Books: Heather and Snow

G >> George MacDonald >> Heather and Snow

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'What do you want, Kirsty Barclay?' demanded Phemy, who had within the
last week or two advanced considerably in confidence of manner; 'I am
in a hurry!'

'Ye're in a waur hurry nor ye ken, for yer hurry sud be the ither
gait!' answered Kirsty; 'and I'm gaein to turn ye, or at least no gaein
to lat ye gang, ohn heard a bit o' the trowth frae a woman aulder nor
yersel! Lassie, ye seem to think naebody worth hearkenin til a word
frae 'cep ae man, but I mean ye to hearken to me! Ye dinna ken what
ye're aboot! I ken Francie Gordon a heap better nor you, and though I
ken nae ill o' him, I ken as little guid: he never did naething yet but
to please himsel, and there never cam salvation or comfort to man,
woman, or bairn frae ony puir cratur like _him_!'

'How dare you speak such lies of a gentleman behind his back!' cried
Phemy, her eyes flashing. 'He is a friend of mine, and I will not hear
him maligned!'

'There's sma' hairm can come to ony man frae the trowth, Phemy!'
answered Kirsty. 'Set the man afore me, and I'll say word for word
intil his face what I'm sayin to you ahint his back.'

'Miss Barclay,' rejoined Phemy, with a rather pitiable attempt at
dignity, 'I can permit no one to call me by my Christian name who
speaks ill of the man to whom I am engaged!'

'That s' be as ye please, Miss Craig. But I wud lat you ca' me a' the
ill names in the dictionar to get ye to heark to me! I'm tellin ye
naething but what's true as death.'

'I call no one names. I am always civil to my neighbours whoever they
may be! I will not listen to you.'

'Eh, lassie, there's but feow o' yer neebours ceevil to yer name,
whatever they be to yersel! There's hardly ane has a guid word for ye,
Phemy!--Miss Craig--I beg yer pardon!'

'Their lying tongues are nothing to me! I know what I am about! I will
not stay a moment longer with you! I have an important engagement.'

Once more, as several times already, she would have passed her, but
Kirsty stepped yet again in front of her.

'I can weel tak yer word,' replied Kirsty, ''at ye hae an engagement;
but ye said a minute ago 'at ye was engaged til him: tell me in ae
word--has Francie Gordon promised to merry ye?'

'He has as good as asked me,' answered Phemy, who had fits of
apprehensive recoil from a downright lie.

'Noo there I cud 'maist believe ye! Ay, that wud be ill eneuch for
Francie! He never was a doonricht leear, sae lang's I kenned him--ony
mair nor yersel! But, for God's sake, Phemy, dinna imagine he'll ever
merry ye, for that he wull not.'

'This is really insufferable!' cried Phemy, in a voice that began to
tremble from the approach of angry tears. 'Pray, have _you_ a claim
upon him?'

'Nane, no a shedow o' ane,' returned Kirsty. 'But my father and his
father war like brithers, and we hae a' to du what we can for his
father's son. I wud fain hand him ohn gotten into trouble wi' you or
ony lass.'

'_I_ get him into trouble! Really, Miss Barclay, I do not know how to
understand you!'

'I see I maun be plain wi' ye: I wudna hae ye get him into trouble by
lattin him get you into trouble!--and that's plain speykin!'

'You insult me!' said Phemy.

'Ye drive me to speyk plain!' answered Kirsty. 'That lad, Francie
Gordon,--'

'Speak with respect of your superiors,' interrupted Phemy.

'I'll speyk wi' respec o' ony body I hae respec for!' answered Kirsty.

'Let me pass, you rude young woman!' cried Phemy, who had of late been
cultivating in her imagination such speech as she thought would befit
Mrs. Gordon of castle Weelset.

'I winna lat ye pass,' answered Kirsty; '--that is, no til ye hear what
I hae to say to ye.'

'Then you must take the consequences!' rejoined Phemy, and, in the hope
that her lover would prove within earshot, began a piercing scream.

