Books: Heather and Snow
G >>
George MacDonald >> Heather and Snow
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 | 7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16
'It's only me, Steenie!' she faltered, nearly crying.
Steenie stood and stared trembling. Neither, for a moment or two, could
speak.
'Eh, Steenie,' said Kirsty at length, 'I'm richt sorry I disapp'intit
ye! I didna ken what I was duin. I oucht to hae turnt and gane hame
again!'
'Ye cudna help it,' answered Steenie. 'Ye cudna be him, or ye wud! But
ye're the neist best, and richt welcome. I'm as glaid as can be to see
ye, Kirsty. Come awa ben the hoose.'
Kirsty followed him in silence, and sat down dejected. The loving heart
saw it.
'Maybe ye're him efter a'!' said Steenie. 'He can tak ony shape he
likes. I wudna won'er gien ye was him! Ye're unco like him ony gait!'
'Na, na, Steenie! I'm far frae that! But I wud fain be what he wud hae
me, jist as ye wud yersel. Sae ye maun tak me, what I am, for his sake,
Steenie!'
This was the man's hour, not the dog's, yet Steenie threw himself at
her feet.
'Gang oot a bit by yersel, Steenie,' she said, caressing him with her
hand. 'That's what ye'll like best, I ken! Ye needna min' me! I only
cam to see ye sattlet intil yer ain hoose. I'll bide a gey bit. Gang ye
oot, an ken 'at I'm i' the hoose, and that ye can come back to me whan
ye like. I hae my bulk, and can sit and read fine.'
'Ye're aye richt, Kirsty!' answered Steenie, rising. 'Ye aye ken what
I'm needin. I maun win oot, for I'm some chokin like.--But jist come
here a minute first,' he went on, leading the way to the door. There he
pointed up into the wild of stars, and said, 'Ye see yon star o' the
tap o' that ither ane 'at's brichter nor itsel?'
'I see 't fine, and ken 't weel,' answered Kirsty.
'Weel, whan that starnie comes richt ower the white tap o' yon stane i'
the mids o' that side o' the howe, I s' be here at the door.'
Kirsty looked at the stone, saw that the star would arrive at the point
indicated in about an hour, and said, 'Weel, I'll be expeckin ye,
Steenie!' whereupon he departed, going farther up the hill to court the
soothing of the silent heaven.
In conditions of consciousness known only to himself and
incommunicable, the poor fellow sustained an all but continuous
hand-to-hand struggle with insanity, more or less agonized according to
the nature and force of its varying assault; in which struggle, if not
always victorious, he had yet never been defeated. Often tempted to
escape misery by death, he had hitherto stood firm. Some part of every
solitary night was spent, I imagine, in fighting that or other evil
suggestion. Doubtless, what kept him lord of himself through all the
truth-aping delusions that usurped his consciousness, was his
unyielding faith in the bonny man.
The name by which he so constantly thought and spoke of the saviour of
men was not of his own finding. The story was well known of the idiot,
who, having partaken of the Lord's supper, was heard, as he retired,
murmuring to himself, 'Eh, the bonny man! the bonny man!' And persons
were not wanting, sound in mind as large of heart, who thought the
idiot might well have seen him who came to deliver them that were
bound. Steenie took up the tale with most believing mind. Never
doubting the man had seen the Lord, he responded with the passionate
desire himself to see _the bonny man_. It awoke in him while yet quite
a boy, and never left him, but, increasing as he grew, became, as well
it might, a fixed idea, a sober, waiting, unebbing passion, urging him
to righteousness and lovingkindness.
Kirsty took from her pocket an old translation of Plato's Phaedo, and
sat absorbed in it until the star, unheeded of her, attained its goal,
and there was Steenie by her side! She shut the book and rose.
'I'm a heap better, Kirsty,' said Steenie. 'The ill colour's awa doon
the stair, and the saft win' 's made its w'y oot o' the lift, an' 's
won at me. I 'maist think a han' cam and clappit my heid. Sae noo I'm
jist as weel 's there's ony need to be o' this side the mist. It helpit
me a heap to ken 'at ye was sittin there: I cud aye rin til ye!--Noo
gang awa to yer bed, and tak a guid sleep. I'm some thinkin I'll be
hame til my br'akfast.'
