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<head>
<title>
RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD
</title>
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<h2>
Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood, by George MacDonald
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
Project Gutenberg's Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood, by George MacDonald
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood
Author: George MacDonald
Release Date: August 15, 2004 [EBook #9301]
Last Updated: October 9, 2016
Language: English
Character set encoding: UTF-8
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD ***
Produced by Jonathan Ingram and PG Distributed Proofreaders.
Illustrated HTML by David Widger
</pre>
<h1>
RANALD BANNERMAN’S BOYHOOD
</h1>
<h3>
By
</h3>
<h2>
George MacDonald
</h2>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<h3>
1871
</h3>
<p>
<a name="linkbilberry" id="linkbilberry"></a> <br /><br /> <a
href="images/il01.jpg"></a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="il01h.jpg (67K)" src="images/il01h.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="toc">
<big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
</p>
<p>
<br />
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link1">I. INTRODUCTORY</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link2">II. THE GLIMMER OF TWILIGHT</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link3">III. MY FATHER</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link4">IV. KIRSTY</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link5">V. I BEGIN LIFE</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link6">VI. NO FATHER</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link7">VII. MRS. MITCHELL IS DEFEATED</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link8">VIII. A NEW SCHOOLMISTRESS</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link9">IX. WE LEARN OTHER THINGS</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link10">X. SIR WORM WYMBLE</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link11">XI. THE KELPIE</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link12">XII. ANOTHER KELPIE</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link13">XIII. WANDERING WILLIE</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link14">XIV. ELSIE DUFF</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link15">XV. A NEW COMPANION</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link16">XVI. I GO DOWN HILL</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link17">XVII. THE TROUBLE GROWS</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link18">XVIII. LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link19">XIX. FORGIVENESS</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link20">XX. I HAVE A FALL AND A DREAM</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link21">XXI. THE BEES’ NEST</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link22">XXII. VAIN INTERCESSION</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link23">XXIII. KNIGHT-ERRANTRY</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link24">XXIV. FAILURE</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link25">XXV. TURKEY PLOTS</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link26">XXVI. OLD JOHN JAMIESON</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link27">XXVII. TURKEY’S TRICK</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link28">XXVIII. I SCHEME TOO</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link29">XXIX. A DOUBLE EXPOSURE</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link30">XXX. TRIBULATION</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link31">XXXI. A WINTER’S RIDE</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link32">XXXII. THE PEAT-STACK</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link33">XXXIII. A SOLITARY CHAPTER</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link34">XXXIV. AN EVENING VISIT</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link35">XXXV. A BREAK IN MY STORY</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#link36">XXXVI. I LEARN THAT I AM NOT A MAN</a>
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</p>
<p class="toc">
<big><b>COLOURED PLATES</b></big>
</p>
<p>
<br /> A click on any coloured plate will enlarge it to full-size.<br />
<br />
</p>
<p>
<a href="#linkbilberry">THE BILBERRY PICKERS</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#linkbaby">THE BABY BROTHER</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#linkdavie">THE DRESSING OF LITTLE DAVIE</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#linkescape">MY ESCAPE</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#linkturkey">TURKEY LIGHTS A FIRE</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#linknight">I GO INTO THE FIELDS</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#linksnow">MAKING THE SNOWBALL</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#linkelsie">READING TO ELSIE AND TURKEY</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#linkstill">A SUDDEN STOP</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#linkhelping">HELPING ELSIE</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#linkreading">A READING LESSON</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#linkhome">I RETURN HOME</a>
</p>
<p>
<i>Coloured Illustrations by A.V. Wheelhouse:<br /> Black-and-White
Illustrations by Arthur Hughes</i>.
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>
<br /><br /> <a name="link1" id="link1"></a> <br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER I
</h2>
<h3>
Introductory
</h3>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="006.jpg (91K)" src="images/006.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
I do not intend to carry my story one month beyond the hour when I saw
that my boyhood was gone and my youth arrived; a period determined to some
by the first tail-coat, to me by a different sign. My reason for wishing
to tell this first portion of my history is, that when I look back upon
it, it seems to me not only so pleasant, but so full of meaning, that, if
I can only tell it right, it must prove rather pleasant and not quite
unmeaning to those who will read it. It will prove a very poor story to
such as care only for stirring adventures, and like them all the better
for a pretty strong infusion of the impossible; but those to whom their
own history is interesting—to whom, young as they may be, it is a
pleasant thing to be in the world—will not, I think, find the
experience of a boy born in a very different position from that of most of
them, yet as much a boy as any of them, wearisome because ordinary.
</p>
<p>
If I did not mention that I, Ranald Bannerman, am a Scotchman, I should be
found out before long by the kind of thing I have to tell; for although
England and Scotland are in all essentials one, there are such differences
between them that one could tell at once, on opening his eyes, if he had
been carried out of the one into the other during the night. I do not mean
he might not be puzzled, but except there was an intention to puzzle him
by a skilful selection of place, the very air, the very colours would tell
him; or if he kept his eyes shut, his ears would tell him without his
eyes. But I will not offend fastidious ears with any syllable of my
rougher tongue. I will tell my story in English, and neither part of the
country will like it the worse for that.
</p>
<p>
I will clear the way for it by mentioning that my father was the clergyman
of a country parish in the north of Scotland—a humble position,
involving plain living and plain ways altogether. There was a glebe or
church-farm attached to the manse or clergyman’s house, and my father
rented a small farm besides, for he needed all he could make by farming to
supplement the smallness of the living. My mother was an invalid as far
back as I can remember. We were four boys, and had no sister. But I must
begin at the beginning, that is, as far back as it is possible for me to
begin.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link2" id="link2"></a> <br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER II
</h2>
<h3>
The Glimmer of Twilight
</h3>
<p>
CHAPTER II
</p>
<p>
I cannot tell any better than most of my readers how and when I began to
come awake, or what it was that wakened me. I mean, I cannot remember when
I began to remember, or what first got set down in my memory as worth
remembering. Sometimes I fancy it must have been a tremendous flood that
first made me wonder, and so made me begin to remember. At all events, I
do remember one flood that seems about as far off as anything—the
rain pouring so thick that I put out my hand in front of me to try whether
I could see it through the veil of the falling water. The river, which in
general was to be seen only in glimpses from the house—for it ran at
the bottom of a hollow—was outspread like a sea in front, and
stretched away far on either hand. It was a little stream, but it fills so
much of my memory with its regular recurrence of autumnal floods, that I
can have no confidence that one of these is in reality the oldest thing I
remember. Indeed, I have a suspicion that my oldest memories are of
dreams,—where or when dreamed, the good One who made me only knows.
They are very vague to me now, but were almost all made up of bright
things. One only I can recall, and it I will relate, or more properly
describe, for there was hardly anything done in it. I dreamed it often. It
was of the room I slept in, only it was narrower in the dream, and
loftier, and the window was gone. But the ceiling was a ceiling indeed;
for the sun, moon, and stars lived there. The sun was not a scientific sun
at all, but one such as you see in penny picture-books—a round,
jolly, jocund man’s face, with flashes of yellow frilling it all about,
just what a grand sunflower would look if you set a countenance where the
black seeds are. And the moon was just such a one as you may see the cow
jumping over in the pictured nursery rhyme. She was a crescent, of course,
that she might have a face drawn in the hollow, and turned towards the
sun, who seemed to be her husband. He looked merrily at her, and she
looked trustfully at him, and I knew that they got on very well together.
The stars were their children, of course, and they seemed to run about the
ceiling just as they pleased; but the sun and the moon had regular motions—rose
and set at the proper times, for they were steady old folks. I do not,
however, remember ever seeing them rise or set; they were always up and
near the centre before the dream dawned on me. It would always come in one
way: I thought I awoke in the middle of the night, and lo! there was the
room with the sun and the moon and the stars at their pranks and revels in
the ceiling—Mr. Sun nodding and smiling across the intervening space
to Mrs. Moon, and she nodding back to him with a knowing look, and the
corners of her mouth drawn down.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="011.jpg (98K)" src="images/011.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
I have vague memories of having heard them talk. At times I feel as if I
could yet recall something of what they said, but it vanishes the moment I
try to catch it. It was very queer talk, indeed—about me, I fancied—but
a thread of strong sense ran through it all. When the dream had been very
vivid, I would sometimes think of it in the middle of the next day, and
look up to the sun, saying to myself: He’s up there now, busy enough. I
wonder what he is seeing to talk to his wife about when he comes down at
night? I think it sometimes made me a little more careful of my conduct.
When the sun set, I thought he was going in the back way; and when the
moon rose, I thought she was going out for a little stroll until I should
go to sleep, when they might come and talk about me again. It was odd
that, although I never fancied it of the sun, I thought I could make the
moon follow me as I pleased. I remember once my eldest brother giving me
great offence by bursting into laughter, when I offered, in all
seriousness, to bring her to the other side of the house where they wanted
light to go on with something they were about. But I must return to my
dream; for the most remarkable thing in it I have not yet told you. In one
corner of the ceiling there was a hole, and through that hole came down a
ladder of sun-rays—very bright and lovely. Where it came from I
never thought, but of course it could not come from the sun, because there
he was, with his bright coat off, playing the father of his family in the
most homely Old-English-gentleman fashion possible. That it was a ladder
of rays there could, however, be no doubt: if only I could climb upon it!
I often tried, but fast as I lifted my feet to climb, down they came again
upon the boards of the floor. At length I did succeed, but this time the
dream had a setting.
</p>
<p>
<a name="linkbaby" id="linkbaby"></a> <br /><br /> <a href="images/il02.jpg"></a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="il02h.jpg (68K)" src="images/il02h.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
I have said that we were four boys; but at this time we were five—there
was a little baby. He was very ill, however, and I knew he was not
expected to live. I remember looking out of my bed one night and seeing my
mother bending over him in her lap;—it is one of the few things in
which I do remember my mother. I fell asleep, but by and by woke and
looked out again. No one was there. Not only were mother and baby gone,
but the cradle was gone too. I knew that my little brother was dead. I did
not cry: I was too young and ignorant to cry about it. I went to sleep
again, and seemed to wake once more; but it was into my dream this time.
There were the sun and the moon and the stars. But the sun and the moon
had got close together and were talking very earnestly, and all the stars
had gathered round them. I could not hear a word they said, but I
concluded that they were talking about my little brother. “I suppose I
ought to be sorry,” I said to myself; and I tried hard, but I could not
feel sorry. Meantime I observed a curious motion in the heavenly host.
They kept looking at me, and then at the corner where the ladder stood,
and talking on, for I saw their lips moving very fast; and I thought by
the motion of them that they were saying something about the ladder. I got
out of bed and went to it. If I could only get up it! I would try once
more. To my delight I found it would bear me. I climbed and climbed, and
the sun and the moon and the stars looked more and more pleased as I got
up nearer to them, till at last the sun’s face was in a broad smile. But
they did not move from their places, and my head rose above them, and got
out at the hole where the ladder came in. What I saw there, I cannot tell.
I only know that a wind such as had never blown upon me in my waking
hours, blew upon me now. I did not care much for kisses then, for I had
not learned how good they are; but somehow I fancied afterwards that the
wind was made of my baby brother’s kisses, and I began to love the little
man who had lived only long enough to be our brother and get up above the
sun and the moon and the stars by the ladder of sun-rays. But this, I say,
I thought afterwards. Now all that I can remember of my dream is that I
began to weep for very delight of something I have forgotten, and that I
fell down the ladder into the room again and awoke, as one always does
with a fall in a dream. Sun, moon, and stars were gone; the ladder of
light had vanished; and I lay sobbing on my pillow.
</p>
<p>
I have taken up a great deal of room with this story of a dream, but it
clung to me, and would often return. And then the time of life to which
this chapter refers is all so like one, that a dream comes in well enough
in it. There is a twilight of the mind, when all things are strange, and
when the memory is only beginning to know that it has got a notebook, and
must put things down in it.
</p>
<p>
It was not long after this before my mother died, and I was sorrier for my
father than for myself—he looked so sad. I have said that as far
back as I can remember, she was an invalid. Hence she was unable to be
much with us. She is very beautiful in my memory, but during the last
months of her life we seldom saw her, and the desire to keep the house
quiet for her sake must have been the beginning of that freedom which we
enjoyed during the whole of our boyhood. So we were out every day and all
day long, finding our meals when we pleased, and that, as I shall explain,
without going home for them. I remember her death clearly, but I will not
dwell upon that. It is too sad to write much about, though she was happy,
and the least troubled of us all. Her sole concern was at leaving her
husband and children. But the will of God was a better thing to her than
to live with them. My sorrow at least was soon over, for God makes
children so that grief cannot cleave to them. They must not begin life
with a burden of loss. He knows it is only for a time. When I see my
mother again, she will not reproach me that my tears were so soon dried.
“Little one,” I think I hear her saying, “how could you go on crying for
your poor mother when God was mothering you all the time, and breathing
life into you, and making the world a blessed place for you? You will tell
me all about it some day.” Yes, and we shall tell our mothers—shall
we not?—how sorry we are that we ever gave them any trouble.
Sometimes we were very naughty, and sometimes we did not know better. My
mother was very good, but I cannot remember a single one of the many
kisses she must have given me. I remember her holding my head to her bosom
when she was dying—that is all.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link3" id="link3"></a> <br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER III
</h2>
<h3>
My Father
</h3>
<p>
My father was a tall, staid, solemn man, who walked slowly with long
strides. He spoke very little, and generally looked as if he were
pondering next Sunday’s sermon. His head was grey, and a little bent, as
if he were gathering truth from the ground. Once I came upon him in the
garden, standing with his face up to heaven, and I thought he was seeing
something in the clouds; but when I came nearer, I saw that his eyes were
closed, and it made me feel very solemn. I crept away as if I had been
peeping where I ought not. He did not talk much to us. What he said was
very gentle, and it seemed to me it was his solemnity that made him
gentle. I have seen him look very angry. He used to walk much about his
fields, especially of a summer morning before the sun was up. This was
after my mother’s death. I presume he felt nearer to her in the fields
than in the house. There was a kind of grandeur about him, I am sure; for
I never saw one of his parishioners salute him in the road, without a look
of my father himself passing like a solemn cloud over the face of the man
or woman. For us, we feared and loved him both at once. I do not remember
ever being punished by him, but Kirsty (of whom I shall have to speak by
and by) has told me that he did punish us when we were very small
children. Neither did he teach us much himself, except on the occasions I
am about to mention; and I cannot say that I learned much from his
sermons. These gave entire satisfaction to those of his parishioners whom
I happened to hear speak of them; but, although I loved the sound of his
voice, and liked to look at his face as he stood up there in the ancient
pulpit clad in his gown and bands, I never cared much about what he said.
Of course it was all right, and a better sermon than any other clergyman
whatever could have preached, but what it was all about was of no
consequence to me. I may as well confess at once that I never had the
least doubt that my father was the best man in the world. Nay, to this
very hour I am of the same opinion, notwithstanding that the son of the
village tailor once gave me a tremendous thrashing for saying so, on the
ground that I was altogether wrong, seeing <i>his</i> father was the best
man in the world—at least I have learned to modify the assertion
only to this extent—that my father was the best man I have ever
known.
</p>
<p>
The church was a very old one—had seen candles burning, heard the
little bell ringing, and smelt the incense of the old Catholic service. It
was so old, that it seemed settling down again into the earth, especially
on one side, where great buttresses had been built to keep it up. It
leaned against them like a weary old thing that wanted to go to sleep. It
had a short square tower, like so many of the churches in England; and
although there was but one old cracked bell in it, although there was no
organ to give out its glorious sounds, although there was neither chanting
nor responses, I assure my English readers that the awe and reverence
which fell upon me as I crossed its worn threshold were nowise inferior,
as far as I can judge, to the awe and respect they feel when they enter
the more beautiful churches of their country. There was a hush in it which
demanded a refraining of the foot, a treading softly as upon holy ground;
and the church was inseparably associated with my father.
</p>
<p>
The pew we sat in was a square one, with a table in the middle of it for
our books. My brother David generally used it for laying his head upon,
that he might go to sleep comfortably. My brother Tom put his feet on the
cross-bar of it, leaned back in his corner—for you see we had a
corner apiece—put his hands in his trousers pockets, and stared hard
at my father—for Tom’s corner was well in front of the pulpit. My
brother Allister, whose back was to the pulpit, used to learn the <i>paraphrases</i>
all the time of the sermon. I, happiest of all in my position, could look
up at my father, if I pleased, a little sideways; or, if I preferred,
which I confess I often did, study—a rare sight in Scotch churches—the
figure of an armed knight, carved in stone, which lay on the top of the
tomb of Sir Worm Wymble—at least that is the nearest I can come to
the spelling of the name they gave him. The tomb was close by the side of
the pew, with only a flagged passage between. It stood in a hollow in the
wall, and the knight lay under the arch of the recess, so silent, so
patient, with folded palms, as if praying for some help which he could not
name. From the presence of this labour of the sculptor came a certain
element into the feeling of the place, which it could not otherwise have
possessed: organ and chant were not altogether needful while that carved
knight lay there with face upturned, as if looking to heaven.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="020.jpg (111K)" src="images/020.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
But from gazing at the knight I began to regard the wall about him, and
the arch over him; and from the arch my eye would seek the roof, and
descending, rest on the pillars, or wander about the windows, searching
the building of the place, discovering the points of its strength, and how
it was upheld. So that while my father was talking of the church as a
company of believers, and describing how it was held together by faith, I
was trying to understand how the stone and lime of the old place was kept
from falling asunder, and thus beginning to follow what has become my
profession since; for I am an architect.