It roused something in Kirsty which she could not afterward identify:
she was sure it had nothing to do with anger. She felt, she said, as if
she had to deal with a child who insisted on playing with fire beside a
barrel of gunpowder. At the same time she did nothing but what she had
beforehand, in case of the repulse she expected, resolved upon. She
caught up the little would-be lady, as if she had been that same
naughty child, and the suddenness of the action so astonished her that
for a moment or two she neither moved nor uttered a sound. The next,
however, she began to shriek and struggle wildly, as if in the hug of a
bear or the coils of an anaconda, whereupon Kirsty closed her mouth
with one hand while she held her fast with the other. It was a violent
proceeding, doubtless, but Kirsty chose to be thus far an offender, and
yet farther.

Bearing her as she best could in one arm, she ran with her toward
Tiltowie until she reached a place where the road was bordered by a
more practicable slope; there she took to the moorland, and made for
Corbyknowe. Her resolve had been from the first, if Phemy would not
listen, to carry her, like the unmanageable child she was, home to the
mother whose voice had always been to herself the oracle of God. It was
in a loving embrace, though hardly a comfortable one, and to a heart
full of pity, that she pressed the poor little runaway lamb: her mother
was God's vicar for all in trouble: she would bring the child to
reason! Her heart beating mightily with love and labour, she waded
through the heather, hurrying along the moor.

It was a strange abduction; but Kirsty was divinely simple, and that
way strange. Not until they were out of sight of the road did she set
her down.

'Noo, Phemy,' she said, panting as she spoke, 'haud yer tongue like a
guid lassie, and come awa upo' yer ain feet.'

Phemy took at once to her heels and her throat, and ran shrieking back
toward the road, with Kirsty after her like a grayhound. Phemy had for
some time given up struggling and trying to shriek, and was therefore
in better breath than Kirsty whose lungs were pumping hard, but she had
not a chance with her, for there was more muscle in one of Kirsty's
legs than in Phemy's whole body. In a moment she had her in her arms
again, and so fast that she could not even kick. She gave way and burst
into tears. Kirsty relaxed her hold.

'What are you gaein to du wi' me?' sobbed Phemy.

'I'm takin ye to the best place I ken--hame to my mother,' answered
Kirsty, striding on for home-heaven as straight as she could go.

'I winna gang!' cried Phemy, whose Scotch had returned with her tears.

'Ye _are_ gaein,' returned Kirsty dryly; '--at least I'm takin ye, and
that's neist best.'

'What for? I never did ye an ill turn 'at I ken o'!' said Phemy, and
burst afresh into tears of self-pity and sense of wrong.

'Na, my bonny doo,' answered Kirsty, 'ye never did me ony ill turn! It
wasna in ye. But that's the less rizzon 'at I sudna du you a guid ane.
And yer father has been like the Bountiful himsel to me! It's no muckle
I can du for you or for him, but there's ae thing I'm set upo', and
that's haudin ye frae Francie Gordon the nicht. He'll be awa the morn!'

'Wha tellt ye that?' returned Phemy with a start.

'Jist yer ain aunt, honest woman!' answered Kirsty, 'and sair she grat
as she telled me, but it wasna at his gaein!'

'She micht hae held the tongue o' her till he was gane! What was there
to greit about!'

'Maybe she thocht o' her sister's bairn in a tribble 'at silence wadna
hide!' answered Kirsty. 'Ye haena a notion, lassie, what ye're duin wi'
yersel! But my mither 'll lat ye ken, sae that ye gangna blinlins intil
the tod's hole.'

'Ye dinna ken Frank, or ye wudna speyk o' 'im that gait!'

'I ken him ower weel to trust you til him.'

'It's naething but ye're eenvious o' me, Kirsty, 'cause ye canna get
him yersel! He wud never luik at a lass like you!'

'It's weel a'body sees na wi' the same een, Phemy! Gien I had yer
Francie i' the parritch-pat, I wudna pike him oot, but fling frae me
pat and parritch. For a' that, I hae a haill side o' my hert saft til
him: my father and his lo'd like brithers.'

'That canna be, Kirsty--and it's no like ye to blaw! Your father was a
common so'dier and his was cornel o' the regiment!'

