The Story of Bell

Chapter I Chapter XXI

CHAPTER I.

He looked at her, as a lover can; She looked at him, as one who awakes: The past was a sleep, and her life began. All day long the sunshine had been lying on the village street. The white-washed houses threw back his rays from their dazzling walls; the blinds in the shop-windows — there were only four — were drawn down. The school-house stood tenantless and quiet ; the children like most of their elders were em ployed in the hay-fields — the holidays in summer being arranged to suit the farmers. So the village street was empty, save for an old woman here and there going for water to the pump, or a mother with a small baby in her arms, who came to her door to breathe the freshness of the evening air. The sun was near the horizon, and a little breeze was stealing up from the north-west. The greetings of these sparse inhabitants of the deserted street were apt to be monotonous.

One theme appeared to suffice for comment and con gratulation. "It is a gran' day for the hay!" they said to each other with a contented nod. It was a very peaceful village lying among the hills. A small deep-flowing river wound through the valley on its way to the sea, past corn-fields and meadows, stony banks, high and steep like the face of a cliff, or woods where the thick under growth grew down to the water. A river of delight ful surprises, with great deep pools where the salmon lay in the hot summer days, and still brown reaches where the trout leapt after the flies; — a river that sang along its way with a soft undertone in the bright weather, but that rose with awful suddenness after forty-eight hours' rain, and came down in "spate" to desolate the surrounding country. About a quarter of a mile from the village, and just beyond the bridge which spanned the river where it crossed the high road, stood the farm-house of Dalmoy.

It was surrounded by a low wall which was closed by a gate opening on the road. A gravelled path led to the front door, and on each side lay a plot of grass, with flower-beds cut out of the turf. No great care appeared to be bestowed on this garden, but the common summer flowers flourished in great tranquillity. Straggling rose-trees climbed up the house, fuchsias not yet in bloom made a dark background for white Scotch lillies, some early mignonnette was coming into flower, and a row of pansies near the front door turned their gentle faces towards the setting sun. Beyond the garden on the side nearest the village, was a belt of wood which sloped down to the river, and on the other side grew several apple trees whose gnarled old branches bore a fair show of tiny green fruit. The house itself was of the better class of Scotch farm-houses, well-built, but ugly — comfortable, but not commodious.

Two small sitting-rooms, one on each side of the door, took the place of the large old-fashioned kitchen, which was built out at the back. In one of these rooms, by the open window, sat Mrs. Douglas, the mistress of Dalmoy, her black afternoon dress scrupulously brushed, a stiff white cap surmounting her dark hair. She was knitting swiftly and talking to her eldest daughter who sat at the table sewing. " Well, of coorse, it's a terrible doon-come tae her, puir thing," she was saying; "but I will say this, Janet, that there never was a woman more set in her mind tae marry a man than Nannie Galbraith was tae get Andrew Bruce." Janet made some stitches in silence, before lifting her head. Her face was like her mother's, but softer in outline. She was no longer very young; her colour was faded, and her hair was getting thin over the temples ; and although she was still pretty, her expression was lifeless and a little dull.

"It was her mother's doing to begin wi'," she said slowly. Her voice was soft, and she spoke in the careless mixture of English and broad Scotch which is almost universal among the lower middle class, in the country districts of the Lowlands. "Oh ay I" returned her mother. "I grant ye that. An ambitious body she was, and thocht it fine to be the mither o' mistress Bruce of Grange— and sae it was, puir body I" She added, with a sympathetic sigh: "It's well for her she's been spared this!" "What are they gaun tae do now, d'ye know?" asked Janet. "Oh I the dear kens I" said Mrs. Douglas half carelessly. "They'll hae tae emigrate, noo that the place is sold, ye ken. He could na haud up his heid i' this country, I'm thinking, if he had tae work under anither man!" "Well, it's a warning against drink and idleness, I'm sure," said Janet sententiously : "I heard my father say that Bruce had na done a hand's turn on the place himself for months at a time."

