Books: Heather and Snow
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George MacDonald >> Heather and Snow
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Francis knew nothing of all this; he only felt he must knock at the
door behind which Kirsty lived. Kirsty could not open the door to him,
but there was one who could, and Francis could knock! 'God help me!' he
cried, as he lay on his face to live, where once he had lain on his
face to die. For the rising again is the sepulchre. The world itself is
one vast sepulchre for the heavenly resurrection. We are all busy
within the walls of our tomb burying our dead, that the corruptible may
perish, and the incorruptible go free. Francis Gordon came out of that
earth-house a risen man: his will was born. He climbed again to the
spot where Kirsty and he had sat together, and there, with the vast
clear heaven over his head, threw himself once more on his face, and
lifted up his heart to the heart whence he came.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE NEIGHBOURS
He had eaten nothing since the morning, and felt like one in a calm
ethereal dream as he walked home to Weelset in the soft dusk of an
evening that would never be night, but die into the day. No one saw him
enter the house, no one met him on the ancient spiral stair, as, with
apprehensive anticipation, he sought the drawing-room.
He had just set his foot on the little landing by its door when a wild
scream came from the room. He flung the door open and darted in. His
mother rushed into his arms, enveloped from foot to head in a cone of
fire. She was making, in wild flight, for the stair, to reach which
would have been death to her. Francis held her fast, but she struggled
so wildly that he had actually to throw her on the floor ere he could
do anything to deliver her. Then he flung on her the rug, the
table-cover, his coat, and one of the window-curtains, tearing it
fiercely from the rings. Having got all these close around her, he rang
the bell with an alarum-peal, but had to ring three times, for service
in that house was deadened by frequent fury of summons. Two of the
maids--there was no manservant in the house now--laid their mistress on
a mattress, and carried her to her room. Gordon's hands and arms were
so severely burned that he could do nothing beyond directing: he thought
he had never felt pain before.
The doctor was sent for, and came speedily. Having examined them, he
said Mrs. Gordon's injuries would have caused him no anxiety but for
her habits: their consequences might be very serious, and every
possible care must be taken of her.
Disabled as he was, Francis sat by her till the morning; and the
night's nursing did far more for himself than for his mother. For, as
he saw how she suffered, and interpreted her moans by what he had felt
and was still feeling in his own hands and arms, a great pity awoke in
him. What a lost life his mother's had been! Was this to be the end of
it? The old kindness she had shown him in his childhood and youth,
especially when he was in any bodily trouble, came back upon him, and a
new love, gathering up in it all the intermittent love of days long
gone by, sprang to life in his heart, and he saw that the one thing
given him to do was to deliver his mother.
The task seemed, if not easy, yet far from irksome, so long as she
continued incapable of resisting, annoying, or deceiving him; but the
time speedily came when he perceived that the continuous battle rather
than war of duty and inclination must be fought and in some measure won
in himself ere he could hope to stir up any smallest skirmish of sacred
warfare in the soul of his mother. What added to the acerbities of this
preliminary war was, that the very nature of the contest required
actions which showed not only unbecoming in a son, but mean and
disgraceful in themselves. There was no pride, pomp, or circumstance of
glorious war in this poor, domestic strife, this seemingly sordid and
unheroic, miserably unheroic, yet high, eternal contest! But now that
Francis was awake to his duty, the best of his nature awoke to meet its
calls, and he drew upon a growing store of love for strength to thwart
the desires of her he loved. 'Entire affection hateth nicer hands,' and
Francis learned not to mind looking penurious and tyrannical, selfish,
heartless, and unsympathetic, in the endeavour to be truly loving and
lovingly true. He had not Kirsty to support him, but he could now go
higher than to Kirsty for the help he needed; he went to the same
fountain from which Kirsty herself drew her strength. At the same time
frequent thought of her filled him with glad assurance of her sympathy,
which was in itself a wondrous aid. He neither saw nor sought to see
her: he would not go near her before at least she already knew from
other sources what would give her the hope that he was trying to do
right.