</p>
<p>
But the church has led me away from my father. He always spoke in rather a
low voice, but so earnestly that every eye, as it seemed to me, but mine
and those of two of my brothers, was fixed upon him. I think, however,
that it was in part the fault of certain teaching of his own, better
fitted for our understanding, that we paid so little heed. Even Tom, with
all his staring, knew as little about the sermon as any of us. But my
father did not question us much concerning it; he did what was far better.
On Sunday afternoons, in the warm, peaceful sunlight of summer, with the
honeysuckle filling the air of the little arbour in which we sat, and his
one glass of wine set on the table in the middle, he would sit for an hour
talking away to us in his gentle, slow, deep voice, telling us story after
story out of the New Testament, and explaining them in a way I have seldom
heard equalled. Or, in the cold winter nights, he would come into the room
where I and my two younger brothers slept—the nursery it was—and,
sitting down with Tom by his side before the fire that burned bright in
the frosty air, would open the great family Bible on the table, turn his
face towards the two beds where we three lay wide awake, and tell us story
after story out of the Old Testament, sometimes reading a few verses,
sometimes turning the bare facts into an expanded and illustrated
narrative of his own, which, in Shakspere fashion, he presented after the
modes and ways of our own country and time. I shall never forget Joseph in
Egypt hearing the pattering of the asses’ hoofs in the street, and
throwing up the window, and looking out, and seeing all his own brothers
coming riding towards him; or the grand rush of the sea waves over the
bewildered hosts of the Egyptians. We lay and listened with all the more
enjoyment, that while the fire was burning so brightly, and the presence
of my father filling the room with safety and peace, the wind was howling
outside, and the snow drifting up against the window. Sometimes I passed
into the land of sleep with his voice in my ears and his love in my heart;
perhaps into the land of visions—once certainly into a dream of the
sun and moon and stars making obeisance to the too-favoured son of Jacob.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /> <br /><br /> <a name="link4" id="link4"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER IV
</h2>
<h3>
Kirsty
</h3>
<p>
My father had a housekeeper, a trusty woman, he considered her. We thought
her <i>very</i> old. I suppose she was about forty. She was not pleasant,
for she was grim-faced and censorious, with a very straight back, and a
very long upper lip. Indeed the distance from her nose to her mouth was
greater than the length of her nose. When I think of her first, it is
always as making some complaint to my father against us. Perhaps she meant
to speak the truth, or rather, perhaps took it for granted that she always
did speak the truth; but certainly she would exaggerate things, and give
them quite another look. The bones of her story might be true, but she
would put a skin over it after her own fashion, which was not one of
mildness and charity. The consequence was that the older we grew, the more
our minds were alienated from her, and the more we came to regard her as
our enemy. If she really meant to be our friend after the best fashion she
knew, it was at least an uncomely kind of friendship, that showed itself
in constant opposition, fault-finding, and complaint. The real mistake was
that we were boys. There was something in her altogether antagonistic to
the boy-nature. You would have thought that to be a boy was in her eyes to
be something wrong to begin with; that boys ought never to have been made;
that they must always, by their very nature, be about something amiss. I
have occasionally wondered how she would have behaved to a girl. On
reflection, I think a little better; but the girl would have been worse
off, because she could not have escaped from her as we did. My father
would hear her complaints to the end without putting in a word, except it
were to ask her a question, and when she had finished, would turn again to
his book or his sermon, saying—
</p>
<p>
“Very well, Mrs. Mitchell; I will speak to them about it.”
</p>
<p>
My impression is that he did not believe the half she told him. At all
events, when he had sent for us, he would ask our version of the affair,
and listen to that as he had listened to hers. Then he would set forth to
us where we had been wrong, if we were wrong, and send us away with an
injunction not to provoke Mrs. Mitchell, who couldn’t help being short in
her temper, poor thing! Somehow or other we got it into our heads that the
shortness of her temper was mysteriously associated with the shortness of
her nose.
</p>
<p>
She was saving even to stinginess. She would do her best to provide what
my father liked, but for us she thought almost anything good enough. She
would, for instance, give us the thinnest of milk—we said she
skimmed it three times before she thought it blue enough for us. My two
younger brothers did not mind it so much as I did, for I was always rather
delicate, and if I took a dislike to anything, would rather go without
than eat or drink of it. But I have told you enough about her to make it
plain that she could be no favourite with us; and enough likewise to serve
as a background to my description of Kirsty.
</p>
<p>
Kirsty was a Highland woman who had the charge of the house in which the
farm servants lived. She was a cheerful, gracious, kind woman—a
woman of God’s making, one would say, were it not that, however mysterious
it may look, we cannot deny that he made Mrs. Mitchell too. It is very
puzzling, I confess. I remember once that my youngest brother Davie, a
very little fellow then, for he could not speak plainly, came running in
great distress to Kirsty, crying, “Fee, fee!” by which he meant to
indicate that a flea was rendering his life miserable. Kirsty at once
undressed him and entered on the pursuit. After a successful search, while
she was putting on his garments again, little Davie, who had been looking
very solemn and thoughtful for some time, said, not in a questioning, but
in a concluding tone—
</p>
<p>
“God didn’t make the fees, Kirsty!”
</p>
<p>
“Oh yes, Davie! God made everything. God did make the fleas,” said Kirsty.
</p>
<p>
Davie was silent for a while. Then he opened his mouth and spake like a
discontented prophet of old:
</p>
<p>
“Why doesn’t he give them something else to eat, then?”
</p>
<p>
“You must ask himself that,” said Kirsty, with a wisdom I have since
learned to comprehend, though I remember it shocked me a little at the
time.
</p>
<p>
<a name="linkdavie" id="linkdavie"></a> <br /><br /> <a
href="images/il03.jpg"></a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="il03h.jpg (64K)" src="images/il03h.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
All this set me thinking. Before the dressing of little Davie was over, I
had <i>my</i> question to put to Kirsty. It was, in fact, the same
question, only with a more important object in the eye of it.
</p>
<p>
“<i>Then</i> I suppose God made Mrs. Mitchell, as well as you and the rest
of us, Kirsty?” I said.
</p>
<p>
“Certainly, Ranald,” returned Kirsty.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I wish he hadn’t,” was my remark, in which I only imitated my baby
brother, who was always much cleverer than I.
</p>
<p>
“Oh! she’s not a bad sort,” said Kirsty; “though I must say, if I was her,
I would try to be a little more agreeable.”
</p>
<p>
To return to Kirsty: she was our constant resort. The farmhouse was a
furlong or so from the manse, but with the blood pouring from a cut
finger, the feet would of themselves devour that furlong rather than apply
to Mrs. Mitchell. Oh! she was dear, and good, and kind, our Kirsty!
</p>
<p>
In person she was short and slender, with keen blue eyes and dark hair; an
uncommonly small foot, which she claimed for all Highland folk; a light
step, a sweet voice, and a most bounteous hand—but there I come into
the moral nature of her, for it is the mind that makes the hand bountiful.
For her face, I think that was rather queer, but in truth I can hardly
tell, so entirely was it the sign of good to me and my brothers; in short,
I loved her so much that I do not know now, even as I did not care then,
whether she was nice-looking or not. She was quite as old as Mrs.
Mitchell, but we never thought of <i>her</i> being old. She was our refuge
in all time of trouble and necessity. It was she who gave us something to
eat as often and as much as we wanted. She used to say it was no cheating
of the minister to feed the minister’s boys.
</p>
<p>
And then her stories! There was nothing like them in all that countryside.
It was rather a dreary country in outward aspect, having many bleak
moorland hills, that lay about like slow-stiffened waves, of no great
height but of much desolation; and as far as the imagination was
concerned, it would seem that the minds of former generations had been as
bleak as the country, they had left such small store of legends of any
sort. But Kirsty had come from a region where the hills were hills indeed—hills
with mighty skeletons of stone inside them; hills that looked as if they
had been heaped over huge monsters which were ever trying to get up—a
country where every cliff, and rock, and well had its story—and
Kirsty’s head was full of such. It was delight indeed to sit by her fire
and listen to them. That would be after the men had had their supper,
early of a winter night, and had gone, two of them to the village, and the
other to attend to the horses. Then we and the herd, as we called the boy
who attended to the cattle, whose work was over for the night, would sit
by the fire, and Kirsty would tell us stories, and we were in our heaven.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /> <br /><br /> <a name="link5" id="link5"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER V
</h2>
<h3>
I Begin Life
</h3>
<p>
I began life, and that after no pleasant fashion, as near as I can guess,
about the age of six years. One glorious morning in early summer I found
myself led by the ungentle hand of Mrs. Mitchell towards a little school
on the outside of the village, kept by an old woman called Mrs. Shand. In
an English village I think she would have been called Dame Shand: we
called her Luckie Shand. Half dragged along the road by Mrs. Mitchell,
from whose rough grasp I attempted in vain to extricate my hand, I looked
around at the shining fields and up at the blue sky, where a lark was
singing as if he had just found out that he could sing, with something
like the despair of a man going to the gallows and bidding farewell to the
world. We had to cross a little stream, and when we reached the middle of
the foot-bridge, I tugged yet again at my imprisoned hand, with a
half-formed intention of throwing myself into the brook. But my efforts
were still unavailing. Over a half-mile or so, rendered weary by
unwillingness, I was led to the cottage door—no such cottage as some
of my readers will picture, with roses and honeysuckle hiding its walls,
but a dreary little house with nothing green to cover the brown stones of
which it was built, and having an open ditch in front of it with a stone
slab over it for a bridge. Did I say there was nothing on the walls? This
morning there was the loveliest sunshine, and that I was going to leave
behind. It was very bitter, especially as I had expected to go with my
elder brother to spend the day at a neighbouring farm.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Mitchell opened the door, and led me in. It was an awful experience.
Dame Shand stood at her table ironing. She was as tall as Mrs. Mitchell,
and that was enough to prejudice me against her at once. She wore a
close-fitting widow’s cap, with a black ribbon round it. Her hair was
grey, and her face was as grey as her hair, and her skin was gathered in
wrinkles about her mouth, where they twitched and twitched, as if she were
constantly meditating something unpleasant. She looked up inquiringly.
</p>
<p>
“I’ve brought you a new scholar,” said Mrs. Mitchell.
</p>
<p>
“Well. Very well,” said the dame, in a dubious tone. “I hope he’s a good
boy, for he must be good if he comes here.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, he’s just middling. His father spares the rod, Mrs. Shand, and we
know what comes of that.”
</p>
<p>
They went on with their talk, which, as far as I can recall it, was
complimentary to none but the two women themselves. Meantime I was making
what observations my terror would allow. About a dozen children were
seated on forms along the walls, looking over the tops of their
spelling-books at the newcomer. In the farther corner two were kicking at
each other as opportunity offered, looking very angry, but not daring to
cry. My next discovery was terribly disconcerting. Some movement drew my
eyes to the floor; there I saw a boy of my own age on all-fours, fastened
by a string to a leg of the table at which the dame was ironing, while—horrible
to relate!—a dog, not very big but very ugly, and big enough to be
frightened at, lay under the table watching him. I gazed in utter dismay.
</p>
<p>
“Ah, you may look!” said the dame. “If you’re not a good boy, that is how
you shall be served. The dog shall have you to look after.”
</p>
<p>
I trembled, and was speechless. After some further confabulation, Mrs.
Mitchell took her leave, saying—
</p>
<p>
“I’ll come back for him at one o’clock, and if I don’t come, just keep him
till I do come.”
</p>
<p>
The dame accompanied her to the door, and then I discovered that she was
lame, and hobbled very much. A resolution arose full-formed in my brain.
</p>
<p>
I sat down on the form near the door, and kept very quiet. Had it not been
for the intention I cherished, I am sure I should have cried. When the
dame returned, she resumed her box-iron, in which the heater went rattling
about, as, standing on one leg—the other was so much shorter—she
moved it to and fro over the garment on the table. Then she called me to
her by name in a would-be pompous manner. I obeyed, trembling.
</p>
<p>
“Can you say your letters?” she asked.
</p>
<p>
Now, although I could not read, I could repeat the alphabet; how I had
learned it I do not know. I did repeat it.
</p>
<p>
“How many questions of your catechism can you say?” she asked next.
</p>
<p>
Not knowing with certainty what she meant, I was silent.
</p>
<p>
“No sulking!” said the dame; and opening a drawer in the table, she took
out a catechism. Turning back the cover she put it in my hand, and told me
to learn the first question. She had not even inquired whether I could
read. I took the catechism, and stood as before.
</p>
<p>
“Go to your seat,” she said.
</p>
<p>
I obeyed, and with the book before me pondered my plan.
</p>
<p>
Everything depended on whether I could open the door before she could
reach me. Once out of the house, I was sure of running faster than she
could follow. And soon I had my first experience of how those are helped
who will help themselves.
</p>
<p>
The ironing of course required a fire to make the irons hot, and as the
morning went on, the sunshine on the walls, conspiring with the fire on
the hearth, made the place too hot for the comfort of the old dame. She
went and set the door wide open. I was instantly on the alert, watching
for an opportunity. One soon occurred.
</p>
<p>
A class of some five or six was reading, if reading it could be called,
out of the Bible. At length it came to the turn of one who blundered
dreadfully. It was the same boy who had been tied under the table, but he
had been released for his lesson. The dame hobbled to him, and found he
had his book upside down; whereupon she turned in wrath to the table, and
took from the drawer a long leather strap, with which she proceeded to
chastise him. As his first cry reached my ears I was halfway to the door.
On the threshold I stumbled and fell.
</p>
<p>
“The new boy’s running away!” shrieked some little sycophant inside.
</p>
<p>
<a name="linkescape" id="linkescape"></a> <br /><br /> <a
href="images/il04.jpg"></a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="il04h.jpg (64K)" src="images/il04h.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
I heard with horror, but I was up and off in a moment. I had not, however,
got many yards from the cottage before I heard the voice of the dame
screaming after me to return. I took no heed—only sped the faster.
But what was my horror to find her command enforced by the pursuing bark
of her prime minister. This paralysed me. I turned, and there was the
fiendish-looking dog close on my heels. I could run no longer. For one
moment I felt as if I should sink to the earth for sheer terror. The next
moment a wholesome rage sent the blood to my brain. From abject cowardice
to wild attack—I cannot call it courage—was the change of an
instant. I rushed towards the little wretch. I did not know how to fight
him, but in desperation I threw myself upon him, and dug my nails into
him. They had fortunately found their way to his eyes. He was the veriest
coward of his species. He yelped and howled, and struggling from my grasp
ran with his tail merged in his person back to his mistress, who was
hobbling after me. But with the renewed strength of triumph I turned again
for home, and ran as I had never run before. When or where the dame gave
in, I do not know; I never turned my head until I laid it on Kirsty’s
bosom, and there I burst out sobbing and crying. It was all the utterance
I had left.
</p>
<p>
As soon as Kirsty had succeeded in calming me, I told her the whole story.
She said very little, but I could see she was very angry. No doubt she was
pondering what could be done. She got me some milk—half cream I do
believe, it was so nice—and some oatcake, and went on with her work.
</p>
<p>
While I ate I reflected that any moment Mrs. Mitchell might appear to drag
me back in disgrace to that horrible den. I knew that Kirsty’s authority
was not equal to hers, and that she would be compelled to give me up. So I
watched an opportunity to escape once more and hide myself, so that Kirsty
might be able to say she did not know where I was.
</p>
<p>
When I had finished, and Kirsty had left the kitchen for a moment, I sped
noiselessly to the door, and looked out into the farmyard. There was no
one to be seen. Dark and brown and cool the door of the barn stood open,
as if inviting me to shelter and safety; for I knew that in the darkest
end of it lay a great heap of oat-straw. I sped across the intervening
sunshine into the darkness, and began burrowing in the straw like a wild
animal, drawing out handfuls and laying them carefully aside, so that no
disorder should betray my retreat. When I had made a hole large enough to
hold me, I got in, but kept drawing out the straw behind me, and filling
the hole in front. This I continued until I had not only stopped up the
entrance, but placed a good thickness of straw between me and the outside.
By the time I had burrowed as far as I thought necessary, I was tired, and
lay down at full length in my hole, delighting in such a sense of safety
as I had never before experienced. I was soon fast asleep.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link6" id="link6"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER VI
</h2>
<h3>
No Father
</h3>
<p>
I woke, and creeping out of my lair, and peeping from the door of the
barn, which looked into the cornyard, found that the sun was going down. I
had already discovered that I was getting hungry. I went out at the other
door into the close or farmyard, and ran across to the house. No one was
there. Something moved me to climb on the form and look out of a little
window, from which I could see the manse and the road from it. To my
dismay, there was Mrs. Mitchell coming towards the farm. I possessed my
wits sufficiently to run first to Kirsty’s press and secure a good supply
of oatcake, with which I then sped like a hunted hare to her form. I had
soon drawn the stopper of straw into the mouth of the hole, where, hearing
no one approach, I began to eat my oatcake, and fell asleep again before I
had finished.