'Weel, mother's gaein to the toon the morn, and I'll be wantit fell
air; I may as weel gang!' answered Kirsty, and without a goodnight, or
farewell of any sort, for she knew how he felt in regard to
leave-takings, Kirsty left him, and went slowly home. The moon was up
and so bright that every now and then she would stop for a moment and
read a little from her book, and then walk on thinking about it.
From that night, even in the stormy dark of winter, Kirsty was not
nearly so anxious about Steenie away from the house: on the Horn he had
his place of refuge, and she knew he never ventured on the bog after
sunset. He always sought her when he wanted to sleep in the daytime,
but he was gradually growing quieter in his mind, and, Kirsty had
reason to think, slept a good deal more at night.
But the better he grew the more had he the look of one expecting
something; and Kirsty often heard him saying to himself--'It's comin!
it's comin!'
'And at last,' she said, telling his story many years after, 'at last
it cam; and ahint it, I doobtna! cam the face o' the bonny man!'
CHAPTER XV
PHEMY CRAIG
Things went on in the same way for four years more, the only visible
change being that Kirsty seldomer went about bare-footed. She was now
between two and three and twenty. Her face, whose ordinary expression
had always been of quiet, was now in general quieter still; but when
heart or soul was moved, it would flash and glow as only such a face
could. Live revelation of deeps rarely rippled save by the breath of
God, how could it but grow more beautiful! Cloud or shadow of cloud was
hardly ever to be seen upon it. Her mother, much younger than her
father, was still well and strong, and Kirsty, still not much wanted at
home, continued to spend the greater part of her time with her brother
and her books. As to her person, she was now in the first flower of
harmonious womanly strength. Nature had indeed done what she could to
make her a lady, but Nature was not her mother, and Kirsty's essential
ladyhood came from higher-up, namely, from the Source itself of Nature.
Simple truth was its crown, and grace was the garment of it. To see her
walk or run was to look on the divine idea of Motion.
As for Steenie, he looked the same loose lank lad as before, with a
smile almost too sad to be a smile, and a laugh in which there was
little hilarity. His pleasures were no doubt deep and high, but seldom,
even to Kirsty, manifested themselves except in the afterglow.
Phemy was now almost a woman. She was rather little, but had a nice
figure, which she knew instinctively how to show to advantage. Her main
charm lay in her sweet complexion--strong in its contrast of colours,
but wonderfully perfect in the blending of them: the gradations in the
live picture were exquisite. She was gentle of temper, with a shallow,
birdlike friendliness, an accentuated confidence that everyone meant
her well, which was very taking. But she was far too much pleased with
herself to be a necessity to anyone else. Her father grew more and more
proud of her, but remained entirely independent of her; and Kirsty
could not help wondering at times how he would feel were he given one
peep into the chaotic mind which he fancied so lovely a cosmos. A good
fairy godmother would for her discipline, Kirsty imagined, turn her
into the prettiest wax doll, but with real eyes, and put her in a glass
case for the admiration of all, until she sickened of her very
consciousness. But Kirsty loved the pretty doll, and cherished any
influence she had with her against a possible time when it might be
sorely needed. She still encouraged her, therefore, to come to
Corbyknowe as often as she felt inclined. Her father never interfered
with any of her goings and comings. At the present point of my
narrative, however, Kirsty began to notice that Phemy did not care so
much for being with her as hitherto.
She had been, of course, for some time the cynosure of many
neighbouring eyes, but had taken only the more pleasure in the
cynosure, none in the persons with the eyes, all of whom she regarded
as much below her. To herself she was the only young lady in Tiltowie,
an assurance strengthened by the fact that no young man had yet
ventured to make love to her, which she took as a general admission of
their social inferiority, behaving to all the young men the more
sweetly in consequence.
The tendency of a weakly artistic nature to occupy itself much with its
own dress was largely developed in her. It was wonderful, considering
the smallness of her father's income, how well she arrayed herself. She
could make a poor and scanty material go a great way in setting off her
attractions. The judicial element of the neighbourhood, not content
with complaining that she spent so much of her time in making her
dresses, accused her of spending much money upon them, whereas she
spent less than most of the girls of the neighbourhood, who cared only
for a good stuff, a fast colour, and the fashion: fit to figure and
fitness to complexion they did not trouble themselves about. The
possession of a fine gown was the important thing. As to how it made
them look, they had not imagination enough to consider that.
