Books: Heather and Snow
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George MacDonald >> Heather and Snow
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CHAPTER XXVII
HOW MARION FARED
In the meantime the mother of the family, not herself at the moment in
danger, began to suffer the most. It dismayed her to find, when she
came down, that Steenie had, as she thought, insisted on accompanying
Kirsty, but it was without any great anxiety that she set about
preparing food with which to follow them.
She was bending over her fire, busy with her cooking, when all at once
the wind came rushing straight down the chimney, blew sleet into the
kitchen, blew soot into the pot, and nearly put out the fire. It was
but a small whirlwind, however, and presently passed.
She went to the door, opened it a little way, and peeped out: the
morning was a chaos of blackness and snow and wind. She had been born
and brought up in a yet wilder region, but the storm threatened to be
such as in her experience was unparalleled.
'God preserve 's!' cried the poor woman, 'can this be the en' o'
a'thing? Is the earth turnin intil a muckle snaw-wreath, 'at whan a'
are deid, there may be nae miss o' fowk to beery them? Eh, sic a
sepulchrin! Mortal wuman cudna carry a basket in sic a leevin
snaw-drift! Losh, she wudna carry hersel far! I maun bide a bit gien I
wad be ony succour till them! It's my basket they'll be wantin', no me;
and i' this drift, basket may flee but it winna float!'
She turned to her cooking as if it were the one thing to save the
world. Let her be prepared for the best as well as for the worst!
Kirsty might find Phemy past helping, and bring Steenie home! Then
there was David, at that moment fighting for his life, perhaps!--if he
came home now, or any of the three, she must be ready to save their
lives! they must not perish on her hands. So she prepared for the
possible future, not by brooding on it, but by doing the work of the
present. She cooked and cooked, until there was nothing more to be done
in that way, and then, having thus cleared the way for it, sat down and
cried. There was a time for tears: the Bible said there was! and when
Marion's hands fell into her lap, their hour--and not till then, was
come. To go out after Kirsty would have been the bare foolishness of
suicide, would have been to abandon her husband and children against
the hour of their coming need: one of the hardest demands on the
obedience of faith is--to do nothing; it is often so much easier to do
foolishly!
But she did not weep long. A moment more and she was up and at work
again, hanging a great kettle of water on the crook, and blowing up the
fire, that she might have hot bottles to lay in every bed. Then she
assailed the peat-stack in spite of the wind, making to it journey
after journey, until she had heaped a great pile of peats in the corner
nearest the hearth.
The morning wore on; the storm continued raging; no news came from the
white world; mankind had vanished in the whirling snow. It was well the
men had gone home, she thought: there would only have been the more in
danger, the more to be fearful about, for all would have been abroad in
the drift, hopelessly looking for one another! But oh Steenie, Steenie!
and her ain Kirsty!
About half-past ten o'clock the wind began to abate its violence, and
speedily sank to a calm, wherewith the snow lost its main terror. She
looked out; it was falling in straight, silent lines, flickering slowly
down, but very thick. She could find her way now! Hideous fears
assailed her, but she banished them imperiously: they should not sap
the energy whose every jot would be wanted! She caught up the bottle of
hot milk she had kept ready, wrapped it in flannel, tied it, with a
loaf of bread, in a shawl about her waist, made up the fire, closed the
door, and set out for Steenie's house on the Horn.
CHAPTER XXVIII
HUSBAND AND WIFE
Two hours or so earlier, David, perceiving some Assuagement in the
storm, and his host having offered to go at once to the doctor and the
schoolmaster, had taken his mare, and mounted to go home. He met with
no impediment now except the depth of the snow, which made it so hard
for the mare to get along that, full of anxiety about his children, he
found the distance a weary one to traverse.
When at length he reached the Knowe, no one was there to welcome him.
He saw, however, by the fire and the food, that Marion was not long
gone. He put up the gray, clothed her and fed her, drank some milk,
caught up a quarter of cakes, and started for the hill.
