Books: Heather and Snow
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George MacDonald >> Heather and Snow
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As to Steenie, the elder of David's children, he was yet unborn when
his father, partly in consequence of a wound from which he never quite
recovered, met with rather a serious accident through a young horse in
the harvest-field, and the report reached his wife that he was killed.
To the shock she thus received was generally attributed the peculiarity
of the child, prematurely born within a month after. He had long passed
the age at which children usually begin to walk, before he would even
attempt to stand, but he had grown capable of a speed on all-fours that
was astonishing. When at last he did walk, it was for more than two
years with the air of one who had learned a trick; and throughout his
childhood and a great part of his boyhood, he continued to go on
all-fours rather than on his feet.
CHAPTER VI
MAN-STEENIE
The sleeping youth began at length to stir: it was more than an hour
before he quite woke up. Then all at once he started to his feet with
his eyes wide open, putting back from his forehead the long hair which
fell over them, and revealing a face not actually looking old, but
strongly suggesting age. His eyes were of a pale blue, with a hazy,
mixed, uncertain gleam in them, reminding one of the shifty shudder and
shake and start of the northern lights at some heavenly version of the
game of Puss in the Corner. His features were more than good; they
would have been grand had they been large, but they were peculiarly
small. His head itself was very small in proportion to his height, his
forehead, again, large in proportion to his head, while his chin was
such as we are in the way of calling strong. Although he had been all
day acting a dog in charge of sheep, and treating the collie as his
natural companion, there was, both in his countenance and its
expression, a remarkable absence of the animal. He had a kind of
exaltation in his look; he seemed to expect something, not at hand, but
sure to come. His eyes rested for a moment, with a love of absolute
devotion, on the face of his sister; then he knelt at her feet, and as
if to receive her blessing, bowed his head before her. She laid her
hand upon it, and in a tone of unutterable tenderness said,
'Man-Steenie!' Instantly he rose to his feet. Kirsty rose also, and
they went out of the hut.
The sunlight had not left the west, but had crept round some distance
toward the north. Stars were shining faint through the thin shadow of
the world. Steenie stretched himself up, threw his arms aloft, and held
them raised, as if at once he would grow and reach toward the infinite.
Then he looked down on Kirsty, for he was taller than she, and pointed
straight up, with the long lean forefinger of one of the long lean arms
that had all day been legs to the would-be dog--into the heavens, and
smiled. Kirsty looked up, nodded her head, and smiled in return. Then
they started in the direction of home, and for some time walked in
silence. At length Steenie spoke. His voice was rather feeble, but
clear, articulate, and musical.
'My feet's terrible heavy the nicht, Kirsty!' he said. 'Gien it wasna
for them, the lave o' me wud be up and awa. It's terrible to be hauden
doon by the feet this gait!'
'We're a' hauden doon the same gait, Steenie. Maybe it's some waur for
you 'at wud sae fain gang up, nor for the lave o' 's 'at's mair willin
to bide a wee; but it 'll be the same at the last whan we're a' up
there thegither.'
'I wudna care sae muckle gien he didna grip me by the queets
(_ankles_), like! I dinna like to be grippit by the queets! He winna
lat me win at the thongs!'
'Whan the richt time comes,' returned Kirsty solemnly, 'the bonny man
'll lowse the thongs himsel.'
'Ay, ay! I ken that weel. It was me 'at tellt ye. He tauld me himsel!
I'm thinkin I'll see him the nicht, for I'm sair hauden doon, sair
needin a sicht o' 'im. He's whiles lang o' comin!'
'I dinna won'er 'at ye're sae fain to see 'im, Steenie!' 'I _am_ that;
fain, fain!'
'Ye'll see 'im or lang. It's a fine thing to hae patience.'
'Ye come ilka day, Kirsty: what for sudna he come ilka nicht?'
'He has reasons, Steenie. He kens best.'
'Ay, he kens best. I ken naething but him--and you, Kirsty!'
Kirsty said no more. Her heart was too full.