</p>
<p>
And as I slept I dreamed my dream. The sun was looking very grave, and the
moon reflected his concern. They were not satisfied with me. At length the
sun shook his head; that is, his whole self oscillated on an axis, and the
moon thereupon shook herself in response. Then they nodded to each other
as much as to say, “That is entirely my own opinion.” At last they began
to talk; not as men converse, but both at once, yet each listening while
each spoke. I heard no word, but their lips moved most busily; their
eyebrows went up and down; their eyelids winked and winked, and their
cheeks puckered and relaxed incessantly. There was an absolute storm of
expression upon their faces; their very noses twisted and curled. It
seemed as if, in the agony of their talk, their countenances would go to
pieces. For the stars, they darted about hither and thither, gathered into
groups, dispersed, and formed new groups, and having no faces yet, but
being a sort of celestial tadpoles, indicated by their motions alone that
they took an active interest in the questions agitating their parents.
Some of them kept darting up and down the ladder of rays, like
phosphorescent sparks in the sea foam.
</p>
<p>
I could bear it no longer, and awoke. I was in darkness, but not in my own
bed. When I proceeded to turn, I found myself hemmed in on all sides. I
could not stretch my arms, and there was hardly room for my body between
my feet and my head. I was dreadfully frightened at first, and felt as if
I were being slowly stifled. As my brain awoke, I recalled the horrible
school, the horrible schoolmistress, and the most horrible dog, over whose
defeat, however, I rejoiced with the pride of a dragon-slayer. Next I
thought it would be well to look abroad and reconnoitre once more. I drew
away the straw from the entrance to my lair; but what was my dismay to
find that even when my hand went out into space no light came through the
opening. What could it mean? Surely I had not grown blind while I lay
asleep. Hurriedly I shot out the remainder of the stopper of straw, and
crept from the hole. In the great barn there was but the dullest glimmer
of light; I had almost said the clumsiest reduction of darkness. I tumbled
at one of the doors rather than ran to it. I found it fast, but this one I
knew was fastened on the inside by a wooden bolt or bar, which I could
draw back. The open door revealed the dark night. Before me was the
cornyard, as we called it, full of ricks. Huge and very positive although
dim, they rose betwixt me and the sky. Between their tops I saw only stars
and darkness. I turned and looked back into the barn. It appeared a
horrible cave filled with darkness. I remembered there were rats in it. I
dared not enter it again, even to go out at the opposite door: I forgot
how soundly and peacefully I had slept in it. I stepped out into the night
with the grass of the corn-yard under my feet, the awful vault of heaven
over my head, and those shadowy ricks around me. It was a relief to lay my
hand on one of them, and feel that it was solid. I half groped my way
through them, and got out into the open field, by creeping through between
the stems of what had once been a hawthorn hedge, but had in the course of
a hundred years grown into the grimmest, largest, most grotesque trees I
have ever seen of the kind. I had always been a little afraid of them,
even in the daytime, but they did me no hurt, and I stood in the vast hall
of the silent night—alone: there lay the awfulness of it. I had
never before known what the night was. The real sting of its fear lay in
this—that there was nobody else in it. Everybody besides me was
asleep all over the world, and had abandoned me to my fate, whatever might
come out of the darkness to seize me. When I got round the edge of the
stone wall, which on another side bounded the corn-yard, there was the
moon—crescent, as I saw her in my dream, but low down towards the
horizon, and lying almost upon her rounded back. She looked very
disconsolate and dim. Even she would take no heed of me, abandoned child!
The stars were high up, away in the heavens. They did not look like the
children of the sun and moon at all, and <i>they</i> took no heed of me.
Yet there was a grandeur in my desolation that would have elevated my
heart but for the fear. If I had had one living creature nigh me—if
only the stupid calf, whose dull sleepy low startled me so dreadfully as I
stood staring about me! It was not dark out here in the open field, for at
this season of the year it is not dark there all night long, when the sky
is unclouded. Away in the north was the Great Bear. I knew that
constellation, for by it one of the men had taught me to find the
pole-star. Nearly under it was the light of the sun, creeping round by the
north towards the spot in the east where he would rise again. But I
learned only afterwards to understand this. I gazed at that pale faded
light, and all at once I remembered that God was near me. But I did not
know what God is then as I know now, and when I thought about him then,
which was neither much nor often, my idea of him was not like him; it was
merely a confused mixture of other people’s fancies about him and my own.
I had not learned how beautiful God is; I had only learned that he is
strong. I had been told that he was angry with those that did wrong; I had
not understood that he loved them all the time, although he was displeased
with them, and must punish them to make them good. When I thought of him
now in the silent starry night, a yet greater terror seized me, and I ran
stumbling over the uneven field.
</p>
<p>
<a name="linknight" id="linknight"></a> <br /><br /> <a
href="images/il06.jpg"></a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="il06h.jpg (58K)" src="images/il06h.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
Does my reader wonder whither I fled? Whither should I fly but home? True,
Mrs. Mitchell was there, but there was another there as well. Even Kirsty
would not do in this terror. Home was the only refuge, for my father was
there. I sped for the manse.
</p>
<p>
But as I approached it a new apprehension laid hold of my trembling heart.
I was not sure, but I thought the door was always locked at night. I drew
nearer. The place of possible refuge rose before me. I stood on the
grass-plot in front of it. There was no light in its eyes. Its mouth was
closed. It was silent as one of the ricks. Above it shone the speechless
stars. Nothing was alive. Nothing would speak. I went up the few
rough-hewn granite steps that led to the door. I laid my hand on the
handle, and gently turned it. Joy of joys! the door opened. I entered the
hall. Ah! it was more silent than the night. No footsteps echoed; no
voices were there. I closed the door behind me, and, almost sick with the
misery of a being where no other being was to comfort it, I groped my way
to my father’s room. When I once had my hand on his door, the warm tide of
courage began again to flow from my heart. I opened this door too very
quietly, for was not the dragon asleep down below?
</p>
<p>
“Papa! papa!” I cried, in an eager whisper. “Are you awake, papa?”
</p>
<p>
No voice came in reply, and the place was yet more silent than the night
or the hall. He must be asleep. I was afraid to call louder. I crept
nearer to the bed. I stretched out my hands to feel for him. He must be at
the farther side. I climbed up on the bed. I felt all across it. Utter
desertion seized my soul—my father was not there! Was it a horrible
dream? Should I ever awake? My heart sank totally within me. I could bear
no more. I fell down on the bed weeping bitterly, and wept myself asleep.
</p>
<p>
Years after, when I was a young man, I read Jean Paul’s terrible dream
that there was no God, and the desolation of this night was my key to that
dream.
</p>
<p>
Once more I awoke to a sense of misery, and stretched out my arms, crying,
“Papa! papa!” The same moment I found my father’s arms around me; he
folded me close to him, and said—
</p>
<p>
“Hush, Ranald, my boy! Here I am! You are quite safe.”
</p>
<p>
I nestled as close to him as I could go, and wept for blessedness.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, papa!” I sobbed, “I thought I had lost you.”
</p>
<p>
“And I thought I had lost you, my boy. Tell me all about it.”
</p>
<p>
Between my narrative and my replies to his questionings he had soon
gathered the whole story, and I in my turn learned the dismay of the
household when I did not appear. Kirsty told what she knew. They searched
everywhere, but could not find me; and great as my misery had been, my
father’s had been greater than mine. While I stood forsaken and desolate
in the field, they had been searching along the banks of the river. But
the herd had had an idea, and although they had already searched the barn
and every place they could think of, he left them and ran back for a
further search about the farm. Guided by the scattered straw, he soon came
upon my deserted lair, and sped back to the riverside with the news, when
my father returned, and after failing to find me in my own bed, to his
infinite relief found me fast asleep on his; so fast, that he undressed me
and laid me in the bed without my once opening my eyes—the more
strange, as I had already slept so long. But sorrow is very sleepy.
</p>
<p>
Having thus felt the awfulness and majesty of the heavens at night, it was
a very long time before I again dreamed my childish dream.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link7" id="link7"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER VII
</h2>
<h3>
Mrs. Mitchell is Defeated
</h3>
<p>
After this talk with my father I fell into a sleep of perfect contentment,
and never thought of what might be on the morrow till the morrow came.
Then I grew aware of the danger I was in of being carried off once more to
school. Indeed, except my father interfered, the thing was almost
inevitable. I thought he would protect me, but I had no assurance. He was
gone again, for, as I have mentioned already, he was given to going out
early in the mornings. It was not early now, however; I had slept much
longer than usual. I got up at once, intending to find him; but, to my
horror, before I was half dressed, my enemy, Mrs. Mitchell, came into the
room, looking triumphant and revengeful.
</p>
<p>
“I’m glad to see you’re getting up,” she said; “it’s nearly school-time.”
</p>
<p>
The tone, and the emphasis she laid on the word <i>school</i>, would have
sufficed to reveal the state of her mind, even if her eyes had not been
fierce with suppressed indignation.
</p>
<p>
“I haven’t had my porridge,” I said.
</p>
<p>
“Your porridge is waiting you—as cold as a stone,” she answered. “If
boys will lie in bed so late, what can they expect?”
</p>
<p>
“Nothing from you,” I muttered, with more hardihood than I had yet shown
her.
</p>
<p>
“What’s that you’re saying?” she asked angrily.
</p>
<p>
I was silent.
</p>
<p>
“Make haste,” she went on, “and don’t keep me waiting all day.”
</p>
<p>
“You needn’t wait, Mrs. Mitchell. I am dressing as fast as I can. Is papa
in his study yet?”
</p>
<p>
“No. And you needn’t think to see him. He’s angry enough with you, I’ll
warrant”
</p>
<p>
She little knew what had passed between my father and me already. She
could not imagine what a talk we had had.
</p>
<p>
“You needn’t think to run away as you did yesterday. I know all about it
Mrs. Shand told me all about it I shouldn’t wonder if your papa’s gone to
see her now, and tell her how sorry he is you were so naughty.”
</p>
<p>
“I’m not going, to school.”
</p>
<p>
“We’ll see about that”
</p>
<p>
“I tell you I won’t go.”
</p>
<p>
“And I tell you we’ll see about it”
</p>
<p>
“I won’t go till I’ve seen papa. If he says I’m to go, I will of course;
but I won’t go for you.”
</p>
<p>
“You <i>will</i>, and you <i>won’t</i>!” she repeated, standing staring at
me, as I leisurely, but with hands trembling partly with fear, partly with
rage, was fastening my nether garments to my waistcoat. “That’s all very
fine, but I know something a good deal finer. Now wash your face.”
</p>
<p>
“I won’t, so long as you stand there,” I said, and sat down on the floor.
She advanced towards me.
</p>
<p>
“If you touch me, I’ll scream,” I cried.
</p>
<p>
She stopped, thought for a moment, and bounced out of the room. But I
heard her turn the key of the door.
</p>
<p>
I proceeded with my dressing as fast as I could then; and the moment I was
ready, opened the window, which was only a few feet from the ground,
scrambled out, and dropped. I hurt myself a little, but not much, and fled
for the harbour of Kirsty’s arms. But as I turned the corner of the house
I ran right into Mrs. Mitchell’s, who received me with no soft embrace. In
fact I was rather severely scratched with a. pin in the bosom of her
dress.
</p>
<p>
“There! that serves you right,” she cried. “That’s a judgment on you for
trying to run away again. After all the trouble you gave us yesterday too!
You are a bad boy.”
</p>
<p>
“Why am I a bad boy?” I retorted.
</p>
<p>
“It’s bad not to do what you are told.”
</p>
<p>
“I will do what my papa tells me.”
</p>
<p>
“Your papa! There are more people than your papa in the world.”
</p>
<p>
“I’m to be a bad boy if I don’t do what anybody like you chooses to tell
me, am I?”
</p>
<p>
“None of your impudence!”
</p>
<p>
This was accompanied by a box on the ear. She was now dragging me into the
kitchen. There she set my porridge before me, which I declined to eat.
</p>
<p>
“Well, if you won’t eat good food, you shall go to school without it.”
</p>
<p>
“I tell you I won’t go to school.”
</p>
<p>
She caught me up in her arms. She was very strong, and I could not prevent
her carrying me out of the house. If I had been the bad boy she said I
was, I could by biting and scratching have soon compelled her to set me
down; but I felt that I must not do that, for then I should be ashamed
before my father. I therefore yielded for the time, and fell to planning.
Nor was I long in coming to a resolution. I drew the pin that had
scratched me from her dress. I believed she would not carry me very far;
but if she did not set me down soon, I resolved to make her glad to do so.
Further I resolved, that when we came to the foot-bridge, which had but
one rail to it, I would run the pin into her and make her let me go, when
I would instantly throw myself into the river, for I would run the risk of
being drowned rather than go to that school. Were all my griefs of
yesterday, overcome and on the point of being forgotten, to be frustrated
in this fashion? My whole blood was boiling. I was convinced my father did
not want me to go. He could not have been so kind to me during the night,
and then send me to such a place in the morning. But happily for the
general peace, things did not arrive at such a desperate pass. Before we
were out of the gate, my heart leaped with joy, for I heard my father
calling, “Mrs. Mitchell! Mrs. Mitchell!” I looked round, and seeing him
coming after us with his long slow strides, I fell to struggling so
violently in the strength of hope that she was glad to set me down. I
broke from her, ran to my father, and burst out crying.
</p>
<p>
“Papa! papa!” I sobbed, “don’t send me to that horrid school. I can learn
to read without that old woman to teach me.”
</p>
<p>
“Really, Mrs. Mitchell,” said my father, taking me by the hand and leading
me towards her, where she stood visibly flaming with rage and annoyance,
“really, Mrs. Mitchell, you are taking too much upon you! I never said the
child was to go to that woman’s school. In fact I don’t approve of what I
hear of her, and I have thought of consulting some of my brethren in the
presbytery on the matter before taking steps myself. I won’t have the
young people in my parish oppressed in such a fashion. Terrified with dogs
too! It is shameful.”
</p>
<p>
“She’s a very decent woman, Mistress Shand,” said the housekeeper.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="050.jpg (92K)" src="images/050.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
“I don’t dispute her decency, Mrs. Mitchell; but I doubt very much whether
she is fit to have the charge of children; and as she is a friend of
yours, you will be doing her a kindness to give her a hint to that effect.
It <i>may</i> save the necessity for my taking further and more unpleasant
steps.”
</p>
<p>
“Indeed, sir, by your leave, it would be hard lines to take the bread out
of the mouth of a lone widow woman, and bring her upon the parish with a
bad name to boot. She’s supported herself for years with her school, and
been a trouble to nobody.”
</p>
<p>
“Except the lambs of the flock, Mrs. Mitchell.—I like you for
standing up for your friend; but is a woman, because she is lone and a
widow, to make a Moloch of herself, and have the children sacrificed to
her in that way? It’s enough to make idiots of some of them. She had
better see to it. You tell her that—from me, if you like. And don’t
you meddle with school affairs. I’ll take my young men,” he added with a
smile, “to school when I see fit.”
</p>
<p>
“I’m sure, sir,” said Mrs. Mitchell, putting her blue striped apron to her
eyes, “I asked your opinion before I took him.”
</p>
<p>
“I believe I did say something about its being time he were able to read,
but I recollect nothing more.—You must have misunderstood me,” he
added, willing to ease her descent to the valley of her humiliation.
</p>
<p>
She walked away without another word, sniffing the air as she went, and
carrying her hands folded under her apron. From that hour I believe she
hated me.
</p>
<p>
My father looked after her with a smile, and then looked down on me,
saying—
</p>
<p>
“She’s short in the temper, poor woman! and we mustn’t provoke her.”
</p>
<p>
I was too well satisfied to urge my victory by further complaint. I could
afford to let well alone, for I had been delivered as from the fiery
furnace, and the earth and the sky were laughing around me. Oh! what a
sunshine filled the world! How glad the larks, which are the praisers
amongst the birds, were that blessed morning! The demon of oppression had
hidden her head ashamed, and fled to her den!
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link8" id="link8"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER VIII
</h2>
<h3>
A New Schoolmistress
</h3>
<p>
“But, Ranald,” my father continued, “what are we to do about the reading?
I fear I have let you go too long. I didn’t want to make learning a burden
to you, and I don’t approve of children learning to read too soon; but
really, at your age, you know, it is time you were beginning. I have time
to teach you some things, but I can’t teach you everything. I have got to
read a great deal and think a great deal, and go about my parish a good
deal. And your brother Tom has heavy lessons to learn at school, and I
have to help him. So what’s to be done, Ranald, my boy? You can’t go to
the parish school before you’ve learned your letters.”
</p>
<p>
“There’s Kirsty, papa,” I suggested.
</p>
<p>
“Yes; there’s Kirsty,” he returned with a sly smile. “Kirsty can do
everything, can’t she?”
</p>
<p>
“She can speak Gaelic,” I said with a tone of triumph, bringing her rarest
accomplishment to the forefront.
</p>
<p>
“I wish you could speak Gaelic,” said my father, thinking of his wife, I
believe, whose mother tongue it was. “But that is not what you want most
to learn. Do you think Kirsty could teach you to read English?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I do.”
</p>
<p>
My father again meditated.
</p>
<p>
“Let us go and ask her,” he said at length, taking my hand.
