Books: Heather and Snow

G >> George MacDonald >> Heather and Snow

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How the waking comes, who can tell! God knows what he wants us to do,
and what we can do, and how to help us. What I have to tell is that,
the next morning, Mrs. Gordon came down to breakfast, and finding her
son already seated at the table, came up behind him, without a word set
the bottle with the last glass of whisky in it before him, went to her
place at the table, gave him one sorrowful look, and sat down.

His heart understood, and answered with a throb of joy so great that he
knew it first as pain.

Neither spoke until breakfast was almost over. Then Francis said,

'You've grown so much younger, mother, it is quite time you took to
riding again! I've been buying a horse for you. Remembering the sort of
pony you bought for me, I thought I should like to try whether I could
not please you with a horse of my buying.'

'Silly boy!' she returned, with a rather pitiful laugh, 'do you suppose
at my age I'm going to make a fool of myself on horseback? You forget
I'm an old woman!'

'Not a bit of it, mother! If ever you rode as David Barclay says you
did, I don't see why you shouldn't ride still. He's a splendid
creature! David told me you liked a big fellow. Just put on your habit,
mammy, and we'll take a gallop across, and astonish the old man a bit.'

'My dear boy, I have no nerve! I'm not the woman I was! It's my own
fault, I know, and I'm both sorry and ashamed.'

'We are both going to try to be good, mother dear!' faltered Francis.

The poor woman pressed her handkerchief with both hands to her face,
and wept for a few moments in silence, then rose and left the room. In
an hour she was ready, and out looking for Francis. Her habit was a
little too tight for her, but wearable enough. The horses were sent
for, and they mounted.

CHAPTER XLI

TWO HORSEWOMEN

There was at Corbyknowe a young, well-bred horse which David had
himself reared: Kirsty had been teaching him to carry a lady. For her
hostess in Edinburgh, discovering that she was fond of riding and that
she had no saddle, had made her a present of her own: she had not used
it for many years, but it was in very good condition, and none the
worse for being a little old-fashioned. That same morning Kirsty had
put on a blue riding-habit, which also lady Macintosh had given her,
and was out on the highest slope of the farm, hoping to catch a sight
of the two on horseback together, and so learn that her scheme was a
success. She had been on the outlook for about an hour, when she saw
them coming along between the castle and Corbyknowe, and went straight
for a certain point in the road so as to reach it simultaneously with
them. For she had just spied a chance of giving Gordon the opportunity
which her father had told her he was longing for, of saying something
about her to his mother.

'Who can that be?' said Mrs. Gordon as they trotted gently along, when
she spied the lady on horseback. 'She rides well! But she seems to be
alone! Is there really nobody with her?'

As she spoke, the young horse came over a _dry-stane-dyke_ in fine
style.

'Why, she's an accomplished horsewoman!' exclaimed Mrs. Gordon. 'She
must be a stranger! There's not a lady within thirty miles of Weelset
can ride like that!'

'No such stranger as you think, mother!' rejoined Francis. 'That's
Kirsty Barclay of Corbyknowe.'

'Never, Francis! The girl rides like a lady!'

Francis smiled, perhaps a little triumphantly. Something like what lay
in the smile the mother read in it, for it roused at once both her
jealousy and her pride. _Her_ son to fall in love with a girl that was
not even a lady! A Gordon of Weelset to marry a tenant's daughter!
Impossible!

Kirsty was now in the road before them, riding slowly in the same
direction. It was the progress, however, not the horse that was slow:
his frolics, especially when the other horses drew near, kept his rider
sufficiently occupied.

Mrs. Gordon quickened her pace, and passed without turning her head or
looking at her, but so close, and with so sudden a rush that Kirsty's
horse half wheeled, and bounded over the dyke by the roadside. Her
rudeness annoyed her son, and he jumped his horse into the field and
joined Kirsty, letting his mother ride on, and contenting himself with
keeping her in sight. After a few moments' talk, however, he proposed
that they should overtake her, and cutting off a great loop of the
road, they passed her at speed, and turned and met her. She had by this
time got a little over her temper, and was prepared to behave with
propriety, which meant--the dignity becoming her.