Steenie stood still, and throwing back his head, stared for some
moments up into the great heavens over him. Then he said:
'It's a bonny day, the day the bonny man bides in! The ither day--the
day the lave o' ye bides in--the day whan I'm no mysel but a sair
ooncomfortable collie--that day's ower het--and sometimes ower cauld;
but the day he bides in is aye jist what a day sud be! Ay, it's that!
it's that!'
He threw himself down, and lay for a minute looking up into the sky.
Kirsty stood and regarded him with loving eyes.
'I hae a' the bonny day afore me!' he murmured to himself. 'Eh, but
it's better to be a man nor a beast Snootie's a fine beast, and a gran'
collie, but I wud raither be mysel--a heap raither--aye at han' to
catch a sicht o' the bonny man! Ye maun gang hame to yer bed, Kirsty!--
Is't the bonny man comes til ye i' yer dreams and says, "Gang til him,
Kirsty, and be mortal guid til him"? It maun be surely that!'
'Willna ye gang wi' me, Steenie, as far as the door?' rejoined Kirsty,
almost beseechingly, and attempting no answer to what he had last said.
It was at times such as this that Kirsty knew sadness. When she had to
leave her brother on the hillside all the long night, to look on no
human face, hear no human word, but wander in strangest worlds of his
own throughout the slow dark hours, the sense of a separation worse
than death would wrap her as in a shroud. In his bodily presence,
however far away in thought or sleep or dreams his soul might be, she
could yet tend him with her love; but when he was out of her sight, and
she had to sleep and forget him, where was Steenie, and how was he
faring? Then he seemed to her as one forsaken, left alone with his
sorrows to an existence companionless and dreary. But in truth Steenie
was by no means to be pitied. However much his life was apart from the
lives of other men, he did not therefore live alone. Was he not still
of more value than many sparrows? And Kirsty's love for him had in it
no shadow of despair. Her pain at such times was but the indescribable
love-lack of mothers when their sons are far away, and they do not know
what they are doing, what they are thinking; or when their daughters
seem to have departed from them or ever the silver cord be loosed, or
the golden bowl broken. And yet how few, when the air of this world is
clearest, ever come into essential contact with those they love best!
But the triumph of Love, while most it seems to delay, is yet
ceaselessly rushing hitherward on the wings of the morning.
'Willna ye gang as far as the door wi' me, Steenie?' she said.
'I wull do that, Kirsty. But ye're no feart, are ye?'
'Na, no a grain! What would I be feart for?'
'Ow, naething! At this time there's naething oot and aboot to be feart
at. In what ye ca' the daytime, I'm a kin' o' in danger o' knockin
mysel again things; I never du that at nicht.'
As he spoke he sprang to his feet, and they walked on. Kirsty's heart
seemed to swell with pain; for Steenie was at once more rational and
more strange than usual, and she felt the farther away from him. His
words were very quiet, but his eyes looked full of stars.
'I canna tell what it is aboot the sun 'at maks a dog o' me!' he said.
'He's hard-like, and hauds me oot, and gars me hing my heid, and feel
as gien I wur a kin' o' ashamed, though I ken o' naething. But the
bonny nicht comes straucht up to me, and into me, and gangs a' throuw
me, and bides i' me; and syne I luik for the bonny man!'
'I wuss ye wud lat me bide oot the nicht wi' ye, Steenie!'
'What for that, Kirsty? Ye maun sleep, and I'm better my lane.'
'That's jist hit!' returned Kirsty, with a deep-drawn sigh. 'I canna
bide yer bein yer lane, and yet, do what I like, I canna, whiles, even
i' the daytime, win a bit nearer til ye! Gien only ye was as little as
ye used to be, whan I cud carry ye aboot a' day, and tak ye intil my
ain bed a' nicht! But noo we're jist like the sun and the mune!-whan
ye're oot' I'm in; and whan ye're in--well I'm no oot' but my sowl's
jist as blear-faced as the mune i' the daylicht to think ye'll be awa
again sae sune!--But it _canna_ gang on like this to a' eternity, and
that's a comfort!'