The gradually approaching strife between mother and son burst out the
same moment in which the devilish thirst awoke to its cruel tyranny. It
was a mercy to both of them that it re-asserted itself while yet the
mother was helpless toward any indulgence of her passion. Francis was
no longer afraid of her, but it was the easier because of her
condition, although not the less painful for him to frustrate her
desire. Neither did it make it the less painful that already her
countenance, which the outward fire had not half so much disfigured as
that which she herself had applied inwardly, had begun to remind him of
the face he had long ago loved a little, but this only made him, if
possible, yet more determined that not one shilling of his father's
money should go to the degradation of his mother. That she lusted and
desired to have, was the worst of reasons why she should obtain! A
compelled temperance was of course in itself worthless, but that alone
could give opportunity for the waking of what soul was left her. Puny
as it was, that might then begin to grow; it might become aware of the
bondage to which it had been subjected, and begin to long for liberty.
In carrying out his resolution, Francis found it specially hard to
fight, along with the bad in his mother, the good in himself: the lower
forms of love rose against the higher, and had to be put down. To see
the scintillation of his mother's eyes at the sound of any liquid, and
know how easily he could give her an hour of false happiness, tore his
heart, while her fierce abuse hardly passed the portals of his brain.
Her condition was so pitiful that her words could not make him angry.
She would declare it was he who set her clothes on fire, and as soon as
she was up again she would publish to the world what a coward and sneak
he showed himself from morning to night. Had Francis been what he once
was, his mother and he must soon have come as near absolute hatred as
is possible to the human; but he was now so different that the worst
answer he ever gave her was,
'Mother, you _know_ you don't mean it!'
'I mean it with all my heart and soul, Francis,' she replied, glaring
at him.
He stooped to kiss her on the forehead, she struck him on the face so
that the blood sprang. He went back a step, and stood looking at her
sadly as he wiped it away.
'Crying!' she said. 'You always were a coward, Francis!'
But the word had no more any sting for him.
'I'm all right, mother. My nose got in the way!' he answered, restoring
his handkerchief to his pocket.
'It's the doctor puts him up to it!' said Mrs. Gordon to herself. 'But
we shall soon be rid of him now! If there's any more of this nonsense
then, I shall have to shut Francis up again! That will teach him how to
behave to his mother!'
When at length Mrs. Gordon was able to go about the house again, it was
at once to discover that things were not to be as they had been. Then
deepened the combat, and at the same time assumed aspects and
occasioned situations which in the eye of the world would have seemed
even ludicrously unbecoming. The battle of the warrior is with confused
noise and garments rolled in blood, but how much harder and worthier
battles are fought, not in shining armour, but amid filth and squalor
physical as well as moral, on a field of wretched and wearisome
commonplace!
It was essential to success that there should be no traitor among the
servants, and Francis had made them understand what his measures were.
Nor was there in this any betrayal of a mother's weakness, for Mrs.
Gordon's had long been more than patent to all about her. When,
therefore, he one day found her, for the first time, under the
influence of strong drink, he summoned them and told them that, sooner
than fail of his end, he would part with the whole house-hold, and
should be driven to it if no one revealed how the thing had come to
pass. Thereupon the youngest, a mere girl, burst into tears, and
confessed that she had procured the whisky. Hardly thinking it possible
his mother should have money in her possession, so careful was he to
prevent it, he questioned, and found that she had herself provided the
half-crown required, and that her mistress had given her in return a
valuable brooch, an heirloom, which was hers only to wear, not to give.
He took this from her, repaid her the half-crown, gave her her wages up
to the next term, and sent Mrs. Bremner home with her immediately. Her
father being one of his own tenants, he rode to his place the next
morning, laid before him the whole matter, and advised him to keep the
girl at home for a year or two.
This one evil success gave such a stimulus to Mrs. Gordon's passion
that her rage with her keeper, which had been abating a little, blazed
up at once as fierce as at first. But, miserable as the whole thing
was, and trying as he found the necessary watchfulness, Gordon held out
bravely. At the end of six months, however, during which no fresh
indulgence had been possible to her, he had not gained the least ground
for hoping that any poorest growth of strength, or even any waking of
desire toward betterment, had taken place in her.
All this time he had not been once to Corbyknowe. He had nevertheless
been seeing David Barclay three or four times a week. For Francis had
told David how he stood with Kirsty, and how, while refusing him, she
had shown him his duty to his mother. He told him also that he now saw
things with other eyes, and was endeavouring to do what was right; but
he dared not speak to her on the subject lest she should think, as she
would, after what had passed between them, be well justified in
thinking, that he was doing for her sake what ought to be done for its
own. He said to him that, as he was no man of business, and must give
his best attention to his mother, he found it impossible for the
present to acquaint himself with the state of the property, or indeed
attend to it in any serviceable manner; and he begged him, as his
father's friend and his own, to look into his affairs, and, so far as
his other duties would permit, place things on at least a better
footing.
