Books: Heather and Snow
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George MacDonald >> Heather and Snow
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'Bonny, Dawvid! Ca'd ye the mistress bonny?'
'She used to be--bonny, that is, as a button or a buckle micht be
bonny. What she may be the noo, I dinna ken, for I haena set ee upon
her sin' she cam to the Knowe orderin me to sen' back Francie's powny:
she was suppercilly eneuch than for twa cornels and a corporal, but no
ill luikin. Gien she hae a spot o' beaouty left, the drink 'll tak it
or it hae dune wi' her!'
'Or she hae dune wi' hit, Dawvid! It's ta'en ae colour frae her
a'ready, and begud to gie her anither! But it concerns me mair aboot
Francie nor my leddy: what's to come o' him when a' 's gane? what'll
there be for him to come intil?'
Gladly would David have interfered, but he was helpless; he had no
legal guardianship over or for the boy! Nothing could be done till he
was a man!--'gien ever he be a man!' said David to himself with a sigh,
and the thought how much better off he was with his half-witted Steenie
than his friend with his clever Francie.
Mrs. Bremner was sister-in-law to the schoolmaster, and was then on her
way to see him and his daughter Phemy. From childhood the girl had been
in the way of going to the castle to see her aunt, and so was well
known about the place. Being an engaging child, she had become not only
welcome to the servants but something of a favourite with the mistress,
whom she amused with her little airs, and pleased with her winning
manners. She was now about fourteen, a half-blown beauty of the red and
white, gold and blue kind. She had long been a vain little thing,
approving of her own looks in the glass, and taking much interest in
setting them off, but so simple as to make no attempt at concealing her
self-satisfaction. Her pleased contemplation of this or that portion of
her person, and the frantic attempts she was sometimes espied making to
get a sight of her back, especially when she wore a new frock, were
indeed more amusing than hopeful, but her vanity was not yet so
pronounced as to overshadow her better qualities, and Kirsty had not
thought it well to take notice of it, although, being more than anyone
else a mother to her, she was already a little anxious on the score of
it, and the rather that her aunt, like her father, neither saw nor
imagined fault in her.
That the child had no mother, drew to her the heart of the girl whose
mother was her strength and joy; while gratitude to the child's father,
who, in opening for her some doors of wisdom and more of knowledge, had
put her under eternal obligations, moved her to make what return she
could. It deepened her sense of debt to Phemy that the schoolmaster did
not do for his daughter anything like what he had years long been doing
for his pupil, whence she almost felt as if she had diverted to her own
use much that rightly belonged to Phemy. At the same time she knew very
well that had she never existed the relation between the father and the
daughter would have been the same. The child of his dearly loved wife,
the schoolmaster was utterly content with his Phemy; for he felt as if
she knew everything her mother knew, had the same inward laws of being
and the same disposition, and was simply, like her, perfect.
That she should ever do anything wrong was an idea inconceivable to
him. Nor was there much chance of his discovering it if she did. When
not at work, he was constantly reading. Most people close a book
without having gained from it a single germ of thought; Mr. Craig
seldom opened one without falling directly into a brown study over
something suggested by it. But I believe that, even when thus absorbed,
Phemy was never far from his thought. At the same time, like many
Scots, while she was his one joy, he seldom showed her sign of
affection, seldom made her feel, and never sought to make her feel how
he loved her. His love was taken by him for understood by her, and was
to her almost as if it did not exist.
That his child required to be taught had scarcely occurred to the man
who could not have lived without learning, or enjoyed life without
teaching--as witness the eagerness with which he would help Kirsty
along any path of knowledge in which he knew how to walk. The love of
knowledge had grown in him to a possessing passion, paralyzing in a
measure those powers of his life sacred to life--that is, to God and
his neighbour.
Kirsty could not do nearly what she would to make up for his neglect.