'What a lovely horse you have, Miss Barclay!' she said, without other
greeting. 'How much do you want for him?'

'He is but half-broken,' answered Kirsty, 'or I would offer to change
with you. I almost wonder you look at him from the back of your own!'

'He is a beauty--is he not? This is my first trial of him. The laird
gave me him only this morning. He is as quiet as a lamb.'

'There, Donal,' said Kirsty to her horse, 'tak example by yer betters!
Jist luik hoo he stan's!--The laird has a true eye for a horse, ma'am,'
she went on, 'but he always says you gave it him.'

'Always! hm!' said Mrs. Gordon to herself, but she looked kindly at her
son.

'How did you learn to ride so well, Kirsty?' she asked.

'I suppose I got it from my father, ma'am! I began with the cows.'

'Ah, how is old David?' returned Mrs. Gordon. 'I have seen him once or
twice about the castle of late, but have not spoken to him.'

'He is very well, thank you.--Will you not come up to the Knowe and
rest a moment? My mother will be very glad to see you.'

'Not to-day, Kirsty. I haven't been on horseback for years, and am
already tired. We shall turn here. Good-morning!'

'Good-morning, ma'am! Good-bye, Mr. Gordon!' said Kirsty cheerfully, as
she wheeled her horse to set him straight at a steep grassy brae.

CHAPTER XLII

THE LAIRD AND HIS MOTHER

The laird and his mother sat and looked at Kirsty as her horse tore up
the brae.

'She can ride--can't she, mother?' said Francis.

'Well enough for a hoiden,' answered Mrs. Gordon.

'She rides to please her horse now, but she'll have him as quiet as
yours before long,' rejoined her son, both a little angry and a little
amused at her being called a hoiden who was to him like an angel grown
young with aeonian life.

'Yes,' resumed his mother, as if she _would_ be fair, 'she does ride
well! If only she were a lady, that I might ask her to ride with me!
After all it's none of my business what she is--so long as _you_ don't
want to marry her!' She concluded, with an attempt at a laugh.

'But I do want to marry her, mother!' rejoined Francis.

A short year before, his mother would have said what was in her heart,
and it would not have been pleasant to hear; but now she was afraid of
her son, and was silent. But it added to her torture that she must be
silent. To be dethroned in castle Weelset by the daughter of one of her
own tenants, for as such she thought of them, was indeed galling. 'The
impudent quean!' she said to herself, 'she's ridden on her horse into
the heart of the laird!' But for the wholesome consciousness of her own
shame, which she felt that her son was always sparing, she would have
raged like a fury.

'You that might have had any lady in the land!' she said at length.

'If I might, mother, it would be just as vain to look for her equal.'

'You might at least have shown your mother the respect of choosing a
lady to sit in her place! You drive me from the house!'

'Mother,' said Francis, 'I have twice asked Kirsty Barclay to be my
wife, and she has twice refused me.'

'You may try her again: she had her reasons! She never meant to let you
slip! If you got disgusted with her afterwards, she would always have
her refusal of you to throw in your teeth.'

Francis laid his hand on his mother's, and stopped her horse.

'Mother, you compel me!' he said. 'When I came home ill, and, as I
thought, dying, you called me bad names, and drove me from the house.
Kirsty found me in a hole in the earth, actually dying then, and saved
my life.'

'Good heavens, Francis! Are you mad still? How dare you tell such
horrible falsehoods of your own mother? You never came near me! You
went straight to Corbyknowe!'

'Ask Mrs. Bremner if I speak the truth. She ran out after me, but could
not get up with me. You drove me out; and if you do not know it now,
you do not need to be told how it is that you have forgotten it.'

She knew what he meant, and was silent.

