since then. There was no happier home in all the valley than the white cottage, over which the birch-trees lovingly stretched their delicate fringes, her husband, the village carrier, used to think when he came within sight of it, after his day's journey was over, his parcels all delivered, and his horses "suppered"

for the night. Generally his bright-looking wife was hovering near the door, waiting his coming with a little group round her as merry as the one that was now making the woods of Kirklands ring with their light-hearted laughter.

Grace had not told the children that she meant to take them to see little Jean that evening. She wanted first to go alone to the cottage and see her quietly there, for she had many things to hear and ask.

Still, Grace had not been altogether a stranger to the home life there.

Sometimes a letter, written and addressed with laborious carefulness, had followed her to remote foreign stations, and brought pleasant memories of dewy heather and fragrant birches as she read it among waving oleanders and palms. During all those years Grace had watched over Jean's welfare, and many things in her pretty home told of her thoughtful remembrance of Geordie's sister.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Old Scenes Revisited.]

The arrival of the family at Kirklands had taken place a few days earlier than was intended, so Jean had not happened to hear the news, and was all unconscious of the pleasure in store for her. How often she had longed to see the "young leddy of Kirklands," as she still called her, how many times she said to her husband that she would be sure to know her anywhere, though it was so many years since she had looked into her face. But now, as Jean sat matron-like with her sewing, in front of her cottage, while her children played near, she wondered what "strange lady" could be coming along the path. She called her straying little ones to her, in case they should be in the way, but she noticed that the stranger did not seem to think so, for she had just stopped kindly to stroke one little flaxen head, and Jean, with a mother's pride, felt grateful that "her bairn should be respeckit among the rest." But when the lady, still holding the little boy's hand, began to climb the mossy bank, and came towards her, Jean thought she had surely seen that face before. Though not till Grace had smiled, and said, holding out her hand, "Jean, is it possible you do not know me?" did she recognise her old teacher.

"Oh, Miss Cam'ell, Miss Cam'ell!" she said, with a cry of delight as she dropped her mending and rose to meet her. "Is it really yourself? I canna believe my verra eyes."

And when Grace gazed questioningly into the serene, beaming face of the little matron, she saw it had kept all that was best of its childish lineaments, and felt with thankful gladness that Geordie's Shepherd had not forgotten little Jean. Meanwhile the little loitering party came along the road, and seeing their mother engaged in conversation beside the pretty cottage door, they were eager to know who of all the old friends she was talking to. Willie was the first to clamber up the mossy bank and reach the cottage. The others were following, when he joined them with an expression of mingled interest and disappointment on his face.

"I say Walter--Grace,--can you guess who mamma is speaking to? Well, it's Geordie's sister,--little Jean."

Then they all crept shyly near their mother while she talked at the cottage door, glancing with interest at the inmate. But when little Grace could find an opportunity she whispered in a tone of disappointment, "Oh, mamma, is it really true what Willie says?" and then she added with a sigh, when Willie's news had been confirmed, "Oh, I'm so sorry; I do wish she could have stayed a little girl."

Her mother smiled at the childish idea; but she presently remembered that it was as the little herd-boy Geordie's image still lived in her memory, though nearly twenty summers had come and gone since he entered on that life in which earthly days and years are merged into eternity, where the old and feeble renew their strength, and the young grow wiser than the wisest hero.

Grace's boys and girls had all to be introduced by name to the smiling little matron, whose eye rested on them more or less appreciatively, as she recognised a likeness to their mother or their Uncle Walter.

Presently Grace turned to the little group, and said softly, "Children, would you like to come to the knolls of heather on the other side of the hill? I am going there now."

"Oh yes, mamma, I want to go," chimed an eager though subdued chorus of voices; and then the childish feet followed the two mothers as they wandered slowly through the birch trees and crossed the path which led to the stepping-stones. The water still splashed and gurgled noisily round them, and the knolls of heather stretched with unchanged contour on the other side. Beyond rose the white gables and thatched roof of the old farm of Gowrie; but the former master and mistress were gone now; and the young farmer, who had taken the lease, chafed considerably that he had not been able to include the bit of heathery pasture lands in the fields, seeing it had been previously secured by another tenant. It was the only piece of land owned by Grace in the valley, and through all these years of absence she had jealously guarded any encroachment upon her territory. Old Gowrie had, at her earnest request, relinquished his right to that portion of his domain in her favour, for he ceased to wish to make it one of his economies to have his cattle grazing there.