For one thing, the child did not take to learning, and though she loved
Kirsty and often tried to please her, would not keep on doing anything
without being more frequently reminded of her duty than the distance
between their two abodes permitted. Kirsty had her to the farm as often
as the schoolmaster would consent to her absence, and kept her as long
as he went on forgetting it; while Phemy was always glad to go to
Corbyknowe, and always glad to get away again. For Mrs. Barclay thought
it her part to teach her household matters, and lessons of that sort
Phemy relished worse than some of a more intellectual nature. If left
with her, the moment Kirsty appeared again, the child would fling from
her whatever might be in her hand, and flee as to her deliverer from
bondage and hard labour. Then would Kirsty always insist on her
finishing what she had been at, and Phemy would obey, with the protest
of silent tears, and the airs of a much injured mortal. Had Kirsty been
backed by the child's father, she might have made something of her; but
it grew more and more painful to think of her future, when her
self-constituted guardian should have lost what influence she had over
her.
Phemy was rather afraid of Steenie. Her sunny nature shrank from the
shadow, as of a wall, in which Steenie appeared to her always to stand.
From any little attention he would offer her, she, although never rude
to him, would involuntarily recoil, and he soon learned to leave her
undismayed. That the child's repugnance troubled him, though he never
spoke of it, Kirsty saw quite plainly, for she could read his face like
a book, and heard him sigh when even his mother did not. Her eyes were
constantly regarding him, like sheep feeding on the pasture of his
face:--I think I have used a figure of sir Philip Sidney's. But say
rather--the thoughts that strayed over his face were the sheep to which
all her life she had been the devoted shepherdess.
At Corbyknowe things went on as hitherto. Kirsty was in no danger of
tiring of the even flow of her life. Steenie's unselfish solitude of
soul made him every day dearer to her. Books she sought in every
accessible, and found occasionally in an unhopeful quarter. She had no
thought of distinguishing herself, no smallest ambition of becoming
learned; her soul was athirst to understand, and what she understood
found its way from her mind into her life. Much to the advantage of her
thinking were her keen power and constant practice of observation. I
utterly refuse the notion that we cannot think without words, but
certainly the more forms we have ready to embody our thoughts, the
farther we shall be able to carry our thinking. Richly endowed, Kirsty
required the more mental food, and was the more able to use it when she
found it. To such of the neighbours as had no knowledge of any
diligence save that of the hands, she seemed to lead an idle life; but
indeed even Kirsty's hands were far from idle. When not with Steenie
she was almost always at her mother's call, who, from the fear that she
might grow up incapable of managing a house, often required a good deal
of her. But the mother did not fail to note with what alacrity she
would lay her book aside, sometimes even dropping it in her eagerness
to answer her summons. Dismissed for the moment, she would at once take
her book again and the seat nearest to it: she could read anywhere, and
gave herself none of the student-airs that make some young people so
pitifully unpleasant. At the same time solitude was preferable for
study, and Kirsty was always glad to find herself with her books in the
little hut, Steenie asleep on the heather carpet on her feet, and the
assurance that there no one would interrupt her.
It was not wonderful that, in the sweet absence of selfish cares, her
mind full of worthy thoughts, and her heart going out in tenderness,
her face should go on growing in beauty and refinement. She was not yet
arrived at physical full growth, and the forms of her person being
therefore in a process of change were the more easily modelled after
her spiritual nature. She seemed almost already one that would not die,
but live for ever, and continue to inherit the earth. Neither her
father nor her mother could have imagined anything better to be made of
her.
Steenie had not changed his habits, neither seemed to grow at all more
like other people. He was now indeed seldom so much depressed as
formerly, but he showed no sign of less dependence on Kirsty.
CHAPTER XII
THE EARTH-HOUSE
About a year after Francis Gordon went to Edinburgh, Kirsty and Steenie
made a discovery.