</p>
<p>
I capered with delight, nor ceased my capering till we stood on Kirsty’s
earthen floor. I think I see her now, dusting one of her deal chairs, as
white as soap and sand could make it, for the minister to sit on. She
never called him <i>the master</i>, but always <i>the minister</i>. She
was a great favourite with my father, and he always behaved as a visitor
in her house.
</p>
<p>
“Well, Kirsty,” he said, after the first salutations were over, “have you
any objection to turn schoolmistress?”
</p>
<p>
“I should make a poor hand at that,” she answered, with a smile to me
which showed she guessed what my father wanted. “But if it were to teach
Master Ranald there, I should like dearly to try what I could do.”
</p>
<p>
She never omitted the <i>Master</i> to our names; Mrs. Mitchell by no
chance prefixed it. The natural manners of the Celt and Saxon are almost
diametrically opposed in Scotland. And had Kirsty’s speech been in the
coarse dialect of Mrs. Mitchell, I am confident my father would not have
allowed her to teach me. But Kirsty did not speak a word of Scotch, and
although her English was a little broken and odd, being formed somewhat
after Gaelic idioms, her tone was pure and her phrases were refined. The
matter was very speedily settled between them.
</p>
<p>
“And if you want to beat him, Kirsty, you can beat him in Gaelic, and then
he won’t feel it,” said my father, trying after a joke, which was no
common occurrence with him, whereupon Kirsty and I laughed in great
contentment.
</p>
<p>
The fact was, Kirsty had come to the manse with my mother, and my father
was attached to her for the sake of his wife as well as for her own, and
Kirsty would have died for the minister or any one of his boys. All the
devotion a Highland woman has for the chief of her clan, Kirsty had for my
father, not to mention the reverence due to the minister.
</p>
<p>
After a little chat about the cows and the calves, my father rose, saying—
</p>
<p>
“Then I’ll just make him over to you, Kirsty. Do you think you can manage
without letting it interfere with your work, though?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh yes, sir—well that! I shall soon have him reading to me while
I’m busy about. If he doesn’t know the word, he can spell it, and then I
shall know it—at least if it’s not longer than Hawkie’s tail.”
</p>
<p>
Hawkie was a fine milker, with a bad temper, and a comically short tail.
It had got chopped off by some accident when she was a calf.
</p>
<p>
“There’s something else short about Hawkie—isn’t there, Kirsty?”
said my father.
</p>
<p>
“And Mrs. Mitchell,” I suggested, thinking to help Kirsty to my father’s
meaning.
</p>
<p>
“Come, come, young gentleman! We don’t want your remarks,” said my father
pleasantly.
</p>
<p>
“Why, papa, you told me so yourself, just before we came up.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I did; but I did not mean you to repeat it. What if Kirsty were to
go and tell Mrs. Mitchell?”
</p>
<p>
Kirsty made no attempt at protestation. She knew well enough that my
father knew there was no danger. She only laughed, and I, seeing Kirsty
satisfied, was satisfied also, and joined in the laugh.
</p>
<p>
The result was that before many weeks were over, Allister and wee Davie
were Kirsty’s pupils also, Allister learning to read, and wee Davie to sit
still, which was the hardest task within his capacity. They were free to
come or keep away, but not to go: if they did come, Kirsty insisted on
their staying out the lesson. It soon became a regular thing. Every
morning in summer we might be seen perched on a form, under one of the
tiny windows, in that delicious brown light which you seldom find but in
an old clay-floored cottage. In a fir-wood I think you have it; and I have
seen it in an old castle; but best of all in the house of mourning in an
Arab cemetery. In the winter, we seated ourselves round the fire—as
near it as Kirsty’s cooking operations, which were simple enough,
admitted. It was delightful to us boys, and would have been amusing to
anyone, to see how Kirsty behaved when Mrs. Mitchell found occasion to pay
her a visit during lesson hours. She knew her step and darted to the door.
Not once did she permit her to enter. She was like a hen with her
chickens.
</p>
<p>
<a name="linkreading" id="linkreading"></a> <br /><br /> <a
href="images/il11.jpg"></a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="il11h.jpg (66K)" src="images/il11h.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
“No, you’ll not come in just now, Mrs. Mitchell,” she would say, as the
housekeeper attempted to pass. “You know we’re busy.”
</p>
<p>
“I want to hear how they’re getting on.”
</p>
<p>
“You can try them at home,” Kirsty would answer.
</p>
<p>
We always laughed at the idea of our reading to her. Once I believe she
heard the laugh, for she instantly walked away, and I do not remember that
she ever came again.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link9" id="link9"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER IX
</h2>
<h3>
We Learn Other Things
</h3>
<p>
We were more than ever at the farm now. During the summer, from the time
we got up till the time we went to bed, we seldom approached the manse. I
have heard it hinted that my father neglected us. But that can hardly be,
seeing that then his word was law to us, and now I regard his memory as
the symbol of the love unspeakable. My elder brother Tom always had his
meals with him, and sat at his lessons in the study. But my father did not
mind the younger ones running wild, so long as there was a Kirsty for them
to run to; and indeed the men also were not only friendly to us, but
careful over us. No doubt we were rather savage, very different in our
appearance from town-bred children, who are washed and dressed every time
they go out for a walk: that we should have considered not merely a
hardship, but an indignity. To be free was all our notion of a perfect
existence. But my father’s rebuke was awful indeed, if he found even the
youngest guilty of untruth, or cruelty, or injustice. At all kinds of
escapades, not involving disobedience, he smiled, except indeed there were
too much danger, when he would warn and limit.
</p>
<p>
A town boy may wonder what we could find to amuse us all day long; but the
fact is almost everything was an amusement, seeing that when we could not
take a natural share in what was going on, we generally managed to invent
some collateral employment fictitiously related to it. But he must not
think of our farm as at all like some great farm he may happen to know in
England; for there was nothing done by machinery on the place. There may
be great pleasure in watching machine-operations, but surely none to equal
the pleasure we had. If there had been a steam engine to plough my
father’s fields, how could we have ridden home on its back in the evening?
To ride the horses home from the plough was a triumph. Had there been a
thrashing- machine, could its pleasures have been comparable to that of
lying in the straw and watching the grain dance from the sheaves under the
skilful flails of the two strong men who belaboured them? There was a
winnowing-machine, but quite a tame one, for its wheel I could drive
myself—the handle now high as my head, now low as my knee—and
watch at the same time the storm of chaff driven like drifting snowflakes
from its wide mouth. Meantime the oat-grain was flowing in a silent slow
stream from the shelving hole in the other side, and the wind, rushing
through the opposite doors, aided the winnower by catching at the expelled
chaff, and carrying it yet farther apart. I think I see old Eppie now,
filling her sack with what the wind blew her; not with the grain: Eppie
did not covet that; she only wanted her bed filled with fresh springy
chaff, on which she would sleep as sound as her rheumatism would let her,
and as warm and dry and comfortable as any duchess in the land that
happened to have the rheumatism too. For comfort is inside more than
outside; and eider down, delicious as it is, has less to do with it than
some people fancy. How I wish all the poor people in the great cities
could have good chaff beds to lie upon! Let me see: what more machines are
there now? More than I can tell. I saw one going in the fields the other
day, at the use of which I could only guess. Strange, wild-looking,
mad-like machines, as the Scotch would call them, are growling and
snapping, and clinking and clattering over our fields, so that it seems to
an old boy as if all the sweet poetic twilight of things were vanishing
from the country; but he reminds himself that God is not going to sleep,
for, as one of the greatest poets that ever lived says, <i>he slumbereth
not nor sleepeth</i>; and the children of the earth are his, and he will
see that their imaginations and feelings have food enough and to spare. It
is his business this—not ours. So the work must be done as well as
it can. Then, indeed, there will be no fear of the poetry.
</p>
<p>
I have just alluded to the pleasure of riding the horses, that is, the
work-horses: upon them Allister and I began to ride, as far as I can
remember, this same summer—not from the plough, for the ploughing
was in the end of the year and the spring. First of all we were allowed to
take them at watering-time, watched by one of the men, from the stable to
the long trough that stood under the pump. There, going hurriedly and
stopping suddenly, they would drop head and neck and shoulders like a
certain toy-bird, causing the young riders a vague fear of falling over
the height no longer defended by the uplifted crest; and then drink and
drink till the riders’ legs felt the horses’ bodies swelling under them;
then up and away with quick refreshed stride or trot towards the paradise
of their stalls. But for us came first the somewhat fearful pass of the
stable door, for they never stopped, like better educated horses, to let
their riders dismount, but walked right in, and there was just room, by
stooping low, to clear the top of the door. As we improved in equitation,
we would go afield, to ride them home from the pasture, where they were
fastened by chains to short stakes of iron driven into the earth. There
was more of adventure here, for not only was the ride longer, but the
horses were more frisky, and would sometimes set off at the gallop. Then
the chief danger was again the door, lest they should dash in, and knock
knees against posts and heads against lintels, for we had only halters to
hold them with. But after I had once been thrown from back to neck, and
from neck to ground in a clumsy but wild gallop extemporized by Dobbin, I
was raised to the dignity of a bridle, which I always carried with me when
we went to fetch them. It was my father’s express desire that until we
could sit well on the bare back we should not be allowed a saddle. It was
a whole year before I was permitted to mount his little black riding mare,
called Missy. She was old, it is true—nobody quite knew how old she
was—but if she felt a light weight on her back, either the spirit of
youth was contagious, or she fancied herself as young as when she thought
nothing of twelve stone, and would dart off like the wind. In after years
I got so found of her, that I would stand by her side flacking the flies
from her as she grazed; and when I tired of that, would clamber upon her
back, and lie there reading my book, while she plucked on and ground and
mashed away at the grass as if nobody were near her.
</p>
<p>
Then there was the choice, if nothing else were found more attractive, of
going to the field where the cattle were grazing. Oh! the rich hot summer
afternoons among the grass and the clover, the little lamb-daisies, and
the big horse-daisies, with the cattle feeding solemnly, but one and
another straying now to the corn, now to the turnips, and recalled by
stern shouts, or, if that were unavailing, by vigorous pursuit and even
blows! If I had been able to think of a mother at home, I should have been
perfectly happy. Not that I missed her then; I had lost her too young for
that. I mean that the memory of the time wants but that to render it
perfect in bliss. Even in the cold days of spring, when, after being shut
up all the winter, the cattle were allowed to revel again in the springing
grass and the venturesome daisies, there was pleasure enough in the
company and devices of the cowherd, a freckle-faced, white-haired,
weak-eyed boy of ten, named—I forget his real name: we always called
him Turkey, because his nose was the colour of a turkey’s egg. Who but
Turkey knew mushrooms from toadstools? Who but Turkey could detect
earth-nuts—and that with the certainty of a truffle-hunting dog? Who
but Turkey knew the note and the form and the nest and the eggs of every
bird in the country? Who but Turkey, with his little whip and its lash of
brass wire, would encounter the angriest bull in Christendom, provided he
carried, like the bulls of Scotland, his most sensitive part, the nose,
foremost? In our eyes Turkey was a hero. Who but Turkey could discover the
nests of hens whose maternal anxiety had eluded the <i>finesse</i> of
Kirsty? and who so well as he could roast the egg with which she always
rewarded such a discovery? Words are feeble before the delight we
experienced on such an occasion, when Turkey, proceeding to light a fire
against one of the earthen walls which divided the fields, would send us
abroad to gather sticks and straws and whatever outcast combustibles we
could find, of which there was a great scarcity, there being no woods or
hedges within reach. Who like Turkey could rob a wild bee’s nest? And who
could be more just than he in distributing the luscious prize? In fine,
his accomplishments were innumerable. Short of flying, we believed him
capable of everything imaginable.
</p>
<p>
<a name="linkturkey" id="linkturkey"></a> <br /><br /> <a
href="images/il05.jpg"></a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="il05h.jpg (55K)" src="images/il05h.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
What rendered him yet dearer to us, was that there was enmity between him
and Mrs. Mitchell. It came about in this way. Although a good milker, and
therefore of necessity a good feeder, Hawkie was yet upon temptation
subject to the inroads of an unnatural appetite. When she found a piece of
an old shoe in the field, she would, if not compelled to drop the
delicious mouthful, go on, the whole morning or afternoon, in the
impossibility of a final deglutition, chewing and chewing at the savoury
morsel. Should this have happened, it was in vain for Turkey to hope
escape from the discovery of his inattention, for the milk-pail would that
same evening or next morning reveal the fact to Kirsty’s watchful eyes.
But fortunately for us, in so far as it was well to have an ally against
our only enemy, Hawkie’s morbid craving was not confined to old shoes. One
day when the cattle were feeding close by the manse, she found on the
holly-hedge which surrounded it, Mrs. Mitchell’s best cap, laid out to
bleach in the sun. It was a tempting morsel—more susceptible of
mastication than shoe-leather. Mrs. Mitchell, who had gone for another
freight of the linen with which she was sprinkling the hedge, arrived only
in time to see the end of one of its long strings gradually disappearing
into Hawkie’s mouth on its way after the rest of the cap, which had gone
the length of the string farther. With a wild cry of despair she flew at
Hawkie, so intent on the stolen delicacy as to be more open to a surprise
than usual, and laying hold of the string, drew from her throat the
deplorable mass of pulp to which she had reduced the valued gaud. The same
moment Turkey, who had come running at her cry, received full in his face
the slimy and sloppy extract. Nor was this all, for Mrs. Mitchell flew at
him in her fury, and with an outburst of abuse boxed his ears soundly,
before he could recover his senses sufficiently to run for it. The
degradation of this treatment had converted Turkey into an enemy before
ever he knew that we also had good grounds for disliking her. His opinion
concerning her was freely expressed to us if to no one else, generally in
the same terms. He said she was as bad as she was ugly, and always spoke
of her as <i>the old witch</i>.
</p>
<p>
But what brought Turkey and us together more than anything else, was that
he was as fond of Kirsty’s stories as we were; and in the winter
especially we would sit together in the evening, as I have already said,
round her fire and the great pot upon it full of the most delicious
potatoes, while Kirsty knitted away vigorously at her blue broad-ribbed
stockings, and kept a sort of time to her story with the sound of her
needles. When the story flagged, the needles went slower; in the more
animated passages they would become invisible for swiftness, save for a
certain shimmering flash that hovered about her fingers like a dim
electric play; but as the story approached some crisis, their motion would
at one time become perfectly frantic, at another cease altogether, as
finding the subject beyond their power of accompanying expression. When
they ceased, we knew that something awful indeed was at hand.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="066.jpg (104K)" src="images/066.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
In my next chapter I will give a specimen of her stories, choosing one
which bears a little upon an after adventure.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link10" id="link10"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER X
</h2>
<h3>
Sir Worm Wymble
</h3>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="068.jpg (98K)" src="images/068.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
It was a snowy evening in the depth of winter. Kirsty had promised to tell
us the tale of the armed knight who lay in stone upon the tomb in the
church; but the snow was so deep, that Mrs. Mitchell, always glad when
nature put it in her power to exercise her authority in a way disagreeable
to us, had refused to let the little ones go out all day. Therefore Turkey
and I, when the darkness began to grow thick enough, went prowling and
watching about the manse until we found an opportunity when she was out of
the way. The moment this occurred we darted into the nursery, which was on
the ground floor, and catching up my two brothers, I wee Davie, he
Allister, we hoisted them on our backs and rushed from the house. It was
snowing. It came down in huge flakes, but although it was only half-past
four o’clock, they did not show any whiteness, for there was no light to
shine upon them. You might have thought there had been mud in the cloud
they came from, which had turned them all a dark grey. How the little ones
did enjoy it, spurring their horses with suppressed laughter, and urging
us on lest the old witch should hear and overtake us! But it was hard work
for one of the horses, and that was myself. Turkey scudded away with his
load, and made nothing of it; but wee Davie pulled so hard with his little
arms round my neck, especially when he was bobbing up and down to urge me
on, half in delight, half in terror, that he nearly choked me; while if I
went one foot off the scarcely beaten path, I sunk deep in the fresh snow.
</p>
<p>
“Doe on, doe on, Yanal!” cried Davie; and Yanal did his very best, but was
only halfway to the farm, when Turkey came bounding back to take Davie
from him. In a few moments we had shaken the snow off our shoes and off
Davie’s back, and stood around Kirsty’s “booful baze”, as Davie called the
fire. Kirsty seated herself on one side with Davie on her lap, and we
three got our chairs as near her as we could, with Turkey, as the valiant
man of the party, farthest from the centre of safety, namely Kirsty, who
was at the same time to be the source of all the delightful horror. I may
as well say that I do not believe Kirsty’s tale had the remotest
historical connection with Sir Worm Wymble, if that was anything like the
name of the dead knight. It was an old Highland legend, which she adorned
with the flowers of her own Celtic fancy, and swathed around the form so
familiar to us all.
</p>
<p>
“There is a pot in the Highlands,” began Kirsty, “not far from our house,
at the bottom of a little glen. It is not very big, but fearfully deep; so
deep that they do say there is no bottom to it.”
</p>
<p>
“An iron pot, Kirsty?” asked Allister.
</p>
<p>
“No, goosey,” answered Kirsty. “A pot means a great hole full of water—black,
black, and deep, deep.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh!” remarked Allister, and was silent.
</p>
<p>
“Well, in this pot there lived a kelpie.”
</p>
<p>
“What’s a kelpie, Kirsty?” again interposed Allister, who in general asked
all the necessary questions and at least as many unnecessary.