'Allooin!' was all Kirsty's answer. Phemy betook herself to entreaty.

'Lat me gang, Kirsty! Please! I'll gang doon o' my knees til ye! I
canna bide him to think I've played him fause.'

'He'll play you fause, my lamb, whatever ye du or he think! It maks my
hert sair to ken 'at no guid will your hert get o' his.--He s' no see
ye the nicht, ony gait!'

Phemy uttered a childish howl, but immediately choked it with a proud
sob.

'Ye're hurtin me, Kirsty!' she said, after a minute or so of silence.
'Lat me doon, and I'll gang straucht hame to my father. I promise ye.'

'I'll set ye doon,' answered Kirsty, 'but ye maun come hame to my
mither.'

'What'll my father think?'

'I s' no forget yer father,' said Kirsty.

She sent out a strange, piercing cry, set Phemy down, took her hand in
hers, and went on, Phemy making no resistance. In about three minutes
there was a noise in the heather, and Snootie came rushing to Kirsty. A
few moments more and Steenie appeared. He lifted his bonnet to Phemy,
and stood waiting his sister's commands.

'Steenie,' she said, 'tak the dog wi' ye, and rin doon to the toon, and
tell Mr. Craig 'at Phemy here's comin hame wi' me, to bide the nicht.
Ye winna be langer nor ye canna help, and ye'll come to the hoose afore
ye gang to the hill?'

'I'll du that, Kirsty. Come, doggie,'

Steenie never went to the town of his own accord, and Kirsty never
liked him to go, for the boys were rude, but to-night it would be dark
before he reached it.

'Ye're no surely gaun to gar me bide a' nicht!' said Phemy, beginning
again to cry.

'I am that--the nicht, and maybe the morn's nicht, and ony nummer o'
nichts till we're sure he's awa!' answered Kirsty, resuming her walk.

Phemy wept aloud, but did not try to escape.

'And him gaein to promise this verra nicht 'at he would merry me!' she
cried, but through her tears and sobs her words were indistinct.

Kirsty stopped, and faced round on her.

'He promised to merry ye?' she said.

'I didna say that; I said he was gaein to promise the nicht. And noo
he'll be gane, and never a word said!'

'He promised, did he, 'at he would promise the nicht?--Eh, Francie!
Francie! ye're no yer father's son!--He promised to promise to merry
ye! Eh, ye puir gowk o' a bonny lassie!'

'Gien I met him the nicht--ay, it cam to that.'

All Kirsty's inborn motherhood awoke. She turned to her, and, clasping
the silly thing in her arms, cried out--

'Puir wee dauty! Gien he hae a hert ony bigger nor Tod Lowrie's _(the
fox's)_ ain, he'll come to ye to the Knowe, and say what he has to
say!'

'He winna ken whaur I am!' answered Phemy with an agonized burst of dry
sobbing.

'Will he no? I s' see to that--and this verra nicht!' exclaimed Kirsty.
'I'll gie him ilka chance o' doin the richt thing!'

'But he'll be angert at me!'

'What for? Did he tell ye no to tell?'

'Ay did he.'

'Waur and waur!' cried Kirsty indignantly. 'He wad hae ye a' in his
grup! He tellt ye, nae doobt, 'at ye was the bonniest lassie 'at ever
was seen, and bepraised ye 'at yer ain minnie wouldna hae kenned ye!
Jist tell me, Phemy, dinna ye think a hantle mair o' yersel sin' he
took ye in han'?'

She would have Phemy see that she had gathered from him no figs or
grapes, only thorns and thistles. Phemy made no reply: had she not
every right to think well of herself? He had never said anything to her
on that subject which she was not quite ready to believe.

Kirsty seemed to divine what was passing in her thought.