Her mother did not answer. She was looking from the window in the direction of the sunset. A sort of golden haze seemed to envelope the meadows lying along the road beyond the garden, and through this mist the tired haymakers came wandering home, the girls in their light sun-bon nets, and the men in their shirt-sleeves, with their rakes over their shoulders. Slowly they came along, two by two, or in little companies, and the sound of girls' voices and laughter was borne in through the open window. Old Mr. Douglas, or Dalmoy, as he was usually called, led the way with one of his pretty daughters on each side of him. He was a tall man with a kind, keen face, clean-shaven and weatherbeaten ; he walked with that long and measured stride common to men who have spent all their lives among the hills, but which is as far removed from a slouch as it is from a military swagger.

Behind the farmer, came a tall man in knickerbockers, with a girl in a blue cotton frock by his side. Mrs. Douglas had let her knitting fall in her lap, and was watching this couple intently as they came carelessly along. "Noo," she said, abruptly, "that's just what I was feared for, and just what I will not allow. That Grant has been runnin' after Annie this while back, and I will not have him galli vantin' wi' Bell too. It'll be her fault maybe, the hizzy; a man's easy caught wi' a new face. But I'll sune let her see!" She took up her knitting again, and began work ing with characteristic energy. "Now, mother," said Janet soothingly, "ye're no' to blame our Bell. She knows nothing aboot Annie and him. It's but natural he should walk with her as well as any one else ; and if ye speak to her, it'll only be putting ideas in her head.

Ye ken what girls are ! " She spoke with a soft vehemence, and her face lighted up with earnestness. She was fond of her little cousin, and frequently stood between her and her somewhat imperious mother. "You know, mother," she went on more quietly, "Mr. Grant is going away for a bit, he told us; and while he's gone I can maybe make Bell understand about Annie. Then when he comes back she'll know not to make herself cheap, anyway." "Well, well," said her mother doubtfully, "I'll see. But Tom Grant is no to be allowed tae play fast and loose wi' ony o' my girls, I can tell him — neither Annie nor Bell ! " She had lowered her voice during her last remark, but the tone was no less determined than before. Now she turned to the door, as her two younger daughters appeared, with ruffled hair and flushed faces — tired but happy after their warm, pleasant toil.

"The hay's all up, mother," said Annie, a pretty dark-haired girl of twenty, sinking into a chair by the table, " we did work hard to get it done 1" "Ay, did we!" chimed in little Mary, throwing herself down on the hard well-worn sofa, and fan ning herself with her hat. " And, mother, will this weather last for the picnic, think ye?" "Like enough," returned Mrs. Douglas absently, but her hard face relaxed somewhat as she looked from one to the other of her pretty girls. " And where's Bell?" she added, glancing at Annie. " O I she's waiting at the gate to see Miss Esme pass from the station," said Annie, rising and looking from the window. "There she is, mother; Mr. Grant is with her. She told him she was sure he had never seen a bonnier face than Miss Esme's, and he's waiting to see her too," she added, with a little laugh and blush.

"Oh! it's to-night she's coming home from school," said Janet, rising and folding up her work. "They'll be real glad and proud at the manse to have her back. The minister aye thinks lang when she's no at home." "And well he may!" said Mrs. Douglas heart ily. "She's the very light of his life, he says." Meanwhile the two at the gate stood together in the soft June twilight, and looked along the road. The girl with fair, wind-ruffled hair and a lovely face, was not yet out of her teens. She had only returned a fortnight before from the town boarding-school, to which her uncle and aunt had thought it their duty to send her for a year — as they had already sent Janet and Annie in their turn. She was dressed in a plain cotton frock, but its colour, a delicate blue, threw up the fair tints of her skin, and it was made well enough to display her graceful figure to advantage.