</p>
<p>
“A kelpie is an awful creature that eats people.”
</p>
<p>
“But what is it like, Kirsty?”
</p>
<p>
“It’s something like a horse, with a head like a cow.”
</p>
<p>
“How big is it? As big as Hawkie?”
</p>
<p>
“Bigger than Hawkie; bigger than the biggest ox you ever saw.”
</p>
<p>
“Has it a great mouth?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, a terrible mouth.”
</p>
<p>
“With teeth?”
</p>
<p>
“Not many, but dreadfully big ones.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh!”
</p>
<p>
“Well, there was a shepherd many years ago, who lived not far from the
pot. He was a knowing man, and understood all about kelpies and brownies
and fairies. And he put a branch of the rowan-tree (<i>mountain-ash</i>),
with the red berries in it, over the door of his cottage, so that the
kelpie could never come in.
</p>
<p>
“Now, the shepherd had a very beautiful daughter—so beautiful that
the kelpie wanted very much to eat her. I suppose he had lifted up his
head out of the pot some day and seen her go past, but he could not come
out of the pot except after the sun was down.”
</p>
<p>
“Why?” asked Allister.
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know. It was the nature of the beast. His eyes couldn’t bear the
light, I suppose; but he could see in the dark quite well.—One night
the girl woke suddenly, and saw his great head looking in at her window.”
</p>
<p>
“But how could she see him when it was dark?” said Allister.
</p>
<p>
“His eyes were flashing so that they lighted up all his head,” answered
Kirsty.
</p>
<p>
“But he couldn’t get in!”
</p>
<p>
“No; he couldn’t get in. He was only looking in, and thinking how he <i>should</i>
like to eat her. So in the morning she told her father. And her father was
very frightened, and told her she must never be out one moment after the
sun was down. And for a long time the girl was very careful. And she had
need to be; for the creature never made any noise, but came up as quiet as
a shadow. One afternoon, however, she had gone to meet her lover a little
way down the glen; and they stopped talking so long, about one thing and
another, that the sun was almost set before she bethought herself. She
said good-night at once, and ran for home. Now she could not reach home
without passing the pot, and just as she passed the pot, she saw the last
sparkle of the sun as he went down.”
</p>
<p>
“I should think she ran!” remarked our mouthpiece, Allister.
</p>
<p>
“She did run,” said Kirsty, “and had just got past the awful black pot,
which was terrible enough day or night without such a beast in it, when—”
</p>
<p>
“But there <i>was</i> the beast in it,” said Allister.
</p>
<p>
“When,” Kirsty went on without heeding him, “she heard a great <i>whish</i>
of water behind her. That was the water tumbling off the beast’s back as
he came up from the bottom. If she ran before, she flew now. And the worst
of it was that she couldn’t hear him behind her, so as to tell whereabouts
he was. He might be just opening his mouth to take her every moment. At
last she reached the door, which her father, who had gone out to look for
her, had set wide open that she might run in at once; but all the breath
was out of her body, and she fell down flat just as she got inside.”
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="073.jpg (107K)" src="images/073.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
Here Allister jumped from his seat, clapping his hands and crying—
</p>
<p>
“Then the kelpie didn’t eat her!—Kirsty! Kirsty!”
</p>
<p>
“No. But as she fell, one foot was left outside the threshold, so that the
rowan branch could not take care of it. And the beast laid hold of the
foot with his great mouth, to drag her out of the cottage and eat her at
his leisure.”
</p>
<p>
Here Allister’s face was a picture to behold! His hair was almost standing
on end, his mouth was open, and his face as white as my paper.
</p>
<p>
“Make haste, Kirsty,” said Turkey, “or Allister will go in a fit.”
</p>
<p>
“But her shoe came off in his mouth, and she drew in her foot and was
safe.”
</p>
<p>
Allister’s hair subsided. He drew a deep breath, and sat down again. But
Turkey must have been a very wise or a very unimaginative Turkey, for here
he broke in with—
</p>
<p>
“I don’t believe a word of it, Kirsty.”
</p>
<p>
“What!” said Kirsty—“don’t believe it!”
</p>
<p>
“No. She lost her shoe in the mud. It was some wild duck she heard in the
pot, and there was no beast after her. She never saw it, you know.”
</p>
<p>
“She saw it look in at her window.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, yes. That was in the middle of the night. I’ve seen as much myself
when I waked up in the middle of the night. I took a rat for a tiger
once.”
</p>
<p>
Kirsty was looking angry, and her needles were going even faster than when
she approached the climax of the shoe.
</p>
<p>
“Hold your tongue, Turkey,” I said, “and let us hear the rest of the
story.”
</p>
<p>
But Kirsty kept her eyes on her knitting, and did not resume.
</p>
<p>
“Is that all, Kirsty?” said Allister.
</p>
<p>
Still Kirsty returned no answer. She needed all her force to overcome the
anger she was busy stifling. For it would never do for one in her position
to lose her temper because of the unbelieving criticism of a herd-boy. It
was a curious instance of the electricity flashed out in the confluence of
unlike things—the Celtic faith and the Saxon works. For anger is
just the electric flash of the mind, and requires to have its conductor of
common sense ready at hand. After a few moments she began again as if she
had never stopped and no remarks had been made, only her voice trembled a
little at first.
</p>
<p>
“Her father came home soon after, in great distress, and there he found
her lying just within the door. He saw at once how it was, and his anger
was kindled against her lover more than the beast. Not that he had any
objection to her going to meet him; for although he was a gentleman and
his daughter only a shepherd’s daughter, they were both of the blood of
the MacLeods.”
</p>
<p>
This was Kirsty’s own clan. And indeed I have since discovered that the
original legend on which her story was founded belongs to the island of
Rasay, from which she came.
</p>
<p>
“But why was he angry with the gentleman?” asked Allister.
</p>
<p>
“Because he liked her company better than he loved herself,” said Kirsty.
“At least that was what the shepherd said, and that he ought to have seen
her safe home. But he didn’t know that MacLeod’s father had threatened to
kill him if ever he spoke to the girl again.”
</p>
<p>
“But,” said Allister, “I thought it was about Sir Worm Wymble—not
Mr. MacLeod.”
</p>
<p>
“Sure, boy, and am I not going to tell you how he got the new name of
him?” returned Kirsty, with an eagerness that showed her fear lest the
spirit of inquiry should spread. “He wasn’t Sir Worm Wymble then. His name
was—”
</p>
<p>
Here she paused a moment, and looked full at Allister.
</p>
<p>
“His name was Allister—Allister MacLeod.”
</p>
<p>
“Allister!” exclaimed my brother, repeating the name as an incredible
coincidence.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, Allister,” said Kirsty. “There’s been many an Allister, and not all
of them MacLeods, that did what they ought to do, and didn’t know what
fear was. And you’ll be another, my bonnie Allister, I hope,” she added,
stroking the boy’s hair.
</p>
<p>
Allister’s face flushed with pleasure. It was long before he asked another
question.
</p>
<p>
“Well, as I say,” resumed Kirsty, “the father of her was very angry, and
said she should never go and meet Allister again. But the girl said she
ought to go once and let him know why she could not come any more; for she
had no complaint to make of Allister; and she had agreed to meet him on a
certain day the week after; and there was no post-office in those parts.
And so she did meet him, and told him all about it. And Allister said
nothing much then. But next day he came striding up to the cottage, at
dinner-time, with his claymore (<i>gladius major</i>) at one side, his
dirk at the other, and his little skene dubh (<i>black knife</i>) in his
stocking. And he was grand to see—such a big strong gentleman I And
he came striding up to the cottage where the shepherd was sitting at his
dinner.
</p>
<p>
“‘Angus MacQueen,’ says he, ‘I understand the kelpie in the pot has been
rude to your Nellie. I am going to kill him.’ ‘How will you do that, sir?’
said Angus, quite short, for he was the girl’s father. ‘Here’s a claymore
I could put in a peck,’ said Allister, meaning it was such good steel that
he could bend it round till the hilt met the point without breaking; ‘and
here’s a shield made out of the hide of old Rasay’s black bull; and here’s
a dirk made of a foot and a half of an old Andrew Ferrara; and here’s a
skene dubh that I’ll drive through your door, Mr. Angus. And so we’re
fitted, I hope.’ ‘Not at all,’ said Angus, who as I told you was a wise
man and a knowing; ‘not one bit,’ said Angus. ‘The kelpie’s hide is
thicker than three bull-hides, and none of your weapons would do more than
mark it.’ ‘What am I to do then, Angus, for kill him I will somehow?’
‘I’ll tell you what to do; but it needs a brave man to do that.’ ‘And do
you think I’m not brave enough for that, Angus?’ ‘I know one thing you are
not brave enough for.’ ‘And what’s that?’ said Allister, and his face grew
red, only he did not want to anger Nelly’s father. ‘You’re not brave
enough to marry my girl in the face of the clan,’ said Angus. ‘But you
shan’t go on this way. If my Nelly’s good enough to talk to in the glen,
she’s good enough to lead into the hall before the ladies and gentlemen.’
</p>
<p>
“Then Allister’s face grew redder still, but not with anger, and he held
down his head before the old man, but only for a few moments. When he
lifted it again, it was pale, not with fear but with resolution, for he
had made up his mind like a gentleman. ‘Mr. Angus MacQueen,’ he said,
‘will you give me your daughter to be my wife?’ ‘If you kill the kelpie, I
will,’ answered Angus; for he knew that the man who could do that would be
worthy of his Nelly.”
</p>
<p>
“But what if the kelpie ate him?” suggested Allister.
</p>
<p>
“Then he’d have to go without the girl,” said Kirsty, coolly. “But,” she
resumed, “there’s always some way of doing a difficult thing; and
Allister, the gentleman, had Angus, the shepherd, to teach him.
</p>
<p>
“So Angus took Allister down to the pot, and there they began. They
tumbled great stones together, and set them up in two rows at a little
distance from each other, making a lane between the rows big enough for
the kelpie to walk in. If the kelpie heard them, he could not see them,
and they took care to get into the cottage before it was dark, for they
could not finish their preparations in one day. And they sat up all night,
and saw the huge head of the beast looking in now at one window, now at
another, all night long. As soon as the sun was up, they set to work
again, and finished the two rows of stones all the way from the pot to the
top of the little hill on which the cottage stood. Then they tied a cross
of rowan-tree twigs on every stone, so that once the beast was in the
avenue of stones he could only get out at the end. And this was Nelly’s
part of the job. Next they gathered a quantity of furze and brushwood and
peat, and piled it in the end of the avenue next the cottage. Then Angus
went and killed a little pig, and dressed it ready for cooking.
</p>
<p>
“‘Now you go down to my brother Hamish,’ he said to Mr. MacLeod; ‘he’s a
carpenter, you know,—and ask him to lend you his longest wimble.’”
</p>
<p>
“What’s a wimble?” asked little Allister.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="080.jpg (115K)" src="images/080.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
“A wimble is a long tool, like a great gimlet, with a cross handle, with
which you turn it like a screw. And Allister ran and fetched it, and got
back only half an hour before the sun went down. Then they put Nelly into
the cottage, and shut the door. But I ought to have told you that they had
built up a great heap of stones behind the brushwood, and now they lighted
the brushwood, and put down the pig to roast by the fire, and laid the
wimble in the fire halfway up to the handle. Then they laid themselves
down behind the heap of stones and waited.
</p>
<p>
“By the time the sun was out of sight, the smell of the roasting pig had
got down the avenue to the side of the pot, just where the kelpie always
got out. He smelt it the moment he put up his head, and he thought it
smelt so nice that he would go and see where it was. The moment he got out
he was between the stones, but he never thought of that, for it was the
straight way to the pig. So up the avenue he came, and as it was dark, and
his big soft web feet made no noise, the men could not see him until he
came into the light of the fire. ‘There he is!’ said Allister. ‘Hush!’
said Angus, ‘he can hear well enough.’ So the beast came on. Now Angus had
meant that he should be busy with the pig before Allister should attack
him; but Allister thought it was a pity he should have the pig, and he put
out his hand and got hold of the wimble, and drew it gently out of the
fire. And the wimble was so hot that it was as white as the whitest moon
you ever saw. The pig was so hot also that the brute was afraid to touch
it, and before ever he put his nose to it Allister had thrust the wimble
into his hide, behind the left shoulder, and was boring away with all his
might. The kelpie gave a hideous roar, and turned away to run from the
wimble. But he could not get over the row of crossed stones, and he had to
turn right round in the narrow space before he could run. Allister,
however, could run as well as the kelpie, and he hung on to the handle of
the wimble, giving it another turn at every chance as the beast went
floundering on; so that before he reached his pot the wimble had reached
his heart, and the kelpie fell dead on the edge of the pot. Then they went
home, and when the pig was properly done they had it for supper. And Angus
gave Nelly to Allister, and they were married, and lived happily ever
after.”
</p>
<p>
“But didn’t Allister’s father kill him?”
</p>
<p>
“No. He thought better of it, and didn’t. He was very angry for a while,
but he got over it in time. And Allister became a great man, and because
of what he had done, he was called Allister MacLeod no more, but Sir Worm
Wymble. And when he died,” concluded Kirsty, “he was buried under the tomb
in your father’s church. And if you look close enough, you’ll find a
wimble carved on the stone, but I’m afraid it’s worn out by this time.”
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link11" id="link11"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XI
</h2>
<h3>
The Kelpie
</h3>
<p>
Silence followed the close of Kirsty’s tale. Wee Davie had taken no harm,
for he was fast asleep with his head on her bosom. Allister was staring
into the fire, fancying he saw the whorls of the wimble heating in it.
Turkey was cutting at his stick with a blunt pocket-knife, and a silent
whistle on his puckered lips. I was sorry the story was over, and was
growing stupid under the reaction from its excitement. I was, however,
meditating a strict search for the wimble carved on the knight’s tomb. All
at once came the sound of a latch lifted in vain, followed by a thundering
at the outer door, which Kirsty had prudently locked. Allister, Turkey,
and I started to our feet, Allister with a cry of dismay, Turkey grasping
his stick.
</p>
<p>
“It’s the kelpie!” cried Allister.
</p>
<p>
But the harsh voice of the old witch followed, something deadened by the
intervening door.
</p>
<p>
“Kirsty! Kirsty!” it cried; “open the door directly.”
</p>
<p>
“No, no, Kirsty!” I objected. “She’ll shake wee Davie to bits, and haul
Allister through the snow. She’s afraid to touch me.”
</p>
<p>
Turkey thrust the poker in the fire; but Kirsty snatched it out, threw it
down, and boxed his ears, which rough proceeding he took with the
pleasantest laugh in the world. Kirsty could do what she pleased, for she
was no tyrant. She turned to us.
</p>
<p>
“Hush!” she said, hurriedly, with a twinkle in her eyes that showed the
spirit of fun was predominant—“Hush!—Don’t speak, wee Davie,”
she continued, as she rose and carried him from the kitchen into the
passage between it and the outer door. He was scarcely awake.
</p>
<p>
Now, in that passage, which was wide, and indeed more like a hall in
proportion to the cottage, had stood on its end from time immemorial a
huge barrel, which Kirsty, with some housewifely intent or other, had
lately cleaned out. Setting Davie down, she and Turkey lifted first me and
popped me into it, and then Allister, for we caught the design at once.
Finally she took up wee Davie, and telling him to lie as still as a mouse,
dropped him into our arms. I happened to find the open bung-hole near my
eye, and peeped out. The knocking continued.
</p>
<p>
“Wait a bit, Mrs. Mitchell,” screamed Kirsty; “wait till I get my potatoes
off the fire.”
</p>
<p>
As she spoke, she took the great bow-pot in one hand and carried it to the
door, to pour away the water. When she unlocked and opened the door, I saw
through the bung-hole a lovely sight; for the moon was shining, and the
snow was falling thick. In the midst of it stood Mrs. Mitchell, one mass
of whiteness. She would have rushed in, but Kirsty’s advance with the pot
made her give way, and from behind Kirsty Turkey slipped out and round the
corner without being seen. There he stood watching, but busy at the same
time kneading snowballs.
</p>
<p>
“And what may you please to want to-night, Mrs. Mitchell?” said Kirsty,
with great civility.
</p>
<p>
“What should I want but my poor children? They ought to have been in bed
an hour ago. Really, Kirsty, you ought to have more sense at your years
than to encourage any such goings on.”
</p>
<p>
“At my years!” returned Kirsty, and was about to give a sharp retort, but
checked herself, saying, “Aren’t they in bed then, Mrs. Mitchell?”
</p>
<p>
“You know well enough they are not.”
</p>
<p>
“Poor things! I would recommend you to put them to bed at once.”
</p>
<p>
“So I will. Where are they?”
</p>
<p>
“Find them yourself, Mrs. Mitchell. You had better ask a civil tongue to
help you. I’m not going to do it.”
</p>
<p>
They were standing just inside the door. Mrs. Mitchell advanced. I
trembled. It seemed impossible she should not see me as well as I saw her.
I had a vague impression that by looking at her I should draw her eyes
upon me; but I could not withdraw mine from the bung-hole. I was
fascinated; and the nearer she came, the less could I keep from watching
her. When she turned into the kitchen, it was a great relief; but it did
not last long, for she came out again in a moment, searching like a hound.