'A man,' she said, ''at disna tell ye the trowth aboot himsel 's no
likly to tell ye the trowth aboot _your_sel! Did he tell ye hoo mony
lassies he had said the same thing til afore ever he cam to you? It
maitered little sae lang as they war lasses as hertless and toom-heidit
as himsel, and ower weel used to sic havers; but a lassie like you, 'at
never afore hearkent to siclike, she taks them a' for trowth, and the
leein sough o' him gars her trow there was never on earth sic a
won'erfu cratur as her! What pleesur there can be i' leein 's mair nor
I can faddom! Ye're jist a gey bonnie lassie, siclike as mony anither;
but gien ye war a' glorious within, like the queen o' Sheba, or whaever
she may happen to hae been, there wad be naething to be prood o' i'
that, seem ye didna contrive yersel. No ae stane, to bigg yersel, hae
_ye_ putten upo' the tap o' anither!'

Phemy was nowise capable of understanding such statement and deduction.
If she was lovely, as Frank told her, and as she saw in the glass, why
should she not be pleased with herself? If Kirsty had been made like
her, she would have been just as vain as she!

All her life the doll never saw the beauty of the woman. Beside Phemy,
Kirsty walked like an Olympian goddess beside the naiad of a brook. And
Kirsty was a goddess, for she was what she had to be, and never thought
about it.

Phemy sank down in the heather, declaring she could go no farther, and
looked so white and so pitiful that Kirsty's heart filled afresh with
compassion. Like the mother she was, she took the poor girl yet again
in her arms, and, carrying her quite easily now that she did not
struggle, walked with her straight into her mother's kitchen.

Mrs. Barclay sat darning the stocking which would have been Kirsty's
affair had she not been stalking Phemy. She took it out of her mother's
hands, and laid the girl in her lap.

'There's a new bairnie til ye, mother! Ye maun daut her a wee, she's
unco tired!' she said, and seating herself on a stool, went on with the
darning of the stocking.

Mistress Barclay looked down on Phemy with such a face of loving
benignity that the poor miserable girl threw her arms round her neck,
and laid her head on her bosom. Instinctively the mother began to hush
and soothe her, and in a moment more was singing a lullaby to her.
Phemy fell fast asleep. Then Kirsty told what she had done, and while
she spoke, the mother sat silent brooding, and hushing, and thinking.

CHAPTER XVIII

PHEMY'S CHAMPION

When she had told all, Kirsty rose, and laying aside the stocking,
said,

'I maun awa to Weelset, mother. I promised the bairn I would lat
Francie ken whaur she was, and gie him the chance o' sayin his say til
her.'

'Verra weel, lassie! ye ken what ye're aboot, and I s' no interfere wi'
ye. But, eh, ye'll be tired afore ye win to yer bed!'

'I'll no tramp it, mother; I'll tak the gray mear.'

'She's gey and fresh, lassie; ye maun be on yer guaird.'

'A' the better!' returned Kirsty. 'To hear ye, mother, a body wud think
I cudna ride!'

'Forbid it, bairn! Yer father says, man or wuman, there's no ane i' the
countryside like ye upo' beast-back.'

'They tak to me, the craturs! It was themsels learnt me to ride!'
answered Kirsty, as she took a riding whip from the wall, and went out
of the kitchen.

The mare looked round when she entered the stable, and whinnied. Kirsty
petted and stroked her, gave her two or three handfuls of oats, and
while she was eating strapped a cloth on her back: there was no
side-saddle about the farm. Kirsty could ride well enough sideways on a
man's, but she liked the way her father had taught her far better.
Utterly fearless, she had, in his training from childhood until he
could do no more for her, grown a horsewoman such as few.

The moment the mare had finished her oats she bridled her, led her out,
and sprang on her back; where sitting as on a pillion, she rode quietly
out of the farm-close. The moment she was beyond the gate, she leaned
back, and, throwing her right foot over the mare's crest, rode like an
Amazon, at ease, and with mastery. The same moment the mare was away,
up hill and down dale, almost at racing speed. Had the coming moon been
above the horizon, the Amazon farm-girl would have been worth meeting!
So perfectly did she yield her lithe, strong body to every motion of
the mare, abrupt or undulant, that neither ever felt a jar, and their
movements seemed the outcome of a vital force common to the two. Kirsty
never thought whether she was riding well or ill, gracefully or
otherwise, but the mare knew that all was right between them. Kirsty
never touched the bridle except to moderate the mare's pace when she
was too much excited to heed what she said to her.