Between Corbyknowe and the Horn, on whose sides David Barclay had a
right of pasturage for the few sheep to which Steenie and Snootie were
the shepherds, was a small glen, through which, on its way to join the
little river with the kelpie-pot, ran a brook, along whose banks lay
two narrow breadths of nice grass. The brother and sister always
crossed this brook when they wanted to go straight to the top of the
hill.
One morning, having each taken the necessary run and jump, they had
began to climb on the other side, when Kirsty, who was a few paces
before him, turned at an exclamation from Steenie.
'It's a' the weicht o' my muckle feet!' he cried, as he dragged one of
the troublesome members out of a hole. 'Losh, I dinna ken hoo far it
michtna hae gane doon gien I hadna gotten a haud o' 't in time and pu'd
it oot!'
How much of humour, how much of silliness, and how much of truth were
wrapt up together in some of the things he said, it was impossible to
determine. I believe Kirsty came pretty near knowing, but even she was
not always sure where wilful oddity and where misapprehension was at
the root of a remark.
'Gien ye set yer fit upon a hole,' said Kirsty, 'what can the puir
thing du but gang doon intil 't? Ye maunna be oonrizzonable wi' the
craturs, Steenie! Ye maun be fair til them.'
'But there was nae hole!' returned Steenie. 'There cudna hae been.
There's the hole noo! My fit made it, and there it'll hae to bide! It's
a some fearsome thing, divna ye think, 'at what aiven the fit o' a body
dis, bides? What for disna the hole gang awa whan the fit lifts? Luik
ye there! Ye see thae twa stanes stan'in up by themsels, and there's
the hole--atween the twa! There cudna hae been a hole there afore the
weicht o' my fit cam doon upo' the spot and ca'd it throuw! I gaed in
maist til my knee!'
'Lat's luik!' said Kirsty, and proceeded to examine the place.
She thought at first it must be the burrow of some animal, but the
similarity in shape of the projecting stones suggesting that their
position might not be fortuitous, she would look a little farther, and
began to pull away the heather about the mouth of the opening. Steenie
set himself, with might and main, to help her. Kirsty was much the
stronger of the two, but Steenie always did his best to second her in
anything that required exertion.
They soon spied the lump of sod and heather which Steenie's heavy foot
had driven down, and when they had pulled that out, they saw that the
hole went deeper still, seeming a very large burrow indeed--therefore a
little fearsome. Having widened the mouth of it by clearing away a
thick growth of roots from its sides, and taken out a quantity of soft
earth, they perceived that it went sloping into the ground still
farther. With growing curiosity they leant down into it, lying on the
edge, and reaching with their hands removed the loose earth as low as
they could. This done, the descent showed itself about two feet square,
as far down as they had cleared it, beyond which a little way it was
lost in the dark.
What were they to do next? There was yet greater inducement to go on,
but considerations came which were not a little deterrent. Although
Steenie had worked well, Kirsty knew he had a horror of dark places,
associating them somehow with the weight of his feet: whether such
places had for him any suggestion of the grave, I cannot tell;
certainly to get rid of his feet was the form his idea of the salvation
he needed was readiest to take. Then might there not be some animal
inside? Steenie thought not, for there was no opening until he made it!
and Kirsty also thought not, on the ground that she knew no wild animal
larger than fox or badger, neither of which would have made such a big
hole. One moment, however, her imagination was nearly too much for her:
what if some huge bear had been asleep in it for hundreds of years, and
growing all the time! Certainly he could not get out, but if she roused
him, and he got a hold of her! The next instant her courage revived,
for she would have been ashamed to let what she did not believe
influence any action. The passage must lead somewhere, and it was large
enough for her to explore it!
Because of her dress, she must creep in head foremost--in which lay
the advantage that so she would meet any danger face to face! Telling
Steenie that if he heard her cry out, he must get hold of her feet and
pull, she laid herself on the ground and crawled in. She thought it
must lead to an ancient tomb, but said nothing of the conjecture for
fear of horrifying Steenie, who stood trembling, sustained only by his
faith in Kirsty.