She possessed, however, another faculty on which she prided herself far
more, her ignorance and vanity causing her to mistake it for a grand
accomplishment--the faculty of verse-making. She inherited a certain
modicum of her father's rhythmic and riming gift; she could string
words almost as well as she could string beads, and many thought her
clever because she could do what they could not. Her aunt judged her
verses marvellous, and her father considered them full of promise. The
minister, on the other hand, held them unmistakably silly--as her
father would had they not been hers and she his. Only the poorest part
of his poetic equipment had propagated in her, and had he taught her
anything, she would not have overvalued it so much. Herself full of
mawkish sentimentality, her verses could not fail to be foolish, their
whole impulse being the ambition that springs from self-admiration. She
had begun to look down on Kirsty, who would so gladly have been a
mother to the motherless creature; she was not a lady! Neither in
speech, manners, nor dress, was she or her mother genteel! Their free,
hearty, simple bearing, in which was neither smallest roughness nor
least suggestion of affected refinement, was not to Phemy's taste, and
she began to assume condescending ways.
It was of course a humiliation to Phemy to have an aunt in Mrs.
Bremner's humble position, but she loved her after her own feeble
fashion, and, although she would willingly have avoided her upon
occasion, went not unfrequently to the castle to see her; for the
kindhearted woman spoiled her. Not only did she admire her beauty, and
stand amazed at her wonderful cleverness, but she drew from her little
store a good part of the money that went to adorn the pretty butterfly.
She gave her at the same time the best of advice, and imagined she
listened to it; but the young who take advice are almost beyond the
need of it. Fools must experience a thing themselves before they will
believe it; and then, remaining fools, they wonder that their children
will not heed their testimony. Faith is the only charm by which the
experience of one becomes a vantage-ground for the start of another.
CHAPTER XVI
SHAM LOVE
One day Phemy went to Castle Weelset to see her aunt, and, walking down
the garden to find her, met the young laird.
Through respect for the memory of his father, he had just received from
the East India Company a commission in his father's regiment; and
having in about six weeks to pass the slight examination required, and
then sail to join it, had come to see his mother and bid her goodbye.
He was a youth no longer, but a handsome young fellow, with a pale face
and a rather weary, therefore what some would call an interesting look.
For many months he had been leading an idle life.
He lifted his hat to Phemy, looked again, and recognised her. They had
been friends when she was a child, but since he saw her last she had
grown a young woman. She was gliding past him with a pretty bow, and a
prettier blush and smile, when he stopped and held out his hand.
'It's not possible!' he said; 'you can't be little Phemy!--Yet you must
be!--Why, you're a grown lady! To think how you used to sit on my knee,
and stroke my face! How is your father?'
Phemy murmured a shy answer, a little goose but blushing a very
flamingo. In her heart she saw before her the very man for her hero. A
woman's hero gives some measure, not of what she is, hardly of what she
would like to be, but of what she would like to pass for: here was the
ideal for which Phemy had so long been waiting, and wherein consisted
his glory? In youth, position, and good looks! She gazed up at him with
a mixture of shyness and boldness not uncommon in persons of her silly
kind, and Francis not only saw but felt that she was an unusually
pretty girl: although he had long ceased to admire his mother, he still
admired the sort of beauty she once had. He saw also that she was very
prettily dressed, and, being one of those men who, imagining themselves
gentlemen, feel at liberty to take liberties with women socially their
inferiors, he plucked a pheasant-eye-narcissus in the border, and
said--at the same time taking the leave he asked,--
'Let me finish your dress by adding this to it! Have you got a
pin?--There!--all you wanted to make you just perfect!'
Her face was now in a very flame. She saw he was right in the flower he
had chosen, and he saw, not his artistic success only, but her
recognition of it as well, and was gratified. He had a keen feeling of
harmony in form and colour, and flattered women, while he paraded his
own insight, by bringing it to bear on their dress.
The flower, in its new position, seemed radiant with something of the
same beauty in which it was set; it was _like_ the face above it, and
hinted a sympathetic relation with the whole dainty person of the girl.
But in truth there was more expression in the flower than was yet in
the face. The flower expressed what God was thinking of when he made
it; the face what the girl was thinking of herself. When she ceased
thinking of herself then, like the flower, she would show what God was
thinking of when he made her.