The man beside her was young and handsome, with square shoulders and long supple limbs. His head, which he held erect, was small and covered with short brown hair. His eyes were beautiful and expressive, of a dark hazel shaded by long lashes. There was a haunting tenderness in his glance, which seemed to bespeak the possession of a truly noble soul. Perhaps the mouth, had it been visible, would have given the lie to those beautiful eyes, but it was hidden by a thick droop ing moustache. Dressed as he was in rough tweed coat and knickerbockers, he might have passed for a young laird of good family, his erect carriage and straight limbed, graceful figure gave him an air of distinc tion. It was only when he began to speak that one realized Tom Grant was not an educated man. The girl beside him, however, saw no fault in him; she looked into the dark eyes that smiled down upon her, and felt how tall and splendid he was.

If the uncouthness of his tones jarred a little at first on her sensitive ear, she was not long in getting accustomed to it; for indeed, an "English" way of speaking was held in some contempt at Dalmoy. The girls were excused for "talking fine" on the plea of their having been sent away to school, but they were not expected to find fault with their neighbours. Bell leant on the gate, and held her sun-bonnet in her hands, dangling it by its strings over the top bar. "The train will be late to-night," she said, gazing along the road which stretched now dim and dusty up the valley. " I wish she would come be fore it's dark ; I would like fine to see if she's changed." Tom Grant laughed. " She'll be bonnier than ever, you take my word for't, Miss Bell ; but mebbe ye'll find her changed in a way ye'll no like."

Bell lifted her eyes to his face. They were of that deep violet-blue, which in Scotland often ac companies fair hair; the eyebrows and lashes were dark and beautifully marked. " If you mean," she said gravely, " that she'll be different to us all from when she went away, I can just tell you ye're wrong. She'll aye be true to her friends." Grant whistled softly, as he gazed into the deep ening dusk. What makes you so fond of her?" he asked "Oh! I dinna ken," said Bell lightly, as if half ashamed of her late earnestness. " Everyone likes Miss Esme. She's that pretty, and clever, and has a way with her, — nobody can help liking her. But I am her friend," she added proudly. "Ay — and why not?" said Grant, amused. But Bell's ear had caught the sound of distant wheels, and her eyes were fixed on the turn of the road, where the manse dog-cart would first come into view.

" There she is ! " she exclaimed in another moment, and her whole graceful body grew alert and eager as she opened the gate and stepped out into the road. Tom Grant had a confused impression of several things as he lifted his hat to the passing carriage. The minister, with his strong, quiet face and humorous, gentle eyes, was driving his steady old grey, which went along with a swinging stride; by his side sat a girl whom Grant made out in the dusk to be dark-eyed, and vaguely fine-looking. He heard a rich voice exclaim, "Oh! Bell," and saw an eager hand waved in greeting; then the dogcart passed in a small cloud of dust, and Bell came back to his side. "Well, is she no bonny?" she said, with eager, loving conviction in her voice, as she reached him. "Yes — but I ken someone that's far bonnier," said Tom Grant in reply, picking up her sun-bonnet which had fallen at his feet, and handing it to her, with a quaint little bow.

"Bonny Bell, bonny Bell," he murmured, "that's the word that goes wi' your name, and suits it, and you too!" A sweet warm blush rose in Bell's face. The words and tone might be those of a rustic wooer, but the glance of the long dark eyes was full of the tenderest meaning. Perhaps the feeling that prompted it was genuine, for Bell was very pretty, and the summer twilight was sweet. Or it may be that Grant was not wholly responsible for the effect of his looks. But who is to be the judge of a young man's beautiful eyes in the dusk of a June night? Certainly not little Bell, whose heart was set beating by their lightest glance— and there was no one else to see ! "I must go now; it's long past nine," she said a little shyly. " They'll be wondering what's keeping me. Will ye come in, Mr. Grant?"