Doubtless, to many eyes, she would have looked better in a riding
habit, but she would have felt like an eagle in a nightgown. She wore a
full winsey petticoat, which she managed perfectly, and stockings of
the same colour.

On her head she had nothing but the silk net at that time and in that
quarter much worn by young unmarried women. In the rush of the gallop
it slipped, and its content escaped: she put the net in her pocket, and
cast a knot upon her long hair as if it had been a rope. This she did
without even slackening her speed, transferring from her hand to her
teeth the whip she carried. It was one colonel Gordon had given her
father in remembrance of a little adventure they had together, in which
a lash from it in the dark night was mistaken for a sword-cut, and did
them no small service.

By the time they reached the castle, the moon was above the horizon.
Kirsty brought the mare to a walk, and resuming her pillion-seat,
remanded her hair to its cage, and readjusted her skirt; then, setting
herself as in a side-saddle, she rode gently up to the castle-door.

A manservant, happening to see her from the hall-window, saved her
having to ring the bell, and greeted her respectfully, for everybody
knew Corbyknowe's Kirsty. She said she wanted to see Mr. Gordon, and
suggested that perhaps he would be kind enough to speak to her at the
door. The man went to find his master, and in a minute or two brought
the message that Mr. Gordon would be with her presently. Kirsty drew
her mare back into the shadow which, the moon being yet low, a great
rock on the crest of a neighbouring hill cast upon the approach, and
waited.

It was three minutes before Francis came sauntering bare-headed round
the corner of the house, his hands in his pockets, and a cigar in his
mouth. He gave a glance round, not seeing his visitor at once, and then
with a nod, came toward her, still smoking. His nonchalance, I believe,
was forced and meant to cover uneasiness. For all that had passed to
make him forget Kirsty, he yet remembered her uncomfortably, and at the
present moment could not help regarding her as an angelic _bete noir_,
of whom he was more afraid than of any other human being. He approached
her in a sort of sidling stroll, as if he had no actual business with
her, but thought of just asking whether she would sell her horse. He
did not speak, and Kirsty sat motionless until he was near enough for a
low-voiced conference.

'What are ye aboot wi' Phemy Craig, Francie?' she began, without a word
of greeting.

Kirsty was one of the few who practically deny time; with whom what
was, is; what is, will be. She spoke to the tall handsome man in the
same tone and with the same forms as when they were boy and girl
together.

He had meant their conversation to be at arm's length, so to say, but
his intention broke down at once, and he answered her in the same
style.

'I ken naething aboot her. What for sud I?' he answered.

'I ken ye dinna ken whaur she is, for I div,' returned Kirsty. 'Ye
answer a queston I never speired! What are ye aboot wi' Phemy, I
challenge ye again! Puir lassie, she has nae brither to say the word!'

'That's a' verra weel; but ye see, Kirsty,' he began--then stopped, and
having stared at her a moment in silence, exclaimed, 'Lord, what a
splendid woman you've grown!'--He had probably been drinking with his
mother.

Kirsty sat speechless, motionless, changeless as a soldier on guard.
Gordon had to resume and finish his sentence.

'As I was going to say, _you_ can't take the place of a brother to her,
Kirsty, else I should know how to answer you!--It's awkward when a lady
takes you to task,' he added with a drawl.

'Dinna trouble yer heid aboot that, Francie: hert ye hae little to
trouble aboot onything!' rejoined Kirsty. Then changing to English as
he had done, she went on: 'I claim no consideration on that score.'

Francis Gordon felt very uncomfortable. It was deuced hard to be
bullied by a woman!

He stood silent, because he had nothing to say.

'Do you mean to marry my Phemy?' asked Kirsty.

'Really, Miss Barclay,' Francis began, but Kirsty interrupted him.

'Mr. Gordon,' she said sternly, 'be a man, and answer me. If you mean
to marry her, say so, and go and tell her father--or my father, if you
prefer. She is at the Knowe, miserable, poor child! that she did not
meet you to-night. That was my doing; she could not help herself.