Francis, like the man he was, thought what a dainty little lady she
would make if he had the making of her, and at once began talking as he
never would have talked had she been what is conventionally called a
lady--with a familiarity, namely, to which their old acquaintance gave
him no right, and which showed him not his sister's keeper. She, poor
child, was pleased with his presumption, taking it for a sign that he
regarded her as a lady; and from that moment her head at least was full
of the young laird. She had forgotten all she came about. When he
turned and walked down the garden, she walked alongside of him like a
linnet by a tall stork, who thought of her as a very pretty green frog.
Lost in delight at his kindness, and yet more at his admiration, she
felt as safe in his hands as if he had been her guardian angel: had he
not convinced her that her notion of herself was correct! Who should
know better whether she was a lady, whether she was lovely or not, than
this great, handsome, perfect gentleman! Unchecked by any question of
propriety, she accompanied him without hesitation into a little arbour
at the bottom of the garden, and sat down with him on the bench there
provided for the weary and the idle--in this case a going-to-be gallant
officer, bored to death by a week at home with his mother, and a girl
who spent the most of her time in making, altering, and wearing her
dresses.
'How good it was of you, Phemy,' he said, 'to come and see me! I was
ready to cut my throat for want of something pretty to look at. I was
thinking it the ugliest place with the ugliest of people, wondering how
I had ever been able to live in it. How unfair I was! The whole country
is beautiful now!'
'I am so glad,' answered poor Phemy, hardly knowing what she said: it
was to her the story of a sad gentleman who fell in love at first sight
with a beautiful lady who was learning to love him through pity.
Her admiration of him was as clear as the red and white on her face;
and foolish Francis felt in his turn flattered, for he too was fond of
himself. There is no more pitiable sight to lovers of their kind, or
any more laughable to its haters, than two persons falling into the
love rooted in self-love. But possibly they are neither to be pitied
nor laughed at; they may be plunging thus into a saving hell.
'You would like to make the world beautiful for me, Phemy?' rejoined
Francis.
'I should like to make it a paradise!' returned Phemy.
'A garden of Eden, and you the Eve in it?' suggested Francis.
Phemy could find no answer beyond a confused look and a yet deeper
blush.
Talk elliptical followed, not unmingled with looks bold and shy. They
had not many objects of thought in common, therefore not many subjects
for conversation. There was no poetry in Gordon, and but the flimsiest
sentiment in Phemy. Her mind was feebly active, his full of tedium.
Hers was open to any temptation from him, and his to the temptation of
usurping the government of her world, of constituting himself the
benefactor of this innocent creature, and enriching her life with the
bliss of loving a noble object. Of course he meant nothing serious!
Equally of course he would do her no harm! To lose him would make her
miserable for a while, but she would not die of love, and would have
something to think about all her dull life afterward!
Phemy at length got frightened at the thought of being found with him,
and together they went to look for her aunt. Finding her in an outhouse
that was used for a laundry, Francis told Mrs. Bremner that they had
been in the garden ever so long searching for her, and he was very glad
of the opportunity of hearing about his old friend, Phemy's father! The
aunt was not quite pleased, but said little.
The following Sunday she told the schoolmaster what had taken place,
and came home in a rage at the idiocy of a man who would not open his
eyes when his house was on fire. It was all her sister's fault, she
said, for having married such a book-idiot! She felt indeed very
uncomfortable, and did her best in the way of warning; but Phemy seemed
so incapable of understanding what ill could come of letting the young
laird talk to her, that she despaired of rousing in her any sense of
danger, and having no authority over her was driven to silence for the
present. She would have spoken to her mistress, had she not plainly
foreseen that it would be of no use, that she would either laugh, and
say young men must have their way, or fly into a fury with Phemy for
trying to entrap her son, and with Mrs. Bremner for imagining he would
look at the hussey; while one thing was certain--that, if his mother
opposed him, Francis would persist.
CHAPTER XVII
A NOVEL ABDUCTION
Phemy went seldom to the castle, but the young laird and she met pretty
often: there was solitude enough in that country for an army of lovers.
Once or twice Gordon, at Phemy's entreaty, went and took tea with her
at her father's, and was cordially received by the schoolmaster, who
had no sense of impropriety in their strolling out together afterward,
leaving him well content with the company of his books. Before this had
happened twice, all the town was talking about it, and predicting evil.