She went down and down and quite disappeared. Not a foot was left for
Steenie to lay hold of. Terrible and long seemed the time to him as he
stood there forsaken, his darling out of sight in the heart of the
earth. He knew there were wolves in Scotland once; who could tell but a
she-wolf had been left, and a whole clan of them lived there
underground, never issuing in the daytime! there might be the open
mouth of a passage, under a rock and curtained with heather, in some
other spot of the hill! What if one of them got Kirsty by the throat
before she had time to cry out! Then he thought she might have gone
till she could go no father, and not having room to turn, was trying to
creep backward, but her clothes hindered her. Forgetting his repugnance
in over-mastering fear, the faithful fellow was already half inside the
hole to go after her, when up shot the head of Kirsty, almost in his
face. For a moment he was terribly perplexed: he had been expecting to
come on her feet, not her head: how could she have gone in head
foremost, and not come back feet foremost?
'Eh, wuman,' he said in a fear-struck whisper, 'it's awfu' to see ye
come oot o' the yird like a muckle worm!'
'Ye saw me gang in, Steenie, ye gowk!' returned Kirsty, dismayed
herself at sight of his solemn dread.
'Ay,' answered Steenie, 'but I didna see ye come oot! Eh, Kirsty,
wuman, hae ye a heid at baith en's o' ye?'
Kirsty's laughter blew Steenie's discomposure away, and he too laughed.
'Come back hame,' said Kirsty; 'I maun get haud o' a can'le! Yon's a
place maun be seen intil. I never saw, or raither faun' (_felt_) the
like o' 't, for o' seein there's nane, or next to nane. There's room
eneuch; ye can see that wi' yer airms!'
'What is there room eneuch for?' asked Steenie.
'For you and me, and twenty or thirty mair, mebbe--I dinna ken,'
replied Kirsty.
'I s' mak ye a present o' my room intil 't,' returned Steenie. 'I want
nane o' 't.'
'Ill gang doon wi' the can'le,' said Kirsty, 'and see whether 't be a
place for ye. Gien I cry oot, "Ay is't," wull ye come?'
'That I wull, gien 't war the whaul's belly!' replied Steenie.
They set out for the house, and as they walked they talked.
'I div won'er what the place cud ever hae been for!' said Kirsty, more
to herself than Steenie. 'It's bigger nor ony thoucht I had o' 't.'
'What is 't like, Kirsty?' inquired Steenie.
'Hoo can I tell whan I saw naething!' replied Kirsty.
'But,' she added thoughtfully, 'gien it warna that we're in Scotlan',
and they're nigh-han' Rom', I wud hae been 'maist sure I had won intil
ane o' the catacombs!'
'Eh, losh, lat me awa to the hill!' cried Steenie, stopping and half
turning. 'I canna bide the verra word o' the craturs!'
'What word than?' asked Kirsty, a little surprised; for how did Steenie
know anything about the catacombs?
'To think,' he went on, 'o' a haill kirk o' cats aneath the yird--a'
sittin kaimin themsels wi' kaims!--Kirsty, ye _winna_ think it a place
for _me_? Ye see I'm no like ither fowk, and sic a thing micht ca
(_drive_) me oot o' a' the sma' wits ever I hed!'
'Hoots!' rejoined Kirsty, with a smile, 'the catacombs has naething to
du wi' cats or kaims!'
'Tell me what are they, than.'
'The catacombs,' answered Kirsty, 'was what in auld times, and no i'
this cuintry ava, they ca'd the places whaur they laid their deid.'
'Eh, Kirsty, but that's waur!' returned Steenie. 'I wudna gang intil
sic a place wi' feet siclike's my ain--na, no for what the warl cud gie
me!--no for lang Lowrie's fiddle and a' the tunes intil't! I wud never
get my feet oot o' 't! They'd haud me there!'