The snow was not falling so thickly now, but it had already almost
obliterated the footprints of his wife. Still he could distinguish them
in places, and with some difficulty succeeded in following their track
until it was clear which route she had taken. They indicated the
easier, though longer way--not that by the earth-house, and the father
and daughter passed without seeing each other. When Kirsty got to the
farm, her father was following her mother up the hill.
When David reached the Hillfauld, the name he always gave Steenie's
house, he found the door open, and walked in. His wife did not hear
him, for his iron-shod shoes were balled with snow. She was standing
over the body of Phemy, looking down on the white sleep with a solemn,
motherly, tearless face. She turned as he drew near, and the pair, like
the lovers they were, fell each in the other's arms. Marion was the
first to speak.
'Eh Dauvid! God be praised I hae yersel!'
'Is the puir thing gane?' asked her husband in an awe-hushed tone,
looking down on the maid that was not dead but sleeping.
'I doobt there's no doobt aboot that,' answered Marion. 'Steenie, I was
jist thinkin, wud be sair disapp'intit to learn 'at there was. Eh, the
faith o' that laddie! H'aven to him's sic a rale place, and sic a
hantle better nor this warl', 'at he wad not only fain be there himsel,
but wad hae Phemy there--ay, gie it war ever sae lang afore himsel! Ye
see he kens naething aboot sin and the saicrifeece, and he disna
un'erstan 'at Phemy was aye a gey wull kin' o' a lassie!'
'Maybe the bonny man, as Steenie ca's him,' returned David, 'may hae as
muckle compassion for the puir thing i' the hert o' 'im as Steenie
himsel!'
'Ow ay! Whatfor no! But what can the bonny man himsel du, a' bein
sattlet?'
'Dinna leemit the Almichty, wuman--and that i' the verra moment whan
he's been to hiz--I wunna say mair gracious nor ord'nar, for that cudna
be--but whan he's latten us see a bit plainer nor common that he is
gracious! The Lord o' mercy 'ill manage to luik efter the lammie he
made, ae w'y or ither, there as here. Ye daurna say he didna du his
best for her here, and wull he no du his best for her there as weel?'
'Doobtless, Dauvid! But ye fricht me! It souns jist rank papistry--
naither mair nor less! What _can_ he du? He canna dee again for ane 'at
wudna turn til 'im i' this life! The thing's no to be thoucht!'
'Hoo ken ye that, wuman? Ye hae jist thoucht it yersel! Gien I was you,
I wudna daur to say what he cudna du! I' the meantime, what he maks me
able to houp, I'm no gaein to fling frae me!'
David was a true man: he could not believe a thing with one half of his
mind, and care nothing about it with the other. He, like his Steenie,
believed in the bonny man about in the world, not in the mere image of
him standing in the precious shrine of the New Testament.
After a brief silence--
'Whaur's Kirsty and Steenie?' he said.
'The Lord kens; I dinna.'
'They'll be safe eneuch.'
'It's no likly.'
'It's sartin,' said David.
And therewith, by the side of the dead, he imparted to his wife the
thoughts that drove misery from his heart as he sat on his mare in the
storm with the reins on her neck, nor knew whither she went.
'Ay, ay,' returned his wife after a pause, 'ye're unco richt, Dauvid,
as aye ye are! And I'm jist conscience-stricken to think 'at a' my life
lang I hae been ready to murn ower the sorrow i' _my_ hert, never
thinkin o' the glaidness i' God's! What call hed I to greit ower
Steenie, whan God maun hae been aye sair pleased wi' him! What sense is
there in lamentation sae lang's God's eident settin richt a'! His
hert's the safity o' oors. And eh, glaid sure he maun be, wi sic a lot
o' his bairns at hame aboot him!'
'Ay,' returned David with a sigh, thinking of his old comrade and the
son he had left behind him, 'but there's the prodigal anes!'