She was taller than Kirsty, and by standing on her tiptoes could have
looked right down into the barrel. She was approaching it with that intent—those
eyes were about to overshadow us with their baleful light. Already her
apron hid all other vision from my one eye, when a whizz, a dull blow, and
a shriek from Mrs. Mitchell came to my ears together. The next moment, the
field of my vision was open, and I saw Mrs. Mitchell holding her head with
both hands, and the face of Turkey grinning round the corner of the open
door. Evidently he wanted to entice her to follow him; but she had been
too much astonished by the snowball in the back of her neck even to look
in the direction whence the blow had come. So Turkey stepped out, and was
just poising himself in the delivery of a second missile, when she turned
sharp round.
</p>
<p>
The snowball missed her, and came with a great bang against the barrel.
Wee Davie gave a cry of alarm, but there was no danger now, for Mrs.
Mitchell was off after Turkey. In a moment, Kirsty lowered the barrel on
its side, and we all crept out. I had wee Davie on my back instantly,
while Kirsty caught up Allister, and we were off for the manse. As soon as
we were out of the yard, however, we met Turkey, breathless. He had given
Mrs. Mitchell the slip, and left her searching the barn for him. He took
Allister from Kirsty, and we sped away, for it was all downhill now. When
Mrs. Mitchell got back to the farmhouse, Kirsty was busy as if nothing had
happened, and when, after a fruitless search, she returned to the manse,
we were all snug in bed, with the door locked. After what had passed about
the school, Mrs. Mitchell did not dare make any disturbance.
</p>
<p>
From that night she always went by the name of <i>the Kelpie</i>.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link12" id="link12"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XII
</h2>
<h3>
Another Kelpie
</h3>
<p>
In the summer we all slept in a large room in the wide sloping roof. It
had a dormer window, at no great distance above the eaves. One day there
was something doing about the ivy, which covered all the gable and half
the front of the house, and the ladder they had been using was left
leaning against the back. It reached a little above the eaves, right under
the dormer window. That night I could not sleep, as was not unfrequently
the case with me. On such occasions I used to go wandering about the upper
part of the house. I believe the servants thought I walked in my sleep,
but it was not so, for I always knew what I was about well enough. I do
not remember whether this began after that dreadful night when I woke in
the barn, but I do think the enjoyment it gave me was rooted in the starry
loneliness in which I had then found myself. I wonder if I can explain my
feelings. The pleasure arose from a sort of sense of protected danger. On
that memorable night, I had been as it were naked to all the silence,
alone in the vast universe, which kept looking at me full of something it
knew but would not speak. Now, when wandering about sleepless, I could
gaze as from a nest of safety out upon the beautiful fear. From window to
window I would go in the middle of the night, now staring into a blank
darkness out of which came, the only signs of its being, the raindrops
that bespattered or the hailstones that berattled the panes; now gazing
into the deeps of the blue vault, gold-bespangled with its worlds; or,
again, into the mysteries of soft clouds, all gathered into an opal tent
by the centre-clasp of the moon, thinking out her light over its shining
and shadowy folds.
</p>
<p>
This, I have said, was one of those nights on which I could not sleep. It
was the summer after the winter-story of the kelpie, I believe; but the
past is confused, and its chronology worthless, to the continuous <i>now</i>
of childhood. The night was hot; my little brothers were sleeping loud, as
wee Davie called <i>snoring</i>; and a great moth had got within my
curtains somewhere, and kept on fluttering and whirring. I got up, and
went to the window. It was such a night! The moon was full, but rather
low, and looked just as if she were thinking—“Nobody is heeding me:
I may as well go to bed.” All the top of the sky was covered with
mackerel-backed clouds, lying like milky ripples on a blue sea, and
through them the stars shot, here and there, sharp little rays like
sparkling diamonds. There was no awfulness about it, as on the night when
the gulfy sky stood over me, flashing with the heavenly host, and nothing
was between me and the farthest world. The clouds were like the veil that
hid the terrible light in the Holy of Holies—a curtain of God’s
love, to dim with loveliness the grandeur of their own being, and make his
children able to bear it. My eye fell upon the top rounds of the ladder,
which rose above the edge of the roof like an invitation. I opened the
window, crept through, and, holding on by the ledge, let myself down over
the slates, feeling with my feet for the top of the ladder. In a moment I
was upon it. Down I went, and oh, how tender to my bare feet was the cool
grass on which I alighted! I looked up. The dark housewall rose above me.
I could ascend again when I pleased. There was no hurry. I would walk
about a little. I would put my place of refuge yet a little farther off,
nibble at the danger, as it were—a danger which existed only in my
imagination. I went outside the high holly hedge, and the house was
hidden. A grassy field was before me, and just beyond the field rose the
farm buildings. Why should not I run across and wake Turkey? I was off
like a shot, the expectation of a companion in my delight overcoming all
the remnants of lingering apprehension. I knew there was only one bolt,
and that a manageable one, between me and Turkey, for he slept in a little
wooden chamber partitioned off from a loft in the barn, to which he had to
climb a ladder. The only fearful part was the crossing of the barn-floor.
But I was man enough for that. I reached and crossed the yard in safety,
searched for and found the key of the barn, which was always left in a
hole in the wall by the door,—turned it in the lock, and crossed the
floor as fast as the darkness would allow me. With outstretched groping
hands I found the ladder, ascended, and stood by Turkey’s bed.
</p>
<p>
“Turkey! Turkey! wake up,” I cried. “It’s such a beautiful night! It’s a
shame to lie sleeping that way.”
</p>
<p>
Turkey’s answer was immediate. He was wide awake and out of bed with all
his wits by him in a moment.
</p>
<p>
“Sh! sh!” he said, “or you’ll wake Oscar.”
</p>
<p>
Oscar was a colley (<i>sheep dog</i>) which slept in a kennel in the
cornyard. He was not much of a watch-dog, for there was no great occasion
for watching, and he knew it, and slept like a human child; but he was the
most knowing of dogs. Turkey was proceeding to dress.
</p>
<p>
“Never mind your clothes, Turkey,” I said. “There’s nobody up.”
</p>
<p>
Willing enough to spare himself trouble, Turkey followed me in his shirt.
But once we were out in the cornyard, instead of finding contentment in
the sky and the moon, as I did, he wanted to know what we were going to
do.
</p>
<p>
“It’s not a bad sort of night,” he said; “what shall we do with it?”
</p>
<p>
He was always wanting to do something.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, nothing,” I answered; “only look about us a bit.”
</p>
<p>
“You didn’t hear robbers, did you?” he asked.
</p>
<p>
“Oh dear, no! I couldn’t sleep, and got down the ladder, and came to wake
you—that’s all.”
</p>
<p>
“Let’s have a walk, then,” he said.
</p>
<p>
Now that I had Turkey, there was scarcely more terror in the night than in
the day. I consented at once. That we had no shoes on was not of the least
consequence to Scotch boys. I often, and Turkey always, went barefooted in
summer.
</p>
<p>
As we left the barn, Turkey had caught up his little whip. He was never to
be seen without either that or his club, as we called the stick he carried
when he was herding the cattle. Finding him thus armed, I begged him to
give me his club. He ran and fetched it, and, thus equipped, we set out
for nowhere in the middle of the night. My fancy was full of fragmentary
notions of adventure, in which shadows from The Pilgrim’s Progress
predominated. I shouldered my club, trying to persuade my imagination that
the unchristian weapon had been won from some pagan giant, and therefore
was not unfittingly carried. But Turkey was far better armed with his lash
of wire than I was with the club. His little whip was like that fearful
weapon called the morning star in the hand of some stalwart knight.
</p>
<p>
We took our way towards the nearest hills, thinking little of where we
went so that we were in motion. I guess that the story I have just related
must, notwithstanding his unbelief, have been working in Turkey’s brain
that night, for after we had walked for a mile or more along the road, and
had arrived at the foot of a wooded hill, well known to all the children
of the neighbourhood for its bilberries, he turned into the hollow of a
broken track, which lost itself in a field as yet only half-redeemed from
the moorland. It was plain to me now that Turkey had some goal or other in
his view; but I followed his leading, and asked no questions. All at once
he stopped, and said, pointing a few yards in front of him:
</p>
<p>
“Look, Ranald!”
</p>
<p>
I did look, but the moon was behind the hill, and the night was so dim
that I had to keep looking for several moments ere I discovered that he
was pointing to the dull gleam of dark water. Very horrible it seemed. I
felt my flesh creep the instant I saw it. It lay in a hollow left by the
digging out of peats, drained thither from the surrounding bog. My heart
sank with fear. The almost black glimmer of its surface was bad enough,
but who could tell what lay in its unknown depth? But, as I gazed, almost
paralysed, a huge dark figure rose up on the opposite side of the pool.
For one moment the scepticism of Turkey seemed to fail him, for he cried
out, “The kelpie! The kelpie!” and turned and ran.
</p>
<p>
I followed as fast as feet utterly unconscious of the ground they trod
upon could bear me. We had not gone many yards before a great roar filled
the silent air. That moment Turkey slackened his pace, and burst into a
fit of laughter.
</p>
<p>
“It’s nothing but Bogbonny’s bull, Ranald!” he cried.
</p>
<p>
Kelpies were unknown creatures to Turkey, but a bull was no more than a
dog or a sheep, or any other domestic animal. I, however, did not share
his equanimity, and never slackened my pace till I got up with him.
</p>
<p>
“But he’s rather ill-natured,” he went on, the instant I joined him, “and
we had better make for the hill.”
</p>
<p>
Another roar was a fresh spur to our speed. We could not have been in
better trim for running. But it was all uphill, and had it not been that
the ground for some distance between us and the animal was boggy, so that
he had to go round a good way, one of us at least would have been in evil
case.
</p>
<p>
“He’s caught sight of our shirts,” said Turkey, panting as he ran, “and he
wants to see what they are. But we’ll be over the fence before he comes up
with us. I wouldn’t mind for myself; I could dodge him well enough; but he
might go after you, Ranald.”
</p>
<p>
What with fear and exertion I was unable to reply. Another bellow sounded
nearer, and by and by we could hear the dull stroke of his hoofs on the
soft ground as he galloped after us. But the fence of dry stones, and the
larch wood within it, were close at hand.
</p>
<p>
“Over with you, Ranald!” cried Turkey, as if with his last breath; and
turned at bay, for the brute was close behind him.
</p>
<p>
But I was so spent, I could not climb the wall; and when I saw Turkey turn
and face the bull, I turned too. We were now in the shadow of the hill,
but I could just see Turkey lift his arm. A short sharp hiss, and a roar
followed. The bull tossed his head as in pain, left Turkey, and came
towards me. He could not charge at any great speed, for the ground was
steep and uneven. I, too, had kept hold of my weapon; and although I was
dreadfully frightened, I felt my courage rise at Turkey’s success, and
lifted my club in the hope that it might prove as good at need as Turkey’s
whip. It was well for me, however, that Turkey was too quick for the bull.
He got between him and me, and a second stinging cut from the brass wire
drew a second roar from his throat, and no doubt a second red streamlet
from his nose, while my club descended on one of his horns with a bang
which jarred my arm to the elbow, and sent the weapon flying over the
fence. The animal turned tail for a moment—long enough to place us,
enlivened by our success, on the other side of the wall, where we crouched
so that he could not see us. Turkey, however, kept looking up at the line
of the wall against the sky; and as he looked, over came the nose of the
bull, within a yard of his head. Hiss went the little whip, and bellow
went the bull.
</p>
<p>
“Get up among the trees, Ranald, for fear he come over,” said Turkey, in a
whisper.
</p>
<p>
I obeyed. But as he could see nothing of his foes, the animal had had
enough of it, and we heard no more of him.
</p>
<p>
After a while, Turkey left his lair and joined me. We rested for a little,
and would then have clambered to the top of the hill, but we gave up the
attempt as awkward after getting into a furze bush. In our condition, it
was too dark. I began to grow sleepy, also, and thought I should like to
exchange the hillside for my bed. Turkey made no objection, so we trudged
home again; not without sundry starts and quick glances to make sure that
the bull was neither after us on the road, nor watching us from behind
this bush or that hillock. Turkey never left me till he saw me safe up the
ladder; nay, after I was in bed, I spied his face peeping in at the window
from the topmost round of it. By this time the east had begun to begin to
glow, as Allister, who was painfully exact, would have said; but I was
fairly tired now, and, falling asleep at once, never woke until Mrs.
Mitchell pulled the clothes off me, an indignity which I keenly felt, but
did not yet know how to render impossible for the future.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link13" id="link13"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XIII
</h2>
<h3>
Wandering Willie
</h3>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="097.jpg (90K)" src="images/097.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
At that time there were a good many beggars going about the country, who
lived upon the alms of the charitable. Among these were some half-witted
persons, who, although not to be relied upon, were seldom to any extent
mischievous. We were not much afraid of them, for the home-neighbourhood
is a charmed spot round which has been drawn a magic circle of safety, and
we seldom roamed far beyond it. There was, however, one occasional visitor
of this class, of whom we stood in some degree of awe. He was commonly
styled Foolish Willie. His approach to the manse was always announced by a
wailful strain upon the bagpipes, a set of which he had inherited from his
father, who had been piper to some Highland nobleman: at least so it was
said. Willie never went without his pipes, and was more attached to them
than to any living creature. He played them well, too, though in what
corner he kept the amount of intellect necessary to the mastery of them
was a puzzle. The probability seemed that his wits had not decayed until
after he had become in a measure proficient in the use of the chanter, as
they call that pipe by means of whose perforations the notes are
regulated. However this may be, Willie could certainly play the pipes, and
was a great favourite because of it—with children especially,
notwithstanding the mixture of fear which his presence always occasioned
them. Whether it was from our Highland blood or from Kirsty’s stories, I
do not know, but we were always delighted when the far-off sound of his
pipes reached us: little Davie would dance and shout with glee. Even the
Kelpie, Mrs. Mitchell that is, was benignantly inclined towards Wandering
Willie, as some people called him after the old song; so much so that
Turkey, who always tried to account for things, declared his conviction
that Willie must be Mrs. Mitchell’s brother, only she was ashamed and
wouldn’t own him. I do not believe he had the smallest atom of
corroboration for the conjecture, which therefore was bold and worthy of
the inventor. One thing we all knew, that she would ostentatiously fill
the canvas bag which he carried by his side, with any broken scraps she
could gather, would give him as much milk to drink as he pleased, and
would speak kind, almost coaxing, words to the poor <i>natural</i>—words
which sounded the stranger in our ears, that they were quite unused to
like sounds from the lips of the Kelpie.
</p>
<p>
It is impossible to describe Willie’s dress: the agglomeration of
ill-supplied necessity and superfluous whim was never exceeded. His
pleasure was to pin on his person whatever gay-coloured cotton
handkerchiefs he could get hold of; so that, with one of these behind and
one before, spread out across back and chest, he always looked like an
ancient herald come with a message from knight or nobleman. So incongruous
was his costume that I could never tell whether kilt or trousers was the
original foundation upon which it had been constructed. To his tatters add
the bits of old ribbon, list, and coloured rag which he attached to his
pipes wherever there was room, and you will see that he looked all flags
and pennons—a moving grove of raggery, out of which came the
screaming chant and drone of his instrument. When he danced, he was like a
whirlwind that had caught up the contents of an old-clothes-shop. It is no
wonder that he should have produced in our minds an indescribable mixture
of awe and delight—awe, because no one could tell what he might do
next, and delight because of his oddity, agility, and music. The first
sensation was always a slight fear, which gradually wore off as we became
anew accustomed to the strangeness of the apparition. Before the visit was
over, wee Davie would be playing with the dangles of his pipes, and laying
his ear to the bag out of which he thought the music came ready-made. And
Willie was particularly fond of Davie, and tried to make himself agreeable
to him after a hundred grotesque fashions. The awe, however, was
constantly renewed in his absence, partly by the threats of the Kelpie,
that, if so and so, she would give this one or that to Foolish Willie to
take away with him—a threat which now fell almost powerless upon me,
but still told upon Allister and Davie.
</p>
<p>
One day, in early summer—it was after I had begun to go to school—I
came home as usual at five o’clock, to find the manse in great commotion.
Wee Davie had disappeared. They were looking for him everywhere without
avail. Already all the farmhouses had been thoroughly searched. An awful
horror fell upon me, and the most frightful ideas of Davie’s fate arose in
my mind. I remember giving a howl of dismay the moment I heard of the
catastrophe, for which I received a sound box on the ear from Mrs.
Mitchell. I was too miserable, however, to show any active resentment, and
only sat down upon the grass and cried. In a few minutes, my father, who
had been away visiting some of his parishioners, rode up on his little
black mare. Mrs. Mitchell hurried to meet him, wringing her hands, and
crying—
</p>
<p>
“Oh, sir! oh, sir! Davie’s away with Foolish Willie!”
</p>
<p>
This was the first I had heard of Willie in connection with the affair. My
father turned pale, but kept perfectly quiet.
</p>
<p>
“Which way did he go?” he asked.
</p>
<p>
Nobody knew.
</p>
<p>
“How long is it ago?”
</p>
<p>
“About an hour and a half, I think,” said Mrs. Mitchell.