Then Kirsty began to tell him, as she would have taught a child,
something of the history of the catacombs, knowing how it must interest
him.
'I' the days langsyne,' she said, 'there was fowk, like you and me,
unco fain o' the bonny man. The verra soun o' the name o' 'im was
eneuch to gar their herts loup wi' doonricht glaidness. And they gaed
here and there and a' gait, and tellt ilka body aboot him; and fowk 'at
didna ken him, and didna want to ken him, cudna bide to hear tell o'
him, and they said, "Lat's hae nae mair o' this! Hae dune wi' yer bonny
man! Haud yer tongues," they cryit. But the ithers, they wadna hear o'
haudin their tongues. A'body maun ken aboot him! "Sae lang's we _hae_
tongues, and can wag them to the name o' him," they said, "we'll no
haud them!" And at that they fell upo' them, and ill-used them sair;
some o' them they tuik and burnt alive--that is, brunt them deid; and
some o' them they flang to the wild beasts, and they bitit them and
tore them to bits. And--,
'Was the bitin o' the beasts terrible sair?' interrupted Steenie.
'Ay, I reckon it was some sair; but the puir fowk aye said the bonny
man was wi' them; and lat them bite!--they didna care!'
'Ay, of coorse, gien he was wi' them they wadna min' 't a hair, or at
least, no twa hairs! Wha wud! Gien he be in yon hole, Kirsty, I'll gang
back and intil't my lee lane. I wull noo!'
Steenie turned and had run some distance before Kirsty succeeded in
stopping him. She did not run after him.
'Steenie! Steenie!' she cried, 'I dinna doobt he's there, for he's
a'gait; but ye ken yersel ye canna aye see him, and maybe ye wudna see
him there the noo, and micht think he wasna there, and turn fleyt. Bide
till we hae a licht, and I gang doon first.'
Steenie was persuaded, and turned and came back to her. To father,
mother, and sister he was always obedient, even on the rare occasions
when it cost him much to be so.
'Ye see, Steenie,' she continued, 'yon's no the place! I dinna ken yet
what place yon is. I was only gaein to tell ye aboot the places it
min't me o'! Wud ye like to hear aboot them?'
'I wad that, richt weel! Say awa, Kirsty.'
'The fowk, than, ye see, 'at lo'ed the bonny man, gethert themsels aye
thegither to hae cracks and newses wi' ane anither aboot him; and, as I
was tellin ye, the fowk 'at didna care aboot him war that angert 'at
they set upo' them, and jist wud hae nane o' them nor him. Sae to hand
oot o' their grip, they coonselled thegither, and concludit to gether
in a place whaur naebody wud think o' luikin for them--whaur but i' the
booels o' the earth, whaur they laid their deid awa upo' skelfs, like
in an aumry!'
'Eh, but that was fearsome!' interposed Steenie. 'They maun hae been
sair set!--Gien I had been there, wud they hae garred me gang wi'
them?'
'Na, no gien ye didna like. But ye wud hae likit weel to gang. It wasna
an ill w'y to beery fowk, nor an ill place to gang til, for they aye
biggit up the skelf, ye ken. It was howkit oot--whether oot o' hard
yird or saft stane, I dinna ken; I reckon it wud be some no sae hard
kin' o' a rock--and whan the deid was laid intil 't, they biggit up the
mou o' the place, that is, frae that same skelf to the ane 'at was
abune 't, and sae a' was weel closed in.'
'But what for didna they beery their deid mensefulike i' their
kirkyairds?'