'I ken naething aboot eternity. I'm thinkin it'll a' turn intil a lown
starry nicht, wi' the bonny man intil't. I'm sure o' ae thing, and that
only--'at something 'ill be putten richt 'at's far frae richt the noo;
and syne, Kirsty, ye'll hae yer ain gait wi' me, and I'll be sae far
like ither fowk: idiot 'at I am, I wud be sorry to be turnt a'thegither
the same as some! Ye see I ken sae muckle they ken naething aboot, or
they wudna be as they are! It maybe disna become _me_ to say't, ony
mair nor Gowk Murnock 'at sits o' the pu'pit stair,--but eh the styte
(_nonsense_) oor minister dings oot o' his ain heid, as gien it war the
stoor oot o' the bible-cushion! It's no possible he's ever seen the
bonny man as I hae seen him!'
'We'll a' hae to come ower to you, Steenie, and learn frae ye what ye
ken. We'll hae to mak _you_ the minister, Steenie!'
'Na, na; I ken naething for ither fowk--only for mysel; and that's
whiles mair nor I can win roun', no to say gie again!' 'Some nicht
ye'll lat me bide oot wi' ye a' nicht? I wud sair like it, Steenie!'
'Ye sail, Kirsty; but it maun be some nicht ye hae sleepit a' day.'
'Eh, but I cudna do that, tried I ever sae hard!'
'Ye cud lie i' yer bed ony gait, and mak the best o' 't! _Ye_ hae
naebody, I ken, to _gar_ you sleep!'
They went all the rest of the way talking thus, and Kirsty's heart grew
lighter, for she seemed to get a little nearer to her brother. He had
been her live doll and idol ever since his mother laid him in her arms
when she was little more than three years old. For though Steenie was
nearly a year older than Kirsty, she was at that time so much bigger
that she was able, not indeed to carry him, but to nurse him on her
knees. She thought herself the elder of the two until she was about
ten, by which time she could not remember any beginning to her carrying
of him. About the same time, however, he began to grow much faster, and
she found before long that only upon her back could she carry him any
distance.
The discovery that he was the elder somehow gave a fresh impulse to her
love and devotion, and intensified her pitiful tenderness. Kirsty's was
indeed a heart in which the whole unhappy world might have sought and
found shelter. She had the notion, notwithstanding, that she was
harder-hearted than most, and therefore better able to do things that
were right but not pleasant.
CHAPTER VII
CORBYKNOWE
'Ye'll come in and say a word to mother, Steenie?' said Kirsty, as they
came near the door of the house.
It was a long, low building, with a narrow paving in front from end to
end, of stones cast up by the plough. Its walls, but one story high,
rough-cast and white-washed, shone dim in the twilight. Under a thick
projecting thatch the door stood wide open, and from the kitchen, whose
door was also open, came the light of a peat-fire and a fish-oil-lamp.
Throughout the summer Steenie was seldom in the house an hour of the
twenty-four, and now he hesitated to enter. In the winter he would keep
about it a good part of the day, and was generally indoors the greater
part of the night, but by no means always.
While he hesitated, his mother appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.
She was a tall, fine-looking woman, with soft gray eyes, and an
expression of form and features which left Kirsty accounted for.
'Come awa in by, Steenie, my man!' she said, in a tone that seemed to
wrap its object in fold upon fold of tenderness, enough to make the
peat-smoke that pervaded the kitchen seem the very atmosphere of the
heavenly countries. 'Come and hae a drappy o' new-milkit milk, and a
piece (_a piece of bread_)'.
Steenie stood smiling and undecided on the slab in front of the
doorstep.
'Dreid naething, Steenie,' his mother went on. 'There's no are to
interfere wi' yer wull, whatever it be. The hoose is yer ain to come
and gang as ye see fit. But ye ken that, and Kirsty kens that, as
weel's yer father and mysel.'
'Mother, I ken what ye say to be the trowth, and I hae a gran' pooer o'
believin the trowth. But a'body believes their ain mither: that's i'
the order o' things as they war first startit! Still I wud raither no
come in the nicht. I wud raither hand awa and no tribble ye wi' mair o'
the sicht o' me nor I canna help--that is, till the cheenge come, and
things be set richt. I dinna aye ken what I'm aboot, but I aye ken 'at
I'm a kin' o' a disgrace to ye, though I canna tell hoo I'm to blame
for 't. Sae I'll jist bide theroot wi' the bonny stars 'at's aye
theroot, and kens a' aboot it, and disna think nane the waur o' me.'