</p>
<p>
To me the news was some relief. Now I could at least do something. I left
the group, and hurried away to find Turkey. Except my father, I trusted
more in Turkey than in anyone. I got on a rising ground near the manse,
and looked all about until I found where the cattle were feeding that
afternoon, and then darted off at full speed. They were at some distance
from home, and I found that Turkey had heard nothing of the mishap. When I
had succeeded in conveying the dreadful news, he shouldered his club, and
said—
</p>
<p>
“The cows must look after themselves, Ranald!”
</p>
<p>
With the words he set off at a good swinging trot in the direction of a
little rocky knoll in a hollow about half a mile away, which he knew to be
a favourite haunt of Wandering Willie, as often as he came into the
neighbourhood. On this knoll grew some stunted trees, gnarled and old,
with very mossy stems. There was moss on the stones too, and between them
grew lovely harebells, and at the foot of the knoll there were always in
the season tall foxgloves, which had imparted a certain fear to the spot
in my fancy. For there they call them <i>Dead Man’s Bells</i>, and I
thought there was a murdered man buried somewhere thereabout. I should not
have liked to be there alone even in the broad daylight. But with Turkey I
would have gone at any hour, even without the impulse which now urged me
to follow him at my best speed. There was some marshy ground between us
and the knoll, but we floundered through it; and then Turkey, who was some
distance ahead of me, dropped into a walk, and began to reconnoitre the
knoll with some caution. I soon got up with him.
</p>
<p>
“He’s there, Ranald!” he said.
</p>
<p>
“Who? Davie?”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know about Davie; but Willie’s there.”
</p>
<p>
“How do you know?”
</p>
<p>
“I heard his bagpipes grunt. Perhaps Davie sat down upon them.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, run, Turkey!” I said, eagerly.
</p>
<p>
“No hurry,” he returned. “If Willie has him, he won’t hurt him, but it
mayn’t be easy to get him away. We must creep up and see what can be
done.”
</p>
<p>
Half dead as some of the trees were, there was foliage enough upon them to
hide Willie, and Turkey hoped it would help to hide our approach. He went
down on his hands and knees, and thus crept towards the knoll, skirting it
partly, because a little way round it was steeper. I followed his example,
and found I was his match at crawling in four-footed fashion. When we
reached the steep side, we lay still and listened.
</p>
<p>
“He’s there!” I cried in a whisper.
</p>
<p>
“Sh!” said Turkey; “I hear him. It’s all right. We’ll soon have a hold of
him.”
</p>
<p>
A weary whimper as of a child worn out with hopeless crying had reached
our ears. Turkey immediately began to climb the side of the knoll.
</p>
<p>
“Stay where you are, Ranald,” he said. “I can go up quieter than you.”
</p>
<p>
I obeyed. Cautious as a deer-stalker, he ascended, still on his hands and
knees. I strained my eyes after his every motion. But when he was near the
top he lay perfectly quiet, and continued so till I could bear it no
longer, and crept up after him. When I came behind him, he looked round
angrily, and made a most emphatic contortion of his face; after which I
dared not climb to a level with him, but lay trembling with expectation.
The next moment I heard him call in a low whisper:
</p>
<p>
“Davie! Davie! wee Davie!”
</p>
<p>
But there was no reply. He called a little louder, evidently trying to
reach by degrees just the pitch that would pierce to Davie’s ears and not
arrive at Wandering Willie’s, who I rightly presumed was farther off. His
tones grew louder and louder—but had not yet risen above a sharp
whisper, when at length a small trembling voice cried “Turkey! Turkey!” in
prolonged accents of mingled hope and pain. There was a sound in the
bushes above me—a louder sound and a rush. Turkey sprang to his feet
and vanished. I followed. Before I reached the top, there came a
despairing cry from Davie, and a shout and a gabble from Willie. Then
followed a louder shout and a louder gabble, mixed with a scream from the
bagpipes, and an exulting laugh from Turkey. All this passed in the moment
I spent in getting to the top, the last step of which was difficult. There
was Davie alone in the thicket, Turkey scudding down the opposite slope
with the bagpipes under his arm, and Wandering Willie pursuing him in a
foaming fury. I caught Davie in my arms from where he lay sobbing and
crying “Yanal! Yanal!” and stood for a moment not knowing what to do, but
resolved to fight with teeth and nails before Willie should take him
again. Meantime Turkey led Willie towards the deepest of the boggy ground,
in which both were very soon floundering, only Turkey, being the lighter,
had the advantage. When I saw that, I resolved to make for home. I got
Davie on my back, and slid down the farther side to skirt the bog, for I
knew I should stick in it with Davie’s weight added to my own. I had not
gone far, however, before a howl from Willie made me aware that he had
caught sight of us; and looking round, I saw him turn from Turkey and come
after us. Presently, however, he hesitated, then stopped, and began
looking this way and that from the one to the other of his treasures, both
in evil hands. Doubtless his indecision would have been very ludicrous to
anyone who had not such a stake in the turn of the scale. As it was, he
made up his mind far too soon, for he chose to follow Davie. I ran my best
in the very strength of despair for some distance, but, seeing very soon
that I had no chance, I set Davie down, telling him to keep behind me, and
prepared, like the Knight of the Red Cross, “sad battle to darrayne”.
Willie came on in fury, his rags fluttering like ten scarecrows, and he
waving his arms in the air, with wild gestures and grimaces and cries and
curses. He was more terrible than the bull, and Turkey was behind him. I
was just, like a negro, preparing to run my head into the pit of his
stomach, and so upset him if I could, when I saw Turkey running towards us
at full speed, blowing into the bagpipes as he ran. How he found breath
for both I cannot understand. At length, he put the bag under his arm, and
forth issued such a combination of screeching and grunting and howling,
that Wandering Willie, in the full career of his rage, turned at the cries
of his companion. Then came Turkey’s masterpiece. He dashed the bagpipes
on the ground, and commenced kicking them before him like a football, and
the pipes cried out at every kick. If Turkey’s first object had been their
utter demolition, he could not have treated them more unmercifully. It was
no time for gentle measures: my life hung in the balance. But this was
more than Willie could bear. He turned from us, and once again pursued his
pipes. When he had nearly overtaken him, Turkey gave them a last masterly
kick, which sent them flying through the air, caught them as they fell,
and again sought the bog, while I, hoisting Davie on my back, hurried,
with more haste than speed, towards the manse.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="106.jpg (108K)" src="images/106.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
What took place after I left them, I have only from Turkey’s report, for I
never looked behind me till I reached the little green before the house,
where, setting Davie down, I threw myself on the grass. I remember nothing
more till I came to myself in bed.
</p>
<p>
When Turkey reached the bog, and had got Wandering Willie well into the
middle of it, he threw the bagpipes as far beyond him as he could, and
then made his way out. Willie followed the pipes, took them, held them up
between him and the sky as if appealing to heaven against the cruelty,
then sat down in the middle of the bog upon a solitary hump, and cried
like a child. Turkey stood and watched him, at first with feelings of
triumph, which by slow degrees cooled down until at length they passed
over into compassion, and he grew heartily sorry for the poor fellow,
although there was no room for repentance. After Willie had cried for a
while, he took the instrument as if it had been the mangled corpse of his
son, and proceeded to examine it. Turkey declared his certainty that none
of the pipes were broken; but when at length Willie put the mouthpiece to
his lips, and began to blow into the bag, alas! it would hold no wind. He
flung it from him in anger and cried again. Turkey left him crying in the
middle of the bog. He said it was a pitiful sight.
</p>
<p>
It was long before Willie appeared in that part of the country again; but,
about six months after, some neighbours who had been to a fair twenty
miles off, told my father that they had seen him looking much as usual,
and playing his pipes with more energy than ever. This was a great relief
to my father, who could not bear the idea of the poor fellow’s loneliness
without his pipes, and had wanted very much to get them repaired for him.
But ever after my father showed a great regard for Turkey. I heard him say
once that, if he had had the chance, Turkey would have made a great
general. That he should be judged capable of so much, was not surprising
to me; yet he became in consequence a still greater being in my eyes.
</p>
<p>
When I set Davie down, and fell myself on the grass, there was nobody
near. Everyone was engaged in a new search for Davie. My father had rode
off at once without dismounting, to inquire at the neighbouring toll-gate
whether Willie had passed through. It was not very likely, for such
wanderers seldom take to the hard high road; but he could think of nothing
else, and it was better to do something. Having failed there, he had
returned and ridden along the country road which passed the farm towards
the hills, leaving Willie and Davie far behind him. It was twilight before
he returned. How long, therefore, I lay upon the grass, I do not know.
When I came to myself, I found a sharp pain in my side. Turn how I would,
there it was, and I could draw but a very short breath for it. I was in my
father’s bed, and there was no one in the room. I lay for some time in
increasing pain; but in a little while my father came in, and then I felt
that all was as it should be. Seeing me awake, he approached with an
anxious face.
</p>
<p>
“Is Davie all right, father?” I asked.
</p>
<p>
“He is quite well, Ranald, my boy. How do you feel yourself now?”
</p>
<p>
“I’ve been asleep, father?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes; we found you on the grass, with Davie pulling at you and trying to
wake you, crying, ‘Yanal won’t peak to me. Yanal! Yanal!’ I am afraid you
had a terrible run with him. Turkey, as you call him, told me all about
it. He’s a fine lad Turkey!”
</p>
<p>
“Indeed he is, father!” I cried with a gasp which betrayed my suffering.
</p>
<p>
“What is the matter, my boy?” he asked.
</p>
<p>
“Lift me up a little, please,” I said, “I have <i>such</i> a pain in my
side!”
</p>
<p>
“Ah!” he said, “it catches your breath. We must send for the old doctor.”
</p>
<p>
The old doctor was a sort of demigod in the place. Everybody believed and
trusted in him; and nobody could die in peace without him any more than
without my father. I was delighted at the thought of being his patient. I
think I see him now standing with his back to the fire, and taking his
lancet from his pocket, while preparations were being made for bleeding me
at the arm, which was a far commoner operation then than it is now.
</p>
<p>
That night I was delirious, and haunted with bagpipes. Wandering Willie
was nowhere, but the atmosphere was full of bagpipes. It was an
unremitting storm of bagpipes—silent, but assailing me bodily from
all quarters—now small as motes in the sun, and hailing upon me; now
large as feather-beds, and ready to bang us about, only they never touched
us; now huge as Mount Ætna, and threatening to smother us beneath their
ponderous bulk; for all the time I was toiling on with little Davie on my
back. Next day I was a little better, but very weak, and it was many days
before I was able to get out of bed. My father soon found that it would
not do to let Mrs. Mitchell attend upon me, for I was always worse after
she had been in the room for any time; so he got another woman to take
Kirsty’s duties, and set her to nurse me, after which illness became
almost a luxury. With Kirsty near, nothing could go wrong. And the growing
better was pure enjoyment.
</p>
<p>
Once, when Kirsty was absent for a little while, Mrs. Mitchell brought me
some gruel.
</p>
<p>
“The gruel’s not nice,” I said.
</p>
<p>
“It’s perfectly good, Ranald, and there’s no merit in complaining when
everybody’s trying to make you as comfortable as they can,” said the
Kelpie.
</p>
<p>
“Let me taste it,” said Kirsty, who that moment entered the room.—“It’s
not fit for anybody to eat,” she said, and carried it away, Mrs. Mitchell
following her with her nose horizontal.
</p>
<p>
Kirsty brought the basin back full of delicious gruel, well boiled, and
supplemented with cream. I am sure the way in which she transformed that
basin of gruel has been a lesson to me ever since as to the quality of the
work I did. No boy or girl can have a much better lesson than—to do
what must be done as well as it can be done. Everything, the commonest,
well done, is something for the progress of the world; that is, lessens,
if by the smallest hair’s-breadth, the distance between it and God.
</p>
<p>
Oh, what a delight was that first glowing summer afternoon upon which I
was carried out to the field where Turkey was herding the cattle! I could
not yet walk. That very morning, as I was being dressed by Kirsty, I had
insisted that I could walk quite well, and Kirsty had been over-persuaded
into letting me try. Not feeling steady on my legs, I set off running, but
tumbled on my knees by the first chair I came near. I was so light from
the wasting of my illness, that Kirsty herself, little woman as she was,
was able to carry me. I remember well how I saw everything double that
day, and found it at first very amusing. Kirsty set me down on a plaid in
the grass, and the next moment, Turkey, looking awfully big, and
portentously healthy, stood by my side. I wish I might give the
conversation in the dialect of my native country, for it loses much in
translation; but I have promised, and I will keep my promise.
</p>
<p>
“Eh, Ranald!” said Turkey, “it’s not yourself?”
</p>
<p>
“It’s me, Turkey,” I said, nearly crying with pleasure.
</p>
<p>
“Never mind, Ranald,” he returned, as if consoling me in some
disappointment; “we’ll have rare fun yet.”
</p>
<p>
“I’m frightened at the cows, Turkey. Don’t let them come near me.”
</p>
<p>
“No, that I won’t,” answered Turkey, brandishing his club to give me
confidence, “<i>I</i>’ll give it them, if they look at you from between
their ugly horns.”
</p>
<p>
“Turkey,” I said, for I had often pondered the matter during my illness,
“how did Hawkie behave while you were away with me—that day, you
know?”
</p>
<p>
“She ate about half a rick of green corn,” answered Turkey, coolly. “But
she had the worst of it. They had to make a hole in her side, or she would
have died. There she is off to the turnips!”
</p>
<p>
He was after her with shout and flourish. Hawkie heard and obeyed, turning
round on her hind-legs with a sudden start, for she knew from his voice
that he was in a dangerously energetic mood.
</p>
<p>
“You’ll be all right again soon,” he said, coming quietly back to me.
Kirsty had gone to the farmhouse, leaving me with injunctions to Turkey
concerning me.
</p>
<p>
“Oh yes, I’m nearly well now; only I can’t walk yet.”
</p>
<p>
“Will you come on my back?” he said.
</p>
<p>
When Kirsty returned to take me home, there was I following the cows on
Turkey’s back, riding him about wherever I chose; for my horse was
obedient as only a dog, or a horse, or a servant from love can be. From
that day I recovered very rapidly.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link14" id="link14"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XIV
</h2>
<h3>
Elsie Duff
</h3>
<p>
How all the boys and girls stared at me, as timidly, yet with a sense of
importance derived from the distinction of having been so ill, I entered
the parish school one morning, about ten o’clock! For as I said before, I
had gone to school for some months before I was taken ill. It was a very
different affair from Dame Shand’s tyrannical little kingdom. Here were
boys of all ages, and girls likewise, ruled over by an energetic young
man, with a touch of genius, manifested chiefly in an enthusiasm for
teaching. He had spoken to me kindly the first day I went, and had so
secured my attachment that it never wavered, not even when, once,
supposing me guilty of a certain breach of orders committed by my next
neighbour, he called me up, and, with more severity than usual, ordered me
to hold up my hand. The lash stung me dreadfully, but I was able to smile
in his face notwithstanding. I could not have done that had I been guilty.
He dropped his hand, already lifted for the second blow, and sent me back
to my seat. I suppose either his heart interfered, or he saw that I was
not in need of more punishment. The greatest good he did me, one for which
I shall be ever grateful, was the rousing in me of a love for English
literature, especially poetry. But I cannot linger upon this at present,
tempting although it be. I have led a busy life in the world since, but it
has been one of my greatest comforts when the work of the day was over—dry
work if it had not been that I had it to do—to return to my books,
and live in the company of those who were greater than myself, and had had
a higher work in life than mine. The master used to say that a man was fit
company for any man whom he could understand, and therefore I hope often
that some day, in some future condition of existence, I may look upon the
faces of Milton and Bacon and Shakspere, whose writings have given me so
much strength and hope throughout my life here.
</p>
<p>
The moment he saw me, the master came up to me and took me by the hand,
saying he was glad to see me able to come to school again.
</p>
<p>
“You must not try to do too much at first,” he added.
</p>
<p>
This set me on my mettle, and I worked hard and with some success. But
before the morning was over I grew very tired, and fell fast asleep with
my head on the desk. I was informed afterwards that the master had
interfered when one of my class-fellows was trying to wake me, and told
him to let me sleep.
</p>
<p>
When one o’clock came, I was roused by the noise of dismissal for the two
hours for dinner. I staggered out, still stupid with sleep, and whom
should I find watching for me by the door-post but Turkey!
</p>
<p>
“Turkey!” I exclaimed; “you here!”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, Ranald,” he said; “I’ve put the cows up for an hour or two, for it
was very hot; and Kirsty said I might come and carry you home.”
</p>
<p>
So saying he stooped before me, and took me on his strong back. As soon as
I was well settled, he turned his head, and said:
</p>
<p>
“Ranald, I should like to go and have a look at my mother. Will you come?
There’s plenty of time.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, please, Turkey,” I answered. “I’ve never seen your mother.”
</p>
<p>
He set off at a slow easy trot, and bore me through street and lane until
we arrived at a two-storey house, in the roof of which his mother lived.
She was a widow, and had only Turkey. What a curious place her little
garret was! The roof sloped down on one side to the very floor, and there
was a little window in it, from which I could see away to the manse, a
mile off, and far beyond it. Her bed stood in one corner, with a check
curtain hung from a rafter in front of it. In another was a chest, which
contained all their spare clothes, including Turkey’s best garments, which
he went home to put on every Sunday morning. In the little grate
smouldered a fire of oak-bark, from which all the astringent virtue had
been extracted in the pits at the lanyard, and which was given to the poor
for nothing.