'Thank God, we hae nae prodigal!'
'Aye, thank him!' rejoined David; 'but _he_ has prodigals that trouble
him sair, and we maun see til't 'at we binna thankless auld prodigals
oorsels!'
Again followed a brief silence.
'Eh, but isna it strange?' said Marion. 'Here's you and me stanin
murnin ower anither man's bairn, and naewise kennin what's come o' oor
ain twa!--Dauvid, what can hae come o' Steenie and Kirsty?'
'The wull o' God's what's come o' them; and God hand me i' the grace o'
wussin naething ither nor that same!'
'Haud to that, Dauvid, and hand me till't: we kenna what's comin!'
'The wull o' God's comin,' insisted David. 'But eh,' he added, 'I'm
concernt for puir Maister Craig!'
'Weel, lat's awa hame and see whether the twa bena there afore 's!--Eh,
but the sicht o' the bonny corp maun hae gien Steenie a sair hert! I
wudna won'er gien he never wan ower't i' this life!'
'But what'll we du aboot it or we gang? It's the storm may come on
again waur nor ever, and mak it impossible to beery her for a month!'
'We cudna carry her hame atween's, Dauvid--think ye?'
'Na, na; it's no as gien it was hersel! And cauld's a fine keeper--
better nor a' the embalmin o' the Egyptians! Only I'm fain to hand
Steenie ohn seen her again!'
'Weel, lat's hap her i' the bonny white snaw!' said Marion. 'She'll
keep there as lang as the snaw keeps, and naething 'ill disturb her
till the time comes to lay her awa!'
'That's weel thoucht o'!' answered David. 'Eh, wuman, but it's a bonny
beerial compared wi' sic as I hae aften gien comrade and foe alike!'
They went out and chose a spot close by the house where the snow lay
deep. There they made a hollow, and pressed the bottom of it down hard.
Then they carried out and laid in it the death-frozen dove, and heaped
upon her a firm, white, marble-like tomb of heavenly new-fallen snow.
Without re-entering it, they closed the door of Steenie's refuge, and
leaving the two deserted houses side by side, made what slow haste they
could, with anxious hearts, to their home. The snow was falling softly,
for the wind was still asleep.
CHAPTER XXIX
DAVID, MARION, KIRSTY, SNOOTIE, AND WHAT WAS LEFT OF STEENIE
Kirsty saw their shadows darken the wall, and turning from her work at
the dresser, ran to the door to meet them.
'God be thankit!' cried David.
Marion gave her daughter one loving look, and entering cast a fearful,
questioning glance around the kitchen.
'Whaur's Steenie?' she said.
'He's wi' Phemy, I'm thinkin,' faltered Kirsty.
'Lassie, are ye dementit?' her mother almost screamed. 'We're this
minute come frae there!'
'He _is_ wi' Phemy, mother. The Lord canna surely hae pairtit them,
gangin in maist haudin hans!'
'Kirsty, I haud ye accoontable for my Steenie!' cried Marion, sinking
on a chair, and covering her face with her hands.
'It's the wull o' God 'at's accoontable for him, wuman!' answered
David, sitting down beside her, and laying hold of her arm.
She burst into terrible weeping.
'He maun be sair at hame wi' the bonny man!' said Kirsty.
'Lassie,' said David, 'you and me and yer mither, we hae naething left
but be better bairns, and gang the fester to the bonny man!--Whaur's
what's left o' the laddie, Kirsty?'
'Lyin i' my hoose, as he ca'd it. Mine was i' the yerd, his i' the air,
he said. He was awa afore I wan to the kitchen. He had jist killt
himsel savin at Phemy, rinnin and fechtin on, upo' the barest chance o'
savin her life; and sae whan he set off again to gang til her, no bidin
for me, he was that forfouchten 'at he hed a bluid-brak in 's breist,
and was jist able, and nae mair, to creep intil the weem oot o' the
snaw. He didna like the place, and yet had a kin' o' a notion o' the
bonny man bein there whiles. I'm thinkin Snootie maun hae won til him,
and run hame for help, for I faund him maist deid upo' the door-step.'