Gordon broke into a strained laugh.

'Well, you've got her, and you can keep her!' he said.

'You have not answered my question!'

'Really, Miss Barclay, you must not be too hard on a man! Is a fellow
not to speak to a woman but he must say at once whether or not he
intends to marry her?'

'Answer my question.'

'It is a ridiculous one!'

'You have been trystin' with her almost every night for something like
a month!' rejoined Kirsty, 'and the question is not at all ridiculous.'

'Let it be granted then, and let the proper person ask me the question,
and I will answer it. You, pardon me, have nothing to do with the
matter in hand.'

'That is the answer of a coward,' returned Kirsty, her cheek flaming at
last. 'You know the guileless nature of your old schoolmaster, and take
advantage of it! You know that the poor girl has not a man to look to,
and you will not have a woman befriend her! It is cowardly, ungrateful,
mean, treacherous. You are a bad man, Francie! You always were a fool,
but now you are a wicked fool! If I were her brother--if I were a man,
I would thrash you!'

'It's a good thing you're not able, Kirsty! I should be frightened!'
said Gordon, with a laugh and a shrug, thinking to throw the thing
aside as done with.

'I said, if I was a man!' returned Kirsty. 'I did not say, if I was
able. I _am_ able.'

'I don't see why a woman should leave to any man what she's able to do
for herself!' said Kirsty, as if communing with her own thoughts.--
'Francie, you're no gentleman; you are a scoundrel and a coward!' she
immediately added aloud.

'Very well,' returned Francis angrily; 'since you choose to be treated
as a man, and tell me I am no gentleman, I tell you I wouldn't marry
the girl if the two of you went on your knees to me!--A common, silly,
country-bred flirt!--ready for anything a man--'

Kirsty's whip descended upon him with a merciless lash. The hiss of it,
as it cut the air with all the force of her strong arm, startled her
mare, and she sprang aside, so that Kirsty, who, leaning forward, had
thrown the strength of her whole body into the blow, could not but lose
her seat. But it was only to stand upright on her feet, fronting her--
call him enemy, antagonist, victim, what you will. Gordon was grasping
his head: the blow had for a moment blinded him. She gave him another
stinging cut across the hands.

'That's frae yer father! The whup was his, and his swoord never did
fairer wark!' she said.--'I hae dune for him what I cud!' she added in
a low sorrowful voice, and stepped back, as having fulfilled her
mission.

He rushed at her with a sudden torrent of evil words. But he was no
match for her in agility as, I am almost certain, he would have proved
none in strength had she allowed him to close with her: she avoided him
as she had more than once _jinkit_ a charging bull, every now and then
dealing him another sharp blow from his father's whip. The treatment
began to bring him to his senses.

'For God's sake, Kirsty,' he cried, ceasing his attempts to lay hold of
her, 'behaud, or we'll hae the haill hoose oot, and what'll come o' me
than I daurna think! I doobt I'll never hear the last o' 't as 'tis!'

'Am I to trust ye, Francie?'

'I winna lay a finger upo' ye, damn ye!' he said in mingled wrath and
humiliation.

Throughout, Kirsty had held her mare by the bridle, and she, although
behaving as well as she could, had, in the fright the laird's rushes
and the sounds of the whip caused her, added not a little to her
mistress's difficulties. Just as she sprang on her back, the door
opened, and faces looked peering out; whereupon with a cut or two she
encouraged a few wild gambols, so that all the trouble seemed to have
been with the mare. Then she rode quietly through the gate.

Gordon stood in a motionless fury until he heard the soft thunder of
the mare's hoofs on the turf as Kirsty rode home at a fierce gallop;
then he turned and went into the house, not to communicate what had
taken place, but to lie about it as like truth as he might find
possible.

About half-way home, on the side of a hill, across which a low wind,
the long death-moan of autumn, blew with a hopeless, undulant, but not
intermittent wail among the heather, Kirsty broke into a passionate fit
of weeping, but ere she reached home all traces of her tears had
vanished.

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