'Then Kirsty went to Edinburgh, to sir Haco Macintosh, and with his
assistance brought me to my right mind. If it were not for Kirsty, I
should be in my grave, or wandering the earth a maniac. Even alive and
well as I am, I should not be with you now had she not shown me my
duty'

'I thought as much! All this tyranny of yours, all your late insolence
to your mother, comes from the power of that low-born woman over you! I
declare to you, Francis Gordon, if you marry her, I will leave the
house.'

He made her no answer, and they rode the rest of the way in silence.
But in that silence things grew clearer to him. Why should he take
pains to persuade his mother to a consent which she had no right to
withhold? His desire was altogether reasonable: why should its
fulfilment depend on the unreason of one who had not strength to order
her own behaviour? He had to save her, not to please her, gladly as he
would have done both!

When he had helped her from the saddle, he would have remounted and
ridden at once to Corbyknowe, but feared leaving her. She shut herself
in her room till she could bear her own company no longer, and then
went to the drawing-room, where Francis read to her, and played several
games of backgammon with her. Soon after dinner she retired, saying her
ride had wearied her; and the moment Francis knew she was in bed, he
got his horse, and galloped to the Knowe.

CHAPTER XLIII

THE CORONATION

When he arrived, there was no light in the house: all had gone to rest.
Unwilling to disturb the father and mother, he rode quietly to the back
of the house, where Kirsty's room looked on the garden. He called her
softly. In a moment she peeped out, then opened her window.

'Cud ye come doon a minute, Kirsty?' said Francis.

'I'll be wi' ye in less time,' she replied; and he had hardly more than
dismounted, when she was by his side.

He told her what had passed between him and his mother since she left
them.

'It's a rael bonny nicht!' said Kirsty, 'and we'll jist tak oor time to
turn the thing ower--that is, gien ye bena tired, Francie. Come, we'll
put the beastie up first.'

She led the horse into the dark stable, took his bridle off, put a
halter on him, slackened his girths, and gave him a feed of corn--all
in the dark; which things done, she and her lover set out for the Horn.

The whole night seemed thinking of the day that was gone. All doing
seemed at an end, yea God himself to be resting and thinking. The peace
of it sank into their bosoms, and filled them so, that they walked a
long way without speaking. There was no wind, and no light but the
starlight. The air was like the clear dark inside some diamonds. The
only sound that broke the stillness as they went was the voice of
Kirsty, sweet and low--and it was as if the dim starry vault thought,
rather than she uttered, the words she quoted:--

'Summer Night, come from God,
On your beauty, I see,
A still wave has flowed
Of Eternity!'

At a certain spot on the ridge of the Horn, Francis stopped.

'This is whaur ye left me this time last year, Kirsty,' he said;'--left
me wi' my Maker to mak a man o' me. It was 'maist makin me ower again!'

There was a low stone just visible among the heather; Kirsty seated
herself upon it. Francis threw himself among the heather, and lay
looking up in her face.

'That mother o' yours is 'maist ower muckle for ye, Francie!' said
Kirsty.

'It's no aften, Kirsty, ye tell me what I ken as weel 's yersel!'
returned Francis.

'Weel, Francie, ye maun tell _me_ something the night!--Gien it wudna
mismuve ye, I wad fain ken hoo ye wan throu that day we pairtit here.'

Without a moment's hesitation, Francis began the tale--giving her to
know, however, that in what took place there was much he did not
understand so as to tell it again.

When he made an end, Kirsty rose and said,

'Wad ye please to sit upo' that stane, Francie!'

In pure obedience he rose from the heather, and sat upon the stone.

She went behind him, and clasped his head, round the temples, with her
shapely, strong, faithful hands.

'I ken ye noo for a man, Francis. Ye hae set yersel to du _his_ wull,
and no yer ain: ye're a king; and for want o' a better croon, I croon
ye wi my twa ban's.'

Little thought Kirsty how near she came, in word and deed, to the
crowning of Dante by Virgil, as recorded toward the close of the
Purgatorio.

Then she came round in front of him, he sitting bewildered and taking
no part in the solemn ceremony save that of submission, and knelt
slowly down before him, laying her head on his knees, and saying,--

'And here's yer kingdom, Francis--my heid and my hert! Du wi' me what
ye wull.'