David stooped and patted the dog.
'Na, that cudna be,' he said, 'or he wud never hae left him, I'm
thinkin.--Ye're a braw dog,' he went on to the collie, 'and I'm
thankfu' yer no lyin wi yer tongue oot!--But guid comes to guid
doggies!' he added, fondling the creature, who had risen, and feebly
set his paws on his knee.
'And ye left him lyin there! Hoo hed ye the hert, Kirsty?' sobbed the
mother reproachfully.
'Mother, he was better aff nor ony ither ane o' 's! I winna say,
mother, 'at I lo'ed him sae weel as ye lo'ed him, for maybe that wudna
be natur--I dinna ken; and I daurna say 'at I lo'e him as the bonny man
lo'es his brithers and sisters a'; but I hae yet to learn hoo to lo'e
him better. Onygait, the bonny man wantit him, and he has him! And whan
I left him there, it was jist as gien I hield him oot i' my airms and
said, "Hae, Lord; tak him: he's yer ain!"'
'Ye're i' the richt, Kirsty, my bonny bairn!' said David. 'Yer mither
and me, we was never but pleased wi' onything 'at ever ye did.--Isna
that true, Mar'on, my ain wuman?'
'True as his word!' answered the mother, and rose, and went to her
room.
David sought the yard, saw that all was right with the beasts, and fed
them. Thence he made his way to his workshop over the cart-shed, where
in five minutes he constructed, with two poles run through two sacks, a
very good stretcher, carrying it to the kitchen, where Kirsty sat
motionless, looking into the fire.
'Kirsty,' he said, 'ye're 'maist as strong's a man, and I wudna
wullinly ony but oor ain three sels laid finger upo' what's left o'
Steenie: are ye up to takin the feet o' 'im to fess him hame? Here's
what'll mak it 'maist easy!'
Kirsty rose at once.
'A drappy o' milk, and I'm ready,' she answered. 'Wull ye no tak a
moofu' o' whusky yersel' father?'
'Na, na; I want naething,' replied David.
He had not yet learned what Kirsty went through the night before, when
he asked her to help him carry the body of her brother home through the
snow. Kirsty, however, knew no reason why she should not be as able as
her father.
He took the stretcher, and they set out, saying nothing to the mother:
she was still in her own room, and they hoped she might fall asleep.
'It min's me o' the women gauin til the sepulchre!' said David. 'Eh,
but it maun hae been a sair time til them!--a heap sairer nor this
hert-brak here!' 'Ye see they didna ken 'at he wasna deid,' assented
Kirsty, 'and we div ken 'at Steenie's no deid! He's maybe walkin aboot
wi the bonny man--or maybe jist ristin himsel a wee efter the uprisin!
Jist think o' his heid bein a' richt, and his een as clear as the bonny
man's ain! Eh, but Steenie maun be in grit glee!'
Thus talking as they went, they reached and entered the earth-house.
They found no angels on guard, for Steenie had not to get up again.
David wept the few tears of an old man over the son who had been of no
use in the world but the best use--to love and be loved. Then, one at
the head and the other at the feet, they brought the body out, and laid
it on the bier.
Kirsty went in again, and took Steenie's shoes, tying them in her
apron.
'His feet's no sic a weicht noo!' she said, as together they carried
their burden home.
The mother met them at the door.
'Eh!' she cried, 'I thoucht the Lord had taen ye baith, and left me my
lane 'cause I was sae hard-hertit til him! But noo 'at he 's broucht ye
back--and Steenie, what there is o' him, puir bairn!--I s' never say
anither word, but jist lat him du as he likes.--There, Lord, I hae
dune! Pardon thoo me wha canst.'