Phemy heard nothing and feared nothing; but if feeling had been weather
and talk tempest, she would have been glad enough to keep within. So
rapidly, however, did the whirlwind of tongues extend its giration that
within half a week it reached Kirsty, and cast her into great trouble:
her poor silly defenceless Phemy, the child of her friend, was in
danger from the son of her father's friend! Her father could do
nothing, for Francis would not listen to him, therefore she herself
must do something! She could not sit still and look on at the devil's
work! Having always been on terms of sacred intimacy with her mother,
she knew more of the dangers of the world, while she was far safer from
them, than such girls as their natural guardians watch instead of
fortifying, and understood perfectly that an unwise man is not to be
trusted with a foolish girl. She felt, therefore, that inaction on her
part would be faithlessness to the teaching of her mother, as well as
treachery to her father, whose friend's son was in peril of doing a
fearful wrong to one to whom he owed almost a brother's protection for
his schoolmaster's sake. She did not believe that Francis _meant_ Phemy
any harm, but she was certain he thought too much of himself ever to
marry her, and were the poor child's feelings to go for nothing? She
had no hope that Phemy would listen to expostulation from her, but she
must in fairness, before she _did_ anything, have some speech with her!
She made repeated efforts, therefore, to see her, but without success.
She tried one time of the day after another, but, now by accident and
now by clever contrivance, Phemy was not to be come at. She had of late
grown tricky. One of the windows of the schoolmaster's house commanded
the street in both directions, and Phemy commanded the window. When she
saw Kirsty coming, she would run into the garden and take refuge in the
summer-house, telling the servant on her way that she was going out,
and did not know what time she would be in. On more occasions than one
Kirsty said she would wait, when Phemy, learning she was not gone, went
out in earnest, and took care she had enough of waiting. Such shifts of
cunning no doubt served laughter to the lovers when next they met, but
they showed that Phemy was in some degree afraid of Kirsty.
Had Kirsty known the schoolmaster no better than his sister-in-law knew
him, she would, like her, have gone to him; but she was perfectly
certain that it would be almost impossible to rouse him, and that, once
convinced that his confidence had been abused, he would be utterly
furious, and probably bear himself in such fashion as to make Phemy
desperate, perhaps make her hate him. As it was, he turned a deaf ear
and indignant heart to every one of the reports that reached him. To
listen to it would be to doubt his child! Why should not the young
laird fall in love with her? What more natural? Was she not worth as
much honour as any man, be he who he might, could confer upon her? He
cursed the gossips of the town, and returned to his book.
Convinced at length that Phemy declined an interview, Kirsty resolved
to take her own way. And her way was a somewhat masterful one.
About a mile from castle Weelset, in the direction of Tiltowie, the
road was, for a few hundred yards, close-flanked by steep heathery
braes. Now Kirsty had heard of Phemy's being several times seen on this
road of late; and near the part of it I have just described, she
resolved to waylay her. From the brae on the side next Corbyknowe she
could see the road for some distance in either direction.
For a week she watched in vain. She saw the two pass together more than
once, and she saw Francis pass alone, but she had never seen Phemy
alone.
One morning, just as she arrived at her usual outlook, she saw Mrs.
Bremner in the road below, coming from the castle, and ran down to
speak to her. In the course of their conversation she learned that
Francis was to start for London the next morning. When they parted, the
old woman resuming her walk to Tiltowie, Kirsty climbed the brae and
sat down in the heather. She was more anxious than ever. She had done
her best, but it had come to nothing, and now she had but one chance
more! That Francis Gordon was going away so soon was good news, but
what might not happen even yet before he went! At the same time she
could think of nothing better than keep watch as hitherto, firm as to
her course if she saw Phemy alone, but now determined to speak to both
if Francis was with her, and all but determined to speak to Francis
alone, if an opportunity of doing so should be given her.
All the morning and afternoon she watched in vain, eating nothing but a
piece of bread that Steenie brought her. At last, in the evening--it
was an evening in September, cold and clear, the sun down, and a
melancholy glory hanging over the place of his vanishing--she spied the
solitary form of Phemy hastening along the road in the direction of the
castle. Although she had been on the outlook for her all day, she was
at the moment so taken up with the sunset, that Phemy was almost under
where she stood before she saw her. She ran at full speed a hundred
yards, then slid down a part of the brae too steep to climb, and leaped
into the road a few feet in front of Phemy--so suddenly that the girl
started with a cry, and stopped. The moment she saw who it was,
however, she drew herself up, and would have passed with a stiff
greeting. But Kirsty stood in front of her, and would not permit her.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 | 7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16