"No, thank you, Miss Bell," he answered, "I maun be stepping; I've two miles further yet to go, ye ken — an' we have tae rise early thae fine mornin's! " He held out his hand, and she laid her own in it. The stars were coming out, and the scent of mignonnette filled the air. A great winged beetle flew past them, the loud booming of his wings dying gradually away. From the hills behind the house came the querulous, plaintive bleating of a wakeful lamb, and the trees rustled faintly in the breeze. "Good-night, Mr. Grant," said Bell softly. "I hope it will be fine to-morrow for your hay making." " No fear of that, I think," he answered, with a glance at the sky. "Good-night!" He dropped her hand, lifted his cap, and passed out into the road. Bell turned towards the house, walking slowly, and swinging her sun-bonnet by its strings.

She stopped for a moment at the open door, and looked up at the faint stars, with a little smile. "Esme has come home," she whispered, "and June's a bonny month, and life is beginning to be very interesting, I think."

Chapter II

I played with the girl when a child — She promised then to be fair. The manse stood in its own grounds, through which flowed the river, a little way back from the village. A picturesque old house, surrounded by trees, and possessing a fine garden, it seemed to Esme Lorimer, after her two years' stay abroad, the per fection of a quiet and lovely home. An elderly lady, with very white hair, stood at the door, as the dog-cart drove up, to welcome them, and the girl scarcely waited for the horse to stop before she was out of the trap, and in her aunt's arms. "My darling girl!" she exclaimed, scanning the fresh young face eagerly. " How are you ? I declare, Robert, the child has grown a bit," she added, as the minister, having descended more slowly from the dog-cart, followed them into the house, with a pleased smile.

"Now, auntie darling," exclaimed the girl, "you are insulting ! People don't grow at my mature age, do they, daddy?" she asked, leaning on his arm, and looking up with beaming eyes into his face. " I am no nearer your dear square chin than I was when I left home. You see," she said, standing on tip-toe, " I can't kiss you yet unless you bend your head! So that shows!" she finished triumphantly. The minister laughed, and very willingly bent his white head to receive her kiss. "I'm afraid," he said, "you must make up your mind, notwithstanding that conclusive argument, to have your growth commented upon many times in the village; it seems to be their idea of a fine compliment." "Ohl well, I don't mind," said the girl, "so long as they don't think I've grown away from them. Oh ! how good it is to be at home.

Does the air ever smell so sweet and fresh anywhere, as in Scotland, and is any girl as happy as I am this blessed night ? I could believe already that Paris and Madame Perier were all a dream. But oh ! auntie, I am hungry!" Later in the evening when supper was over Esme sat on the arm of her father's chair, with Aunt Margaret fondly regarding her from the sofa. She had many questions to ask. "They've got some new steadings at Dalmoy, I see," she said, "and Bell was standing at the gate to see us pass, auntie. Who was the man beside her, daddy ? Has little Bell attained to the dignity of a sweetheart?" "That remains to be seen," said her father. " The young fellow is Tom Grant, who has taken a seven years' lease of Grange. I told you, I think, that the poor Bruces have failed, and been obliged to sell their farm ; I suppose they will emigrate before the winter.

Grant has only been here about three months. As for little Bell — they would make a handsome couple, I dare say ! It may come to that ; although I believe I had higher ambi tions for your little friend, Esme." "Now, Robert, what are you thinking of ?" inter posed Mrs. Forbes. " Bell has only been home from school a fortnight. And as for Mr. Grant, if I'm not very much mistaken, Mrs. Douglas has already booked him for Annie. He is said to be paying her great attention." Esme laughed, and kissed the top of her father's head. "Dear daddy," she said, "you're all wrong, you seel But then you never do know anything about the couples that are keeping company in the village, until you are standing up to marry them! I don't want to lose Bell yet, but it would be nice if she married some one near home.