They carried the forsaken thing up the stair, and laid it on Kirsty's
bed, looking so like and so unlike Steenie asleep. Marion was so
exhausted, both mind and body, that her husband insisted on her
postponing all further ministration till the morning; but at night
Kirsty unclothed the untenanted, and put on it a long white nightgown.
When the mother saw it lying thus, she smiled, and wept no more; she
knew that the bonny man had taken home his idiot.
CHAPTER XXX
FROM SNOW TO FIRE
My narrative must now go a little way back in time, and a long way from
the region of heather and snow, to India in the year of the mutiny. The
regiment in which Francis Gordon served, his father's old regiment, had
lain for months besieged in a well known city by the native troops, and
had begun to know what privation meant, its suffering aggravated by
that of not a few women and children. With the other portions of the
Company's army there shut up, it had behaved admirably. Danger and
sickness, wounds and fatigue, hunger and death, had brought out the
best that was in the worst of them: when their country knew how they
had fought and endured, she was proud of them. Had their enemies,
however, been naked Zulus, they would have taken the place within a
week.
Francis Gordon had done his part, and well.
It would be difficult to analyze the effect of tho punishment Kirsty
had given him, but its influence was upon him through the whole of the
terrible time--none the less beneficent that his response to her
stinging blows was indignant rage. I dare hardly speculate what, had
she not defended herself so that he could not reach her, he might not
have done in the first instinctive motions of natural fury. It is
possible that only Kirsty's skill and courage saved him from what he
would never have surmounted the shame of--taking revenge on a woman
avenging a woman's wrong: from having deserved to be struck by a woman,
nothing but repentant shame could save him.
When he came to himself, the first bitterness of the thing over, he
could not avoid the conviction, that the playmate of his childhood,
whom once he loved best in the world, and who when a girl refused to
marry him, had come to despise him, and that righteously. The idea took
a firm hold on him, and became his most frequently recurrent thought.
The wale of Kirsty's whip served to recall it a good many nights; and
long after that had ceased either to smart or show, the thought would
return of itself in the night-watches, and was certain to come when he
had done anything his conscience called wrong, or his judgment foolish.
The officers of his mess were mostly men of character with ideas better
at least than ordinary as to what became a man; and their influence on
one by no means of a low, though of an unstable nature, was elevating.
It is true that a change into a regiment of jolly, good-mannered,
unprincipled men would within a month have brought him to do as they
did; and in another month would have quite silenced, for a time at
least, his poor little conscience; but he was at present rising. Events
had been in his favour; after reaching India, he had no time to be
idle; the mutiny broke out, he must bestir himself, and, as I have
said, the best in him was called to the front.
He was specially capable of action with show in it. Let eyes be bent
upon him, and he would go far. The presence of his kind to see and laud
was an inspiration to him. Left to act for himself, undirected and
unseen, his courage would not have proved of the highest order.
Throughout the siege, nevertheless, he was noted for a daring that
often left the bounds of prudence far behind. More than once he was
wounded--once seriously; but even then he was in four days again at
his post. His genial manners, friendly carriage, and gay endurance
rendered him a favourite with all.
The sufferings of the besieged at length grew such, and there was so
little likelihood of the approaching army being able for some time to
relieve the place, that orders were issued by the commander-in-chief to
abandon it: every British person must be out of the city before the
night of the day following. The general in charge thereupon resolved to
take advantage of the very bad watch kept by the enemy, and steal away
in silence the same night.
The order was given to the companies, to each man individually, to
prepare for the perilous attempt, but to keep it absolutely secret save
from those who were to accompany them; and so cautious was the little
English colony as well as the garrison, that not a rumour of the
intended evacuation reached the besiegers, while, throughout the lines
and in the cantonments, it was thoroughly understood that, at a certain
hour of the night, without call of bugle or beat of drum, everyone
should be ready to march. Ten minutes after that hour the garrison was
in motion. With difficulty, yet with sufficing silence, the gates were
passed, and the abandonment effected.