To this petition, David had at once and gladly consented.
He found everything connected with the property in a sad condition. The
agent, although honest, was weak, and had so given way to Mrs. Gordon
that much havoc had been made, and much money wasted. He was now in bad
health, and had lost all heart for his work. But he had turned nothing
to his own advantage, and was quite ready, under David's supervision,
to do his best for the restoration of order, and the curtailment of
expenses.
All that David now saw in his intercourse with the young laird, went to
convince him that he was at length a man of conscience, cherishing
steady purposes. He reported at home what he saw, and said what he
believed, and his wife and daughter perceived plainly that his heart
was lighter than it had been for many a day. Kirsty listened, said
little, asked a question here and there, and thanked God. For her
father brought her not only the good news that Francis was doing his
best for his mother, but that he had begun to open his eyes to the fact
that he had his part in the wellbeing of all on his land; that the
property was not his for the filling of his pockets, or for the
carrying out of schemes of his own, but for the general and individual
comfort and progress.
'I do believe,' said David, 'the young laird wud fain mak o' the lan's
o' Weelset a spot whauron the e'en o' the bonny man micht rist as he
gaed by!'
Mrs. Gordon's temper seemed for a time to have changed from fierce to
sullen, but by degrees she began to show herself not altogether
indifferent to the continuous attentions of her inexorable son. It is
true she received them as her right, but he yielded her a right
immeasurably beyond that she would have claimed. He would play draughts
or cribbage with her for hours at a time, and every day for months read
to her as long as she would listen--read Scott and Dickens and Wilkie
Collins and Charles Reade.
One day, after much entreaty, she consented to go out for a drive with
him, when round to the door came a beautiful new carriage, and such a
pair of horses as she could not help expressing satisfaction with.
Francis told her they were at her command, but if ever she took unfair
advantage of them, he would send both carriage and horses away.
She was furious at his daring to speak so to _her_, and had almost
returned to her room, but thought better of it and went with him. She
did not, however, speak a word to him the whole way. The next morning
he let her go alone. After that, he sometimes went with her, and
sometimes not: the desire of his heart was to behold her a free woman.
She was quite steady for a while, and her spirits began to return. The
hopes of her son rose high; he almost ceased to fear.
CHAPTER XXXIX
KIRSTY GIVES ADVICE
It was again midsummer, and just a year since they parted on the Horn,
when Francis appeared at Corbyknowe, and found Kirsty in the kitchen.
She received him as if nothing had ever come between them, but at once
noting he was in trouble, proposed they should go out together. It was
a long way to be silent, but they had reached the spot, whence they
started for the race recorded in my first chapter, ere either of them
said a word.
'Will ye no sit, Kirsty?' said Francis at length.
For answer she dropped on the same stone where she was sitting when she
challenged him to it, and Francis took his seat on its neighbour.
'I hae had a some sair time o' 't sin' I shawed ye plain hoo little I
was worth yer notice, Kirsty!' he began.
'Ay,' returned Kirsty, 'but ilka hoor o' 't hes shawn what the rael
Francie was!'
'I kenna, Kirsty. A' I can say is--'at I dinna think nearhan sae muckle
o' mysel as I did than.'
'And I think a heap mair o' ye,' answered Kirsty. 'I canna but think ye
upo' the richt ro'd noo, Francie!'
'I houp I am, but I'm aye fin'in' oot something 'at 'ill never du.'
'And ye'll keep fin'in' oot that sae lang 's there 's onything left but
what 's like himsel.'
'I un'erstan ye, Kirsty. But I cam to ye the day, no to say onything
aboot mysel, but jist 'cause I cudna du wantin yer help. I wudna hae
presumed but that I thoucht, although I dinna deserve 't, for auld
kin'ness ye wud say what ye wud advise.'
'I'll du that, Francie--no for auld kin'ness, but for kin'ness never
auld. What's wrang wi' ye?'
'Kirsty, wuman, she's brocken oot again!'
'I dinna won'er. I hae h'ard o' sic things.'
'It's jist taen the pith oot o' me! What _am_ I to du?'
'Ye canna du better nor weel; jist begin again.'