However, if it's to be Annie, I needn't speculate any more on the subject." The talk drifted to other matters, and the short summer night deepened to its darkest hour, before Aunt Margaret insisted on an adjournment. "The child should be in bed," she said. "Remem ber you will find her here when you wake in the morning!" Esme Lorimer was indeed the light of her father's eyes. Her absence had made winter of the summer days at the manse, for two long years. He felt now as if he would never let her out of his sight again. Her mother, an Englishwoman of good birth, and most lovable nature, had died when Esme was about three years old, of diphtheria caught while nursing her little son. That was a dark chapter in the minister's life to which he never alluded. But his tenderness for his little girl seemed to in clude the love that had belonged to her dead mother and little brother, and from her earliest years she had been his friend and companion every where.

Her two years' absence had developed her character a good deal, and Mr. Lorimer was conscious of a spice of interesting expectation in the prospect of their renewed intercourse which he had not felt before she left him. It was almost as if he felt that it was necessary to make her acquaintance in certain particulars anew. To the girl her father was a hero and an example in one ; their natures differed as male and female in mind and intellect ought to differ, but their tastes agreed, and their sympathies were never at variance on vital points. If their ideas were apt to be tran scendental, they affected no one but themselves, and Mrs. Forbes supplied the practical and common place element in the household. Miss Lorimer's friendship with Bell McKenzie was of long standing. It was when she was about eight years old, that she first noticed a small girl of a year or so younger, dressed in deep mourning, sitting in the Dalmoy pew in church.

She remembered her father tell ing her gently of the terrible railway accident which had robbed little Bell of both her parents, and filled the hearts of the villagers with horrified sympathy for the child. Just about that time Mrs. Forbes discovered that Esme required the companionship of children of her own age, and encouraged her to cultivate the soci ety of Mrs. Douglas's shy little niece, who even then took the hearts of most people by her sweet ways, and her somewhat unusual beauty. She was a strange child, with moods and fancies which soon proved quite beyond the comprehension of Mrs. Douglas, who with all the will in the world to be kind and just, failed at times to sympathize with a nature differing so widely from those of her own girls. So it came to pass that Bell, in her childish troubles, went to Dalmoy, and never failed to find in the placid, kindly man, a gentle, if sometimes perplexed comforter.

Her affections were violent and faithful, and Esme soon filled a large part of her vehement little heart. But even at the manse there were records of little Bell's "displays of temper," as her aunt, with uncompromising austerity called them, and one occasion in particular still lingered in the minister's mind. He had been interrupted one afternoon, in the middle of writing his sermon, by violent screams from the garden, and hurried to the scene of action to find both the children in tears and Mrs. Forbes vainly endeavouring to find out what was wrong. Bell's crimson cheeks and angry eyes proclaimed the unmistakable fact that she was "in a temper" — so far in, indeed, that she there and then slapped her beloved Esme very smartly, and when told by Mrs. Forbes to "kiss and make friends," stamped her foot, and refused to be brought to reason.

She was sent home to Dalmoy in disgrace, and Esme wandered about, disconsolate, till bed-time. But about ten o'clock Mrs. Forbes was surprised by the appearance at the drawing-room door of Dalmoy, leading by the hand a very white-faced, sorrowful Bell. "I had tae bring her, mem," he explained deprecatingly, "tho' the wife, she said it was nonsense; but the wean wad neither eat nor sleep till she had kissed Miss Esme. They had a fa'oot the day it seems." The child lifted a quivering face to the lady. "It was a' my fault," she said, " an' I canna sleep till I see her." The minister was summoned from the study, and came, pen in hand, to listen to the tale. Bell's eyes filled with tears, as he laid his hand on her head, and looked down at her with kindly gravity. " I slappit her, an' hurted her, an' oh I I am sorry," she whispered.

"Take her upstairs, my dear," said Mr. Lorimer, turning to Mrs. Forbes. " This is the humble con fession of a penitent soul!" Mrs. Forbes, smiling tolerantly, accompanied the child to the door of Esme's room, and left her there. Returning ten minutes later, she found the children in each other's arms, both fast asleep ; — Bell's yellow curls straying over Esme's darker head, and the tears still wet upon her cheeks. She did not awake as she was gently undressed and laid down to pass the night by the side of her newly recovered friend. But Mr. Lorimer, always interested in racial characteristics, was pondering over the incident downstairs. "She has more depth of feeling, and a hotter heart, than usually goes with hair of that colour," he said thoughtfully to Dalmoy. The other considered for a little in order to get his words under control.