So it happened that though the pastoral valley had considerably changed its face, and had much of its ruggedness smoothed away in the course of years, this stretch of heather remained unreclaimed. It was still a thoroughfare, but a very safe one now, for its only dwelling was a grave.

On the day after Geordie's death Grace had gone to see the last resting-place destined for him in the little village churchyard. It was a dreary patch of ground which looked as if the suns ray's never penetrated through its high walls on the graves below. Crumbling grey-lichened headstones peeped dismally from among the long dank gra.s.s, and the little paths were overgrown with weeds. Everywhere there were traces of unloving carelessness of the dead. And though Grace knew full well that the silent sleepers below little heeded this selfish forgetfulness, these surroundings sent a chill to her heart. She thought she should like all that was left here of her boy-friend to lie in pleasanter places. Far better he should rest underneath the heathery sod among the pleasant breezy knolls, consecrated by many a heavenward thought of the lonely little herd-boy, and by faithful words spoken in an accepted time to a wayward brother's heart. So Grace made her suit to the old farmer at a time when his heart was softened, and he was not unwilling to part with a spot written over with a stinging memory. Miss Hume, without even consulting Mr. Graham, had agreed to the transfer of the land; and so it happened that Grace, like the patriarch long ago, a stranger and sojourner in the land, held as a possession a burying-place.

The bright summer day had reached its dying hour when the little group stood on the bank of the river. The yellow sunlight was merging into deep orange and crimson, tinging with a wonderful variety of tints the lower landscape. The rippling water looked as if a sudden cross current of red wine had come flowing into it, and the little hillocks beyond, golden with gorse, were steeped in the mellow light.

The children followed their mother and Jean, with awed faces and hushed voices, along the little gleaming sheep-walk, fringed by sweet wild thyme and dog violets, with tendrils of deerhorn moss flinging their arms across the path. At length they came on a little marble slab, by the side of one of the knolls. The last golden shafts of sunlight were stealing over its memorial words, and the young eyes read in silence:--

IN MEMORY OF

GEORDIE BAXTER,

Who went to the Fold above on the 7th of August, 185--.

"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want."

Presently, the silent group heard footsteps behind, and when Grace glanced round she saw a woman, with two little boys by her side, coming along the little path towards the headstone. She stopped suddenly when she saw the strangers, evidently surprised by the unusual presence of visitors in that unfrequented spot, and, turning down another path, went away in the opposite direction. "Who is that, Jean?" asked Mrs. Foster; "surely I have seen the face before."

"Dear heart, do ye not know her? It's Elsie Gray. We dinna think, John and me, that her bonnie face is much changed; but then we see it every day," Jean replied, looking fondly after the retreating figure.

"Ah, is it really Elsie? I was just going to ask about her, Jean. But who are those children with her? I thought you told me in one of your letters that she lived quite alone?" asked Grace, stooping down to pluck a bluebell from Geordie's grave, instead of hurrying after this old friend, as the little Grace expected her mother to do.

Then the little matron went on to narrate how Elsie's home was still the forester's pretty cottage, though her father and mother were both dead.

She had never been married, which Jean remarked was a great pity, and hinted that a good many other people were of her opinion. But how the parish of Kirklands could ever have got on without her if she had gone away, or what life would be if she had not Elsie to go to in every joy and sorrow, Jean could not imagine, as she said she frequently remarked to "her John." n.o.body's hands seemed to be fuller of helpful work, and n.o.body did it more cheerily, than Elsie Gray.

Then Jean explained that the two little boys were orphans whom she had taken to her comfortable home; and "it wasn't the first pair o' laddies she had made good for something," Jean added, admiringly.

"Oh, mamma, don't you want to speak to her? She has such a nice, beautiful face. Do let me run after her, and ask her to stop for a minute," said little Grace, eagerly.