'I had coft her a bonny cairriage, wi' as fine a pair as ever ye saw,
Kirsty, as I daursay yer father has telled ye. And they warna lost upon
her, for she had aye a gleg ee for a horse. Ye min' yon powny?--And up
til yesterday, a' gaed weel, till I was thinkin I cud trust her
onygait. But i' the efternune, as she was oot for an airin, are o' the
horses cuist a shue, and thinkin naething o' the risk til a human sowl,
but only o' the risk til the puir horse, the fule fallow stoppit at a
smithy nae farrer nor the neist door frae a public, and tuik the horse
intil the smithy, lea'in the smith's lad at the held o' the ither
horse. Sae what suld my leddy but oot upo' the side _frae_ the smithy,
and awa roon the back o' the cairriage to the public, and in! Whether
she took onything there I dinna ken, but she maun hae broucht a bottle
hame wi her, for this mornin she was fou--fou as e'er ye saw man in
market!'
He broke down, and wept like a child.
'And what did ye du?' asked Kirsty.
'I said naething. I jist gaed to the coachman and gart him put his
horses tu, and tak his denner wi' him, and m'unt the box, and drive
straucht awa til Aberdeen, and lea' the carriage whaur I boucht it, and
du siclike wi' the horses, and come hame by the co'ch.'
As he ended the sad tale, he glanced up at Kirsty, and saw her
regarding him with a look such as he had never seen, imagined, or
dreamed of before. It lasted but a moment; her eyes dropt, and she went
on with the knitting which, as in the old days, she had brought with
her.
'Noo, Kirsty, what am I to du neist?' he said.
'Hae ye naething i' yer ain min'?' she asked.
'Naething.'
'Weel, we'll awa hame!' she returned, rising. 'Maybe, as we gang, we'll
get licht!'
They walked in silence. Now and then Francis would look up in Kirsty's
face, to see if anything was coming, but saw only that she was sunk in
thought: he would not hurry her, and said not a word. He knew she would
speak the moment she had what she thought worth saying.
Kirsty, recalling what her father had repeatedly said of Mrs. Gordon's
management of a horse in her young days, had fallen awondering how one
who so well understood the equine nature, could be so incapable of
understanding the human; for certainly she had little known either
Archibald Gordon or David Barclay, and quite as little her own son.
Having come to the conclusion that the incapacity was caused by
overpowering affection for the one human creature she ought not to
love, Kirsty found her thoughts return to the sole faculty her father
yielded Mrs. Gordon--that of riding a horse as he ought to be ridden.
Thereupon came to her mind a conclusion she had lately read somewhere--
namely, that a man ought to regard his neighbour as specially
characterized by the possession of this or that virtue or capacity,
whatever it might be, that distinguished him; for that was as the
door-plate indicating the proper entrance to his inner house. A moment
more and Kirsty thought she saw a way in which Francis might gain a
firmer hold on his mother, as well as provide her with a pleasure that
might work toward her redemption.
Francie,' she said, 'I hae thoucht o' something. My father has aye
said, and ye ken he kens, 'at yer mother was a by ordinar guid rider in
her young days, and this is what I wud hae ye du: gang straucht awa,
whaurever ye think best, and buy for her the best luikin, best
tempered, handiest, and easiest gaein leddy's-horse ye can lay yer
ban's upo'. Ye hae a gey fair beast o' yer ain, my father says, and ye
maun jist ride wi' her whaurever she gangs.'
'I'll du 't, Kirsty. I canna gang straucht awa, I doobt, though; I fear
she has whusky left, and there's no sayin what she micht du afore I wan
back. I maun gang hame first.'
'I'm no clear upo' that. Ye canna weel gang and rype (_search_) a' the
kists and aumries i' the hoose she ca's her ain! That wud anger her
terrible. Nor can ye weel lay ban's upon her, and tak frae her by
force. A wuman micht du that, but a man, and special a wuman's ain ae
son, canna weel du 't--that is, gien there's ony ither coorse 'at can
be followt. It seems to me ye maun tak the risk o' her bottle. And it
may be no ill thing 'at she sud disgrace hersel oot and oot. Onygait
wi' bein awa, and comin back wi' the horse i' yer ban' ye'll come afore
her like bringin wi' ye a fresh beginnin, a new order o' things like,
and that w'y av'ide words wi' her, and words maun aye be av'idit.'
Francis remained in thoughtful silence.
'I hae little fear,' pursued Kirsty, 'but we'll get her frae the drink
a'thegither, and the houp is we may get something better putten intil
her. Bein fou whiles, isna the main difficulty. But I beg yer pardon,
Francie! I maunna forget 'at she's your mother!'