''Cause theirs was a great muckle toon, wi' sic a heap o' hooses that
there wasna room for kirkyards; sae they tuik them ootside the toon,
and gaed aneth wi' them a'thegither. For there they howkit a lot o'
passages like trances, and here and there a wee roomy like, wi' ither
trances gaein frae them this gait and that. Sae, whan they tuik
themsels there, the freens o' the bonny man wud fill ane o' the
roomies, and stan' awa in ilk ane o' the passages 'at gaed frae 't; and
that w'y, though there cudna mony o' them see ane anither at ance, a
gey lottie wud hear, some a', and some a hantle o' what was said. For
there they cud speyk lood oot, and a body abune hear naething and
suspec naething. And jist think, Steenie, there's a pictur o' the bonny
man himsel paintit upo' the wa' o' ane o' thae places doon aneth the
grun'!'
'I reckon it'll be unco like him!'
'Maybe: I canna tell aboot that.'
'Gien I cud see 't, I cud tell; but I'm thinkin it'll be some gait gey
and far awa?'
'Ay, it 's far, far.--It wud tak a body--lat me see--maybe half a year
to trevel there upo' 's ain fit,' answered Kirsty, after some
meditation.
'And me a hantle langer, my feet's sae odious heavy!' remarked Steenie
with a sigh.
As they drew near the house, their mother saw them coming, and went to
the door to meet them.
'We're wantin a bit o' a can'le, and a spunk or twa, mother,' said
Kirsty.
'Ye s' get that,' answered Marion. 'But what want ye a can'le for i'
the braid mids o' the daylicht?'
'We want to gang doon a hole,' replied Steenie with flashing eyes, 'and
see the pictur o' the bonny man.'
'Hoot, Steenie! I tellt ye it wasna there,' interposed Kirsty.
'Na,' returned Steenie; 'ye only said yon hole wasna that place. Ye
said the bonny man _was_ there, though I michtna see him. Ye didna say
the pictur wasna there.'
'The pictur 's no there, Steenie.--We've come upon a hole, mother, 'at
we want to gang doon intil and see what it's like,' said Kirsty.
'The weicht o' my feet brak throu intil 't,' added Steenie.
'Preserve 's, lassie! tak tent whaur ye cairry the bairn!' cried the
mother. 'But, eh, tak him whaur ye like,' she substituted, correcting
herself. 'Weel ken I ye'll tak him naegait but whaur it's weel he sud
gang! The laddie needs twa mithers, and the Merciful has gien him the
twa! Ye're full mair his mither nor me, Kirsty!'
She asked no more questions, but got them the candle and let them go.
They hastened back, Steenie in his most jubilant mood, which seemed
always to have in it a touch of deathly frost and a flash as of the
primal fire. What could be the strange displacement or maladjustment
which, in the brain harbouring the immortal thing, troubled it so, and
made it yearn after an untasted liberty? The source of his jubilance
now was easy to tell: the idea of the bonny man was henceforth, in that
troubled brain of his, associated with the place into which they were
about to descend.
The moment they reached the spot, Kirsty, to the renewed astonishment
of Steenie, dived at once into the ground at her feet, and disappeared.
'Kirsty! Kirsty!' he cried out after her, and danced like a terrified
child. Then he shook with a fresh dismay at the muffled sound that came
back to him in answer from the unseen hollows of the earth.
Already Kirsty stood at the bottom of the sloping tunnel, and was
lighting her candle. When it burned up, she found herself looking into
a level gallery, the roof of which she could touch. It was not an
excavation, but had been trenched from the surface, for it was roofed
with great slabs of stone. Its sides, of rough stones, were six or
seven feet apart at the floor, which was paved with small boulders, but
sloped so much toward each other that at the top their distance was
less by about two and a half feet. Kirsty was, as I have said, a keen
observer, and her power of seeing had been greatly developed through
her constant conscientious endeavour to realize every description she
read.
She went on about ten or twelve yards, and came to a bend in the
gallery, succeeded by a sort of chamber, whence branched a second
gallery, which soon came to an end. The place was in truth not unlike a
catacomb, only its two galleries were built, and much wider than the
excavated thousands in the catacombs. She turned back to the entrance,
there left her candle alight, and again startled Steenie, still staring
into the mouth of the hole, with her sudden reappearance.
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