'Laddie! laddie! wha on the face o' God's yerth thinks the waur o' ye
for a wrang dune ye?--though wha has the wyte o' that same I daurna
think, weel kennin 'at a'thing's aither ordeent or allooed, makin
muckle the same. Come winter, come summer, come richt, come wrang, come
life, come deith, what are ye, what can ye be, but my ain, ain laddie!'
Steenie stepped across the threshold and followed his mother into the
kitchen, where the pot was already on the fire for the evening's
porridge. To hide her emotion she went straight to it, and lifted the
lid to look whether boiling point had arrived. The same instant the
stalwart form of her husband appeared in the doorway, and there stood
for a single moment arrested.
He was a good deal older than his wife, as his long gray hair, among
other witnesses, testified. He was six feet in height, and very erect,
with a rather stiff, military carriage. His face wore an expression of
stern goodwill, as if he had been sent to do his best for everybody,
and knew it.
Steenie caught sight of him ere he had taken a step into the kitchen.
He rushed to him, threw his arms round him, and hid his face on his
bosom.
'Bonny, bonny man!' he murmured, then turned away and went back to the
fire.
His mother was casting the first handful of meal into the pot. Steenie
fetched a _three-leggit creepie_ and sat down by her, looking as if he
had sat there every night since first he was able to sit.
The farmer came forward, and drew a chair to the fire beside his son.
Steenie laid his head on his father's knee, and the father laid his big
hand on Steenie's head. Not a word was uttered. The mother might have
found them in her way had she been inclined, but the thought did not
come to her, and she went on making the porridge in great contentment,
while Kirsty laid the cloth. The night was as still in the house as in
the world, save for the bursting of the big blobs of the porridge. The
peat fire made no noise.
The mother at length took the heavy pot from the fire, and, with what
to one inexpert might have seemed wonderful skill, poured the porridge
into a huge wooden bowl on the table. Having then scraped the pot
carefully that nothing should be lost, she put some water into it, and
setting it on the fire again, went to a hole in the wall, took thence
two eggs, and placed them gently in the water.
She went next to the dairy, and came back with a jug of the richest
milk, which she set beside the porridge, whereupon they drew their
seats to the table--all but Steenie.
'Come, Steenie,' said his mother, 'here's yer supper.'
'I dinna care aboot ony supper the nicht, mother,' answered Steenie.
'Guidsake, laddie, I kenna hoo ye live!' she returned in an accent
almost of despair,
'I'm thinkin I dinna need sae muckle as ither fowk,' rejoined Steenie,
whose white face bore testimony that he took far from nourishment
enough. 'Ye see I'm no a' there,' he added with a smile, 'sae I canna
need sae muckle!'
'There's eneuch o' ye there to fill my hert unco fou,' answered his
mother with a deep sigh. 'Come awa, Steenie, my bairn!' she went on
coaxingly. 'Yer father winna ate a moufu' gien ye dinna: ye'll see
that!--Eh, Steenie,' she broke out, 'gien ye wad but tak yer supper and
gang to yer bed like the lave o' 's! It gars my hert swall as gien 't
wud burst like a blob to think o' ye oot i' tho mirk nicht! Wha's to
tell what michtna be happenin ye! Oor herts are whiles that sair, yer
father's and mine, i' oor beds, 'at we daurna say a word for fear the
tane set the tither greetin.'
'I'll bide in, gien that be yer wull,' replied Steenie; 'but eh, gien
ye kent the differ to me, ye wudna wuss 't. I seldom sleep at nicht as
ye ken, and i' the hoose it's jist as gien the darkness wan inside o'
me and was chokin me.'
'But it's as dark theroot as i' the hoose--whiles, onygait!'
'Na, mother; it's never sae dark theroot but there's licht eneuch to
ken I'm theroot and no i' the hoose. I can aye draw a guid full breath
oot i' the open.'
'Lat the laddie gang his ain gait, 'uman,' interposed David. 'The thing
born in 'im 's better for him nor the thing born in anither. A man maun
gang as God made him.'