'Gien ye wud but tak her and me thegither, Kirsty, it wud be a gran'
thing for baith o' 's! Wi' you to tak the half o' 't, I micht stan' up
un'er the weicht o' my responsibility!'
'I'm takin my share o' that, onygait, daurin to advise ye,
Francie!--Noo gang, laddie; gang straucht awa and buy the horse.'
'I maun rin hame first, to put siller i' my pooch! I s' hand oot o' her
gait.'
'Gang til my faither for't. I haena a penny, but he has aye plenty!'
'I maun hae my horse; there's nae co'ch till the morn's mornin.'
'Gangna near the place. My father 'ill gie ye the gray mear--no an ill
are ava! She'll tak ye there in four or five hoors, as _ye_ ride. Only,
min' and gie her a pickle corn ance, and meal and watter twise upo' the
ro'd. Gien ye seena the animal yere sure 'ill please her, gang further,
and comena hame wantin 't.'
CHAPTER XL
MRS. GORDON
When Mrs. Gordon came to herself, she thought to behave as if nothing
had happened, and rang the bell to order her carriage. The maid
informed her that the coachman had driven away with it before lunch,
and had not said where he was going.
'Driven away with it!' cried her mistress, starting to her feet; 'I
gave him no orders!'
'I saw the laird giein him directions, mem,' rejoined the maid.
Mrs. Gordon sat down again. She began to remember what her son had said
when first he gave her the carriage.
'Where did he send him?' she asked.
'I dinna ken, mem.'
'Go and ask the laird to step this way.'
'Please, mem, he's no i' the hoose. I ken, for I saw him gang--hoors
ago.'
'Did he go in the carriage?'
'No, mem; he gaed upo' 's ain fit.'
'Perhaps he's come home by this time!'
'I'm sure he's no that, mem.'
Mrs. Gordon went to her room, all but finished the bottle of whisky,
and threw herself on her bed.
Toward morning she woke with aching head and miserable mind. Now
dozing, now tossing about in wretchedness, she lay till the afternoon.
No one came near her, and she wanted no one.
At length, dizzy and despairing, her head in torture, and her heart
sick, she managed to get out of bed, and, unable to walk, literally
crawled to the cupboard in which she had put away the precious
bottle:--joy! there was yet a glass in it! With the mouth of it to her
lips, she was tilting it up to drain the last drop, when the voice of
her son came cheerily from the drive, on which her window looked down:
'See what I've brought you, mother!' he called.
Fear came upon her; she took the bottle from her mouth, put it again in
the cupboard, and crept back to her bed, her brain like a hive buzzing
with devils.
When Francis entered the house, he was not surprised to learn that she
had not left her room. He did not try to see her.
The next morning she felt a little better, and had some tea. Still she
did not care to get up. She shrank from meeting her son, and the abler
she grew to think, the more unwilling she was to see him. He came to
her room, but she heard him coming, turned her head the other way, and
pretended to be asleep. Again and again, almost involuntarily, she half
rose, remembering the last of the whisky, but as often lay down again,
loathing the cause of her headache.
Stronger and stronger grew her unwillingness to face her son: she had
so thoroughly proved herself unfit to be trusted! She began to feel
towards him as she had sometimes felt toward her mother when she had
been naughty. She began to see that she could make her peace, with him
or with herself, only by acknowledging her weakness. Aided by her
misery, she had begun to perceive that she could not trust herself, and
ought to submit to be treated as the poor creature she was. She had
resented the idea that she could not keep herself from drink if she
pleased, for she knew she could; but she had not pleased! How could she
ever ask him to trust her again!
What further passed in her, I cannot tell. It is an unfailing surprise
when anyone, more especially anyone who has hitherto seemed without
strength of character, turns round and changes. The only thing Mrs.
Gordon then knew as helping her, was the strong hand of her son upon
her, and the consciousness that, had her husband lived, she could never
have given way as she had. But there was another help which is never
wanting where it can find an entrance; and now first she began to pray,
'Lead me not into temptation.'
There was one excuse which David alone knew to make for her--that her
father was a hard drinker, and his father before him.
Doubtless, during all the period of her excesses, the soul of the woman
in her better moments had been ashamed to know her the thing she was.
It could not, when she was at her worst, comport with her idea of a
lady, poor as that idea was, to drink whisky till she did not know what
she did next. And when the sleeping woman God made, wakes up to see in
what a house she lives, she will soon grasp at besom and bucket, nor
cease her cleansing while spot is left on wall or ceiling or floor.
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