"I'm thinkin'," he said at last, "it'll be the Hielan' bluid in her veins that makes her a wee thing fiery at times. James McKenzie was black haired and quick i' the temper, though I believe he never kept an angry thocht mair nor ten meenits in his life. Her mither, that's my sister Annie, ye ken, was yella' like Bell, an' rale douce and easy tae do wi'. It's queer the mixtures there is in folk whiles," he finished meditatively. "Ay," replied the minister, "but the Celt and the Lowland Scot make a fine blend ; little Bell should be a grand character by-and-bye. Good night, Dalmoy, we'll send the wee lassie home in the morning." " Thank ye kindly, sir ; dinna let her trouble ye again, Mistress Forbes, ye're just ower guid til her." And Dalmoy went home to try to explain matters to his wife, and induce her to forgive Bell, for being so "different frae ither folk."

When Mr. Lorimer saw the two bright faces that greeted him next morning he smiled his wise smile. "Open confession is good for the soul," he said quaintly. Esme was not to be outdone in generosity by her friend. "I was as naughty as Bell," she exclaimed, with the grave frankness of a child whose motives are never misconstrued. "I think I was the naughtiest, for I made her angry first." "How was that?" asked the minister, whose popularity with children lay partly in the fact that he always met them on their own ground, without condescension or seeming effort. "I said her doll was a horrid old fright!" said his daughter. " That was not kind," said her father seriously "She's called Maria," went on Esme. "I don't like that name; do you, daddy?" "What's in a name?" said her father, smiling "Her nose is broke," said Bell shyly.

"An' she's not as bonny as she was. But I have to love her best because I've known her the longest." She was looking at the minister with her adorable blue eyes full of anxiety; she blushed painfully over her explanation, but went on to the end with a gentle stedfastness. "Quite right, my dear," he replied kindly, "but now eat your breakfast. What use will be made of such faithfulness in the years to come?" he mused, glancing across the table at his sister. "It is as rare as it is beautiful, but doubtfully commendable in so young a woman!" Mrs. Forbes was not intellectual; she seldom attempted to follow her brother in his metaphysical disquisitions. But she was eminently practical, and the occasion was one which might be turned to good account. " Esme must never say rude or unkind things to her guests about their belongings ; and Bell must learn to control her temper, and be gentle and sweet to everybody."

" Yes," said both the children meekly, and the episode ended for them. But as the years went on Bell's fiery temper seemed to cool, as she learned the wisdom of self control, till it became almost like a mythical legend that she had flown into these passions as a child. Her affections on the contrary, only deepened as they grew wider, for the sunny sweetness of her mother's nature predominating, made her a general favourite, and her beauty, which in a more self-conscious girl might have been a drawback, was acknowledged as readily as the kindness of her manner. First in her regard she held Dalmoy, and her cousin Annie, but running them close came Esme and the minister, for love and admiration were quick to spring up in her heart, and once rooted there, died hard

Chapter III

When merry milk-maids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay. The sun had been up scarcely three hours, but already the household of Dalmoy had been astir for half that time. The heavy dew was on the garden-flowers that looked to the West, and still lay in the shadow of the farm-buildings, but in the yard at the back, the bright beams were drawing out the freshest fragance of the morning from every leaf and blade of grass. The cows lowed from the byre as the smell of the fresh-stacked hay came to their nostrils on the soft wind ; by-and-bye the milking would be over, and they would issue solemnly one by one from the narrow doorway, to take the well known road to their pasture — moving heavily and slow, with but a single thought behind their great wide foreheads, the juicy ripeness of the grass that awaited them — springing round their feet all the day long.