'Ay, whether he be man or dog!' assented Steenie solemnly.
He drew his stool close to his father where he sat at the table, and
again laid his head on his knee. The mother sighed but said nothing.
She looked nowise hurt, only very sad. In a minute, Steenie spoke
again:
'I'm thinkin nane o' ye kens,' he said, 'what it's like whan a' the
hillside 's gien up to the ither anes!'
'What ither anes?' asked his mother. 'There can be nane there but yer
ain lane sel!'
'Ay, there 's a' the lave o' 's,' he rejoined, with a wan smile.
The mother looked at him with something almost of fear in her eyes of
love.
'Steenie has company we ken little aboot,' said Kirsty. 'I whiles think
I wud gie him my wits for his company.'
'Ay, the bonny man!' murmured Steenie. '--I maun be gauin!'
But he did not rise, did not even lift his head from his father's knee:
it would be rude to go before the supper was over--the ruder that he
was not partaking of it!
David had eaten his porridge, and now came the almost nightly
difference about the eggs. Marion had been 'the perfect spy o' the
time' in taking them from the pot; but when she would as usual have her
husband eat them, he as usual declared he neither needed nor wanted
them. This night, however, he did not insist, but at once proceeded to
prepare one, with which, as soon as it was nicely mixed with salt, he
began to feed Steenie. The boy had been longer used to being thus fed
than most children, and having taken the first mouthful instinctively,
now moved his head, but without raising it from his knee, so that his
father might feed him more comfortably. In this position he took every
spoonful given him, and so ate both the eggs, greatly to the delight of
the rest of the company.
A moment more and Steenie got up. His father rose also.
'I'll convoy ye a bit, my man,' he said.
'Eh, na! ye needna that, father! It's near-ban' yer bedtime! I hae
naegait to be convoyt. I'll jist be aboot i' the nicht--maybe a
stane's-cast frae the door, maybe the tither side o' the Horn. Here or
there I'm never frae ye. I think whiles I'm jist like are o' them 'at
ye ca' deid: I'm no awa; I'm only deid! I'm aboot somegait!'
So saying, he went. He never on any occasion wished them good-night:
that would be to leave them, and he was not leaving them! he was with
them all the time!
CHAPTER VIII
DAVID AND HIS DAUGHTER
The instant he was gone, Kirsty went a step or two nearer to her
father, and, looking up in his face, said:
'I saw Francie Gordon the day, father.'
'Weel, lassie, I reckon that wasna ony ferly (_strange occurrence_)!
Whaur saw ye him?'
'He cam to me o' the Hornside, whaur I sat weyvin my stockin, ower the
bog on 's powny--a richt bonny thing, and clever--a new are he's gotten
frae 's mither. And it's no the first time he's been owre there to see
me sin' he cam hame!'
'Whatfor gaed he there? That wasna the best o' places to gang ridin
in!'
'He kenned whaur he was likest to see me: it was me he wantit.'
'He wantit you, did he? And he's been mair nor ance efter ye?--Whatfor
didna ye tell me afore, Kirsty?'
'We war bairns thegither, ye ken, father, and I never ance thoucht the
thing worth fashin ye aboot till the day. We've aye been used to
Francie comin and gaein! I never tellt my mither onything, he said, and
I tell her a'thing worth tellin, and mony a thing forby. I aye leuch at
him as I wud at a bairn till the day. He spak straucht oot the day, and
I did the same, and angert him; and syne he angert me.'
'And whatfor are ye tellin me the noo?'
'Cause it cam intil my heid 'at maybe it would be better--no 'at it
maks ony differ I can see.'
During this conversation Marion was washing the supper-things, putting
them away, and making general preparation for bed. She heard every
word, and went about her work softly that she might hear, never opening
her mouth to speak.
'There's something ye want to tell me and dinna like, lassie!' said
David. 'Gien ye be feart at yer father, gang til yer mither.'
'Feart at my father! I wad be, gien I bed onything to be ashamet o'.
Syne I micht gang to my mither, I daursay--I dinna ken.'
'Ye wud that, lassie. Fathers maun sometimes be fearsome to
lass-bairns!'