The first shot of the enemy's morning salutation, earlier than usual,
went tearing through a bungalow within whose shattered walls lay
Francis Gordon. In a dining-room, whose balcony and window-frame had
been smashed the day before, he still slumbered wearily, when close
past his head rushed the eighteen-pounder with its infernal scream. He
started up, to find the blood flowing from a splinter wound on his
temple and cheek-bone. A second shot struck the foot of his long chair.
He sprang from it, and hurried into his coat and waistcoat.
But how was all so still inside? Not one gun answered! Firing at such
an hour, he thought, the rebels must have got wind of their intended
evacuation. It was too late for that, but why did not the garrison
reply? Between the shots he seemed to _hear_ the universal silence.
Heavens! were their guns already spiked? If so, all was lost!--But it
was daylight! He had overslept himself! He ought to have been with his
men--how long ago he could not tell, for the first shot had taken his
watch. A third came and broke his sword, carrying the hilt of it
through the wall on which it hung. Not a sound, not a murmur reached
him from the fortifications. Could the garrison be gone? Was the hour
past? Had no one missed him? Certainly no one had called him! He rushed
into the compound. Not a creature was there! He was alone--one English
officer amid a revolted army of hating Indians!
But they did not yet know that their prey had slid from their grasp,
for they were going on with their usual gun-reveille, instead of
rushing on flank and rear of the retreating column! He might yet elude
them and overtake the garrison! Half-dazed, he hurried for the gate by
which they were to leave the city. Not a live thing save two starved
dogs did he meet on his way. One of them ran from him; the other would
have followed him, but a ball struck the ground between them, raising a
cloud of dust, and he saw no more of the dog.
He found the gate open, and not one of the enemy in sight. Tokens of
the retreat were plentiful, making the track he had to follow plain
enough.
But now an enemy he had never encountered before--a sense of loneliness
and desertion and helplessness, rising to utter desolation, all at once
assailed him. He had never in his life congratulated himself on being
alone--not that he loved his neighbour, but that he loved his
neighbour's company, making him less aware of an uneasy self. And now
first he realized that he had seen his sword-hilt go off with a round
shot, and had not caught up his revolver--that he was, in fact,
absolutely unarmed.
He quickened his pace to overtake his comrades. On and on he trudged
through nothing but rice-fields, the day growing hotter and hotter, and
his sense of desolation increasing. Two or three natives passed him,
who looked at him, he thought, with sinister eyes. He had eaten no
breakfast, and was not likely to have any lunch. He grew sick and
faint, but there was no refuge: he must walk, walk until he fell and
could walk no more! With the heat and his exertion, his hardly healed
wound began to assert itself; and by and by he felt so ill, that he
turned off the road, and lay down. While he lay, the eyes of his mind
began to open to the fact that the courage he had hitherto been so
eager to show, could hardly have been of the right sort, seeing it was
gone--evaporated clean.
He rose and resumed his walk, but at every smallest sound started in
fear of a lurking foe. With vainest regret he remembered the
long-bladed dagger-knife he had when a boy carried always in his
pocket. It was exhaustion and illness, true, that destroyed his
courage, but not the less was he a man of fear, not the less he felt
himself a coward. Again he got into a damp brake and lay down, in a
minute or two again got up and went on, his fear growing until, mainly
through consciousness of itself, it ripened into abject terror.
Loneliness seemed to have taken the shape of a watching omnipresent
enemy, out of whose diffusion death might at any moment break in some
hideous form.
It was getting toward night when at length he saw dust ahead of him,
and soon after, he descried the straggling rear of the retreating
English. Before he reached it a portion had halted for a little rest,
and he was glad to lie down in a rough cart. Long before the morning
the cart was on its way again, Gordon in it, raving with fever, and
unable to tell who he was. He was soon in friendly shelter, however,
under skilful treatment, and tenderly nursed.
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