'Come hame wi' me, and help save my mother,' he answered, in a voice
choked with emotion.

'I wull,' she said, and would have risen; but he laid his hands on her
head, and thus they remained for a time in silence. Then they rose, and
went.

They had gone about half-way to the farm before either spoke. Then
Kirsty said,--

'Francie, there's ae thing I maun beg o' ye, and but ane--'at ye winna
desire me to tak the heid o' yer table. I canna but think it an
ungracious thing 'at a young wuman like me, the son's wife, suld put
the man's ain mother, his father's wife, oot o' the place whaur his
father set her. I'm layin doon no prenciple; I'm sayin only hoo it
affecs me. I want to come hame as her dochter, no as mistress o' the
hoose in her stead. And ye see, Francie, that'll gie ye anither haud o'
her, agen disgracin o' hersel! Promise me, Francie, and I'll sune tak
the maist pairt o' the trouble o' her aff o' yer han's.'

'Ye're aye richt, Kirsty!' answered Francis. 'As ye wull.'

CHAPTER XLIV

KIRSTY'S TOCHER

The next morning, Kirsty told her parents that she was going to marry
Francie.

'Ye du richt, my bairn,' said her father. 'He's come in sicht o' 's
high callin, and it's no possible for ye langer to refuse him.'

'But, eh! what am I to du wantin ye, Kirsty?' moaned her mother. 'Ye
min', mother,' answered Kirsty, 'hoo I wad be oot the lang day wi'
Steenie, and ye never thoucht ye hadna me!'

'Na, never. I aye kenned I had the twa o' ye.'

'Weel, it's no a God's-innocent but a deil's-gowk I'll hae to luik
efter noo, and I maun come hame ilka possible chance to get hertenin
frae you and my father, or I winna be able to bide it. Eh, mother,
efter Steenie, it'll be awfu' to spen' the day wi' _her_! It's no 'at
ever she'll be fou: I s' see to that!--it's 'at she'll aye be toom!--
aye ringin wi' toomness!'

Here Kirsty turned to her father, and said,--

'Wull ye gie me a tocher, father?'

'Ay wull I, lassie,--what ye like, sae far as I hae 't to gie.'

'I want Donal--that's a'. Ye see I maun ride a heap wi' the puir thing,
and I wud fain hae something aneth me 'at ye gae me! The cratur'll aye
hing to the Knowe, and whan I gie his wull he'll fess me hame o'
himsel.--I wud hae likit things to bide as they are, but she wud hae
worn puir Francie to the verra deid!'

CHAPTER XLV

KIRSTY'S SONG

Mrs. Gordon manages the house and her reward is to sit at the head of
the table. But she pays Kirsty infinitely more for the privilege than
any but Kirsty can know, in the form of leisure for things she likes
far better than housekeeping--among the rest, for the discovery of such
songs as this, the last of hers I have seen:--

LOVE IS HOME.

Love is the part, and love is the whole;
Love is the robe, and love is the pall;
Ruler of heart and brain and soul,
Love is the lord and the slave of all!
I thank thee, Love, that thou lovest me;
I thank thee more that I love thee.

Love is the rain, and love is the air;
Love is the earth that holdeth fast;
Love is the root that is buried there,
Love is the open flower at last!
I thank thee, Love all round about,
That the eyes of my love are looking out.

Love is the sun, and love is the sea;
Love is the tide that comes and goes;
Flowing and flowing it comes to me;
Ebbing and ebbing to thee it flows!
Oh my sun, and my wind, and tide!
My sea, and my shore, and all beside!

Light, oh light that art by showing;
Wind, oh wind that liv'st by motion;
Thought, oh thought that art by knowing;
Will, that art born in self-devotion!
Love is you, though not all of you know it;
Ye are not love, yet ye always show it!

Faithful creator, heart-longed-for father,
Home of our heart-infolded brother,
Home to thee all thy glories gather--
All are thy love, and there is no other!
O Love-at-rest; we loves that roam--
Home unto thee, we are coming home!

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