'Whan I'm feart at you, father, I'll be a gey bit on i' the ill gait!'
returned Kirsty, with a solemn face, looking straight into her father's
eyes.
'Than it'll never be, or I maun hae a heap to blame mysel for. I think
whiles, gien bairns kenned the terrible wyte their fathers micht hae to
dree for no duin better wi' them, they wud be mair particlar to hand
straucht. I hae been ower muckle taen up wi' my beasts and my craps--
mair, God forgie me! nor wi' my twa bairns; though, he kens, ye're mair
to me, the twa, than oucht else save the mither o' ye!'
'The beasts and the craps cudna weel du wi' less; and there was aye oor
mither to see efter hiz!'
'That's true, lassie! I only houp it wasna greed at the hert o' me! At
the same time, wha wud I be greedy for but yersels?--Weel, and what's
it a' aboot? What garred ye come to me aboot Francie? I'm some feart
for him whiles, noo 'at he's sae muckle oot o' oor sicht. The laddie's
no by natur an ill laddie--far frae 't! but it's a sore pity he cudna
hae been a' his father's, and nane o' him his mither's!'
'That wudna hae been sae weel contrived, I doobt!' remarked Kirsty.
'There wudna hae been the variety, I'm thinkin!'
'Ye're richt there, lass!--But what's this aboot Francie?' 'Ow
naething, father, worth mentionin! The daft loon wud hae bed me promise
to merry him--that's a'!'
'The Lord preserve's!--Aff han'?'
'There's no tellin what micht hae been i' the heid o' 'im: he didna win
sae far as to say that onygait!'
'God forbid!' exclaimed her father with solemnity, after a short pause.
'I'm thinkin God's forbidden langsyne!' rejoined Kirsty.
'What said ye til 'im, lassie?'
'First I leuch at him--as weel as I can min' tho nonsense o' 't--and
ca'd him the gowk he was; and syne I sent him awa wi' a flee in 's lug:
hadna he the impidence to fa' oot upo' me for carin mair aboot Steenie
nor the likes o' him! As gien ever _he_ cud come 'ithin sicht o'
Steenie!'
Her father looked very grave.
'Are ye no pleased, father? I did what I thoucht richt.'
'Ye cudna hae dune better, Kirsty. But I'm sorry for the callan, for eh
but I loed his father! Lassie, for his father's sake I cud tak Francie
intil the hoose, and work for him as for you and Steenie--though it's
little guid Steenie ever gets o' me, puir sowl!'
'Dinna say that, father. It wud be an ill thing for Steenie to hae
onybody but yersel to the father o' 'im! A muckle pairt o' the nicht he
wins ower in loein at you and his mother.'
'And yersel, Kirsty.'
'I'm thinkin I hae my share i' the daytime.'
'And hoo, think ye, gangs the lave o' the nicht wi' 'im?'
'The bonny man has the maist o' 't, I dinna doobt, and what better cud
we desire for 'im!--But, father, gien Francie come back wi' the same
tale--I dinna think he wull efter what I telled him, but he may--what
wud ye hae me say til 'im?'
'Say what ye wull, lassie, sae lang as ye dinna lat him for a moment
believe there's a grain o' possibility i' the thing. Ye see, Kirsty,--'
'Ye dinna imagine, father, I cud for ae minute think itherwise aboot it
nor ye du yersel! Div I no ken 'at his father gied him in chairge to
you? and haena I therefore to luik efter him? Didna ye tell me a' aboot
yer gran' freen' and hoo, and hoo lang ye had loed him? and didna that
mak Francie my business as weel's yer ain? I'm verra sure his father
wud never appruv o' ony gaeins on atween him and a lassie sic like's
mysel; and fearna ye, father, but I s' hand him weel ootby. No that
it's ony tyauve (_struggle_) to me, though I aye likit Francie! Haena I
my ain Steenie?'
'Glaidly wud I shaw Francie the ro'd to sic a wife as ye wud mak him,
my bonny Kirsty! But ye see clearly the thing itsel's no to be thoucht
upon.--Eh, Kirsty, but it's gran' to an auld father's hert to hear ye
tak yer pairt in his devours efter sic a wumanly fashion!'
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