</p>
<p>
Turkey’s mother was sitting near the little window, spinning. She was a
spare, thin, sad-looking woman, with loving eyes and slow speech.
</p>
<p>
“Johnnie!” she exclaimed, “what brings you here? and who’s this you’ve
brought with you?”
</p>
<p>
Instead of stopping her work as she spoke, she made her wheel go faster
than before; and I gazed with admiration at her deft fingering of the
wool, from which the thread flowed in a continuous line, as if it had been
something plastic, towards the revolving spool.
</p>
<p>
“It’s Ranald Bannerman,” said Turkey quietly. “I’m his horse. I’m taking
him home from the school. This is the first time he’s been there since he
was ill.”
</p>
<p>
Hearing this, she relaxed her labour, and the hooks which had been
revolving so fast that they were invisible in a mist of motion, began to
dawn into form, until at length they revealed their shape, and at last
stood quite still. She rose, and said:
</p>
<p>
“Come, Master Ranald, and sit down. You’ll be tired of riding such a rough
horse as that.”
</p>
<p>
“No, indeed,” I said; “Turkey is not a rough horse; he’s the best horse in
the world.”
</p>
<p>
“He always calls me Turkey, mother, because of my nose,” said Turkey,
laughing.
</p>
<p>
“And what brings you here?” asked his mother. “This is not on the road to
the manse.”
</p>
<p>
“I wanted to see if you were better, mother.”
</p>
<p>
“But what becomes of the cows?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh! they’re all safe enough. They know I’m here.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, sit down and rest you both,” she said, resuming her own place at
the wheel. “I’m glad to see you, Johnnie, so be your work is not
neglected. I must go on with mine.”
</p>
<p>
Thereupon Turkey, who had stood waiting his mother’s will, deposited me
upon her bed, and sat down beside me.
</p>
<p>
“And how’s your papa, the good man?” she said to me.
</p>
<p>
I told her he was quite well.
</p>
<p>
“All the better that you’re restored from the grave, I don’t doubt,” she
said.
</p>
<p>
I had never known before that I had been in any danger.
</p>
<p>
“It’s been a sore time for him and you too,” she added. “You must be a
good son to him, Ranald, for he was in a great way about you, they tell
me.”
</p>
<p>
Turkey said nothing, and I was too much surprised to know what to say; for
as often as my father had come into my room, he had always looked
cheerful, and I had had no idea that he was uneasy about me.
</p>
<p>
After a little more talk, Turkey rose, and said we must be going.
</p>
<p>
“Well, Ranald,” said his mother, “you must come and see me any time when
you’re tired at the school, and you can lie down and rest yourself a bit.
Be a good lad, Johnnie, and mind your work.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, mother, I’ll try,” answered Turkey cheerfully, as he hoisted me once
more upon his back. “Good day, mother,” he added, and left the room.
</p>
<p>
I mention this little incident because it led to other things afterwards.
I rode home upon Turkey’s back; and with my father’s leave, instead of
returning to school that day, spent the afternoon in the fields with
Turkey.
</p>
<p>
In the middle of the field where the cattle were that day, there was a
large circular mound. I have often thought since that it must have been a
barrow, with dead men’s bones in the heart of it, but no such suspicion
had then crossed my mind. Its sides were rather steep, and covered with
lovely grass. On the side farthest from the manse, and without one human
dwelling in sight, Turkey and I lay that afternoon, in a bliss enhanced to
me, I am afraid, by the contrasted thought of the close, hot, dusty
schoolroom, where my class-fellows were talking, laughing, and wrangling,
or perhaps trying to work in spite of the difficulties of after-dinner
disinclination. A fitful little breeze, as if itself subject to the
influence of the heat, would wake up for a few moments, wave a few heads
of horse-daisies, waft a few strains of odour from the blossoms of the
white clover, and then die away fatigued with the effort. Turkey took out
his Jews’ harp, and discoursed soothing if not eloquent strains.
</p>
<p>
At our feet, a few yards from the mound, ran a babbling brook, which
divided our farm from the next. Those of my readers whose ears are open to
the music of Nature, must have observed how different are the songs sung
by different brooks. Some are a mere tinkling, others are sweet as silver
bells, with a tone besides which no bell ever had. Some sing in a
careless, defiant tone. This one sung in a veiled voice, a contralto
muffled in the hollows of overhanging banks, with a low, deep, musical
gurgle in some of the stony eddies, in which a straw would float for days
and nights till a flood came, borne round and round in a funnel-hearted
whirlpool. The brook was deep for its size, and had a good deal to say in
a solemn tone for such a small stream. We lay on the side of the hillock,
I say, and Turkey’s Jews’ harp mingled its sounds with those of the brook.
After a while he laid it aside, and we were both silent for a time.
</p>
<p>
At length Turkey spoke.
</p>
<p>
“You’ve seen my mother, Ranald.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, Turkey.”
</p>
<p>
“She’s all I’ve got to look after.”
</p>
<p>
“I haven’t got any mother to look after, Turkey.”
</p>
<p>
“No. You’ve a father to look after you. I must do it, you know. My father
wasn’t over good to my mother. He used to get drunk sometimes, and then he
was very rough with her. I must make it up to her as well as I can. She’s
not well off, Ranald.”
</p>
<p>
“Isn’t she, Turkey?”
</p>
<p>
“No. She works very hard at her spinning, and no one spins better than my
mother. How could they? But it’s very poor pay, you know, and she’ll be
getting old by and by.”
</p>
<p>
“Not to-morrow, Turkey.”
</p>
<p>
“No, not to-morrow, nor the day after,” said Turkey, looking up with some
surprise to see what I meant by the remark.
</p>
<p>
He then discovered that my eyes had led my thoughts astray, and that what
he had been saying about his mother had got no farther than into my ears.
For on the opposite side of the stream, on the grass, like a shepherdess
in an old picture, sat a young girl, about my own age, in the midst of a
crowded colony of daisies and white clover, knitting so that her needles
went as fast as Kirsty’s, and were nearly as invisible as the thing with
the hooked teeth in it that looked so dangerous and ran itself out of
sight upon Turkey’s mother’s spinning-wheel. A little way from her was a
fine cow feeding, with a long iron chain dragging after her. The girl was
too far off for me to see her face very distinctly; but something in her
shape, her posture, and the hang of her head, I do not know what, had
attracted me.
</p>
<p>
“Oh! there’s Elsie Duff,” said Turkey, himself forgetting his mother in
the sight—“with her granny’s cow! I didn’t know she was coming here
to-day.”
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="122.jpg (115K)" src="images/122.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
“How is it,” I asked, “that she is feeding her on old James Joss’s land?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh! they’re very good to Elsie, you see. Nobody cares much about her
grandmother; but Elsie’s not her grandmother, and although the cow belongs
to the old woman, yet for Elsie’s sake, this one here and that one there
gives her a bite for it—that’s a day’s feed generally. If you look
at the cow, you’ll see she’s not like one that feeds by the roadsides.
She’s as plump as needful, and has a good udderful of milk besides.”
</p>
<p>
“I’ll run down and tell her she may bring the cow into this field
to-morrow,” I said, rising.
</p>
<p>
“I would if it were <i>mine</i>” said Turkey, in a marked tone, which I
understood.
</p>
<p>
“Oh! I see, Turkey,” I said. “You mean I ought to ask my father.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, to be sure, I do mean that,” answered Turkey.
</p>
<p>
“Then it’s as good as done,” I returned. “I will ask him to-night.”
</p>
<p>
“She’s a good girl, Elsie,” was all Turkey’s reply.
</p>
<p>
How it happened I cannot now remember, but I know that, after all, I did
not ask my father, and Granny Gregson’s cow had no bite either off the
glebe or the farm. And Turkey’s reflections concerning the mother he had
to take care of having been interrupted, the end to which they were moving
remained for the present unuttered.
</p>
<p>
I soon grew quite strong again, and had neither plea nor desire for
exemption from school labours. My father also had begun to take me in hand
as well as my brother Tom; and what with arithmetic and Latin together,
not to mention geography and history, I had quite enough to do, and quite
as much also as was good for me.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link15" id="link15"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XV
</h2>
<h3>
A New Companion
</h3>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="125.jpg (96K)" src="images/125.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
During this summer, I made the acquaintance at school of a boy called
Peter Mason. Peter was a clever boy, from whose merry eye a sparkle was
always ready to break. He seldom knew his lesson well, but, when <i>kept
in</i> for not knowing it, had always learned it before any of the rest
had got more than half through. Amongst those of his own standing he was
the acknowledged leader in the playground, and was besides often invited
to take a share in the amusements of the older boys, by whom he was petted
because of his cleverness and obliging disposition. Beyond school hours,
he spent his time in all manner of pranks. In the hot summer weather he
would bathe twenty times a day, and was as much at home in the water as
any dabchick. And that was how I came to be more with him than was good
for me.
</p>
<p>
There was a small river not far from my father’s house, which at a certain
point was dammed back by a weir of large stones to turn part of it aside
into a mill-race. The mill stood a little way down, under a steep bank. It
was almost surrounded with trees, willows by the water’s edge, and birches
and larches up the bank. Above the dam was a fine spot for bathing, for
you could get any depth you liked—from two feet to five or six; and
here it was that most of the boys of the village bathed, and I with them.
I cannot recall the memory of those summer days without a gush of delight
gurgling over my heart, just as the water used to gurgle over the stones
of the dam. It was a quiet place, particularly on the side to which my
father’s farm went down, where it was sheltered by the same little wood
which farther on surrounded the mill. The field which bordered the river
was kept in natural grass, thick and short and fine, for here on the bank
it grew well, although such grass was not at all common in that part of
the country: upon other parts of the same farm, the grass was sown every
year along with the corn. Oh the summer days, with the hot sun drawing the
odours from the feathery larches and the white-stemmed birches, when,
getting out of the water, I would lie in the warm soft grass, where now
and then the tenderest little breeze would creep over my skin, until the
sun baking me more than was pleasant, I would rouse myself with an effort,
and running down to the fringe of rushes that bordered the full-brimmed
river, plunge again headlong into the quiet brown water, and dabble and
swim till I was once more weary! For innocent animal delight, I know of
nothing to match those days—so warm, yet so pure-aired—so
clean, so glad. I often think how God must love his little children to
have invented for them such delights! For, of course, if he did not love
the children and delight in their pleasure, he would not have invented the
two and brought them together. Yes, my child, I know what you would say,—“How
many there are who have no such pleasures!” I grant it sorrowfully; but
you must remember that God has not done with them yet; and, besides, that
there are more pleasures in the world than you or I know anything about.
And if we had it <i>all</i> pleasure, I know I should not care so much
about what is better, and I would rather be made good than have any other
pleasure in the world; and so would you, though perhaps you do not know it
yet.
</p>
<p>
One day, a good many of us were at the water together. I was somebody
amongst them in my own estimation because I bathed off my father’s ground,
while they were all on a piece of bank on the other side which was
regarded as common to the village. Suddenly upon the latter spot, when
they were all undressed, and some already in the water, appeared a man who
had lately rented the property of which that was part, accompanied by a
dog, with a flesh-coloured nose and a villainous look—a mongrel in
which the bull predominated. He ordered everyone off his premises. Invaded
with terror, all, except a big boy who trusted that the dog would be more
frightened at his naked figure than he was at the dog, plunged into the
river, and swam or waded from the inhospitable shore. Once in the embrace
of the stream, some of them thoughtlessly turned and mocked the enemy,
forgetting how much they were still in his power. Indignant at the tyrant,
I stood up in the “limpid wave”, and assured the aquatic company of a
welcome to the opposite bank. So far all was very well. But their clothes!
They, alas! were upon the bank they had left!
</p>
<p>
The spirit of a host was upon me, for now I regarded them all as my
guests.
</p>
<p>
“You come ashore when you like,” I said; “I will see what can be done
about your clothes.”
</p>
<p>
I knew that just below the dam lay a little boat built by the miller’s
sons. It was clumsy enough, but in my eyes a marvel of engineering art. On
the opposite side stood the big boy braving the low-bred cur which barked
and growled at him with its ugly head stretched out like a serpent’s;
while his owner, who was probably not so unkind as we thought him, stood
enjoying the fun of it all. Reckoning upon the big boy’s assistance, I
scrambled out of the water, and sped, like Achilles of the swift foot, for
the boat. I jumped in and seized the oars, intending to row across, and
get the big boy to throw the clothes of the party into the boat. But I had
never handled an oar in my life, and in the middle passage—how it
happened I cannot tell—I found myself floundering in the water.
</p>
<p>
Now, although you might expect that the water being dammed back just here,
it would be shallow below the dam, it was just the opposite. Had the
bottom been hard, it would have been shallow; but as the bottom was soft
and muddy, the rush of the water over the dam in the winter-floods had
here made a great hollow. There was besides another weir a very little way
below which again dammed the water back; so that the depth was greater
here than in almost any other part within the ken of the village boys.
Indeed there were horrors afloat concerning its depth. I was but a poor
swimmer, for swimming is a natural gift, and is not equally distributed to
all. I might have done better, however, but for those stories of the awful
gulf beneath me. I was struggling and floundering, half-blind, and quite
deaf, with a sense of the water constantly getting up and stopping me,
whatever I wanted to do, when I felt myself laid hold of by the leg,
dragged under water, and a moment after landed safe on the bank. Almost
the same moment I heard a plunge, and getting up, staggering and
bewildered, saw, as through the haze of a dream, a boy swimming after the
boat, which had gone down with the slow current. I saw him overtake it,
scramble into it in midstream, and handle the oars as to the manner born.
When he had brought it back to the spot where I stood, I knew that Peter
Mason was my deliverer. Quite recovered by this time from my slight attack
of drowning, I got again into the boat, and leaving the oars to Peter, was
rowed across and landed. There was no further difficulty. The man,
alarmed, I suppose, at the danger I had run, recalled his dog; we bundled
in the clothes; Peter rowed them across; Rory, the big boy, took the water
after the boat, and I plunged in again above the dam. For the whole of
that summer and part of the following winter, Peter was my hero, to the
forgetting even of my friend Turkey. I took every opportunity of joining
him in his games, partly from gratitude, partly from admiration, but more
than either from the simple human attraction of the boy. It was some time
before he led me into any real mischief, but it came at last.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link16" id="link16"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XVI
</h2>
<h3>
I Go Down Hill
</h3>
<p>
It came in the following winter.
</p>
<p>
My father had now begun to teach me as well as Tom, but I confess I did
not then value the privilege. I had got much too fond of the society of
Peter Mason, and all the time I could command I spent with him. Always
full of questionable frolic, the spirit of mischief gathered in him as the
dark nights drew on. The sun, and the wind, and the green fields, and the
flowing waters of summer kept him within bounds; but when the ice and the
snow came, when the sky was grey with one cloud, when the wind was full of
needle-points of frost and the ground was hard as a stone, when the
evenings were dark, and the sun at noon shone low down and far away in the
south, then the demon of mischief awoke in the bosom of Peter Mason, and,
this winter, I am ashamed to say, drew me also into the net.
</p>
<p>
Nothing very bad was the result before the incident I am about to relate.
There must have been, however, a gradual declension towards it, although
the pain which followed upon this has almost obliterated the recollection
of preceding follies. Nobody does anything bad all at once. Wickedness
needs an apprenticeship as well as more difficult trades.
</p>
<p>
It was in January, not long after the shortest day, the sun setting about
half-past three o’clock. At three school was over, and just as we were
coming out, Peter whispered to me, with one of his merriest twinkles in
his eyes:
</p>
<p>
“Come across after dark, Ranald, and we’ll have some fun.”
</p>
<p>
I promised, and we arranged when and where to meet. It was Friday, and I
had no Latin to prepare for Saturday, therefore my father did not want me.
I remember feeling very jolly as I went home to dinner, and made the sun
set ten times at least, by running up and down the earthen wall which
parted the fields from the road; for as often as I ran up I saw him again
over the shoulder of the hill, behind which he was going down. When I had
had my dinner, I was so impatient to join Peter Mason that I could not
rest, and from very idleness began to tease wee Davie. A great deal of
that nasty teasing, so common among boys, comes of idleness. Poor Davie
began to cry at last, and I, getting more and more wicked, went on teasing
him, until at length he burst into a howl of wrath and misery, whereupon
the Kelpie, who had some tenderness for him, burst into the room, and
boxed my ears soundly. I was in a fury of rage and revenge, and had I been
near anything I could have caught up, something serious would have been
the result. In spite of my resistance, she pushed me out of the room and
locked the door. I would have complained to my father, but I was perfectly
aware that, although <i>she</i> had no right to strike me, I had deserved
chastisement for my behaviour to my brother. I was still boiling with
anger when I set off for the village to join Mason. I mention all this to
show that I was in a bad state of mind, and thus prepared for the
wickedness which followed. I repeat, a boy never disgraces himself all at
once. He does not tumble from the top to the bottom of the cellar stair.
He goes down the steps himself till he comes to the broken one, and then
he goes to the bottom with a rush. It will also serve to show that the
enmity between Mrs. Mitchell and me had in nowise abated, and that however
excusable she might be in the case just mentioned, she remained an evil
element in the household.
</p>
<p>
<a name="linksnow" id="linksnow"></a> <br /><br /> <a href="images/il07.jpg"></a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="il07h.jpg (48K)" src="images/il07h.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
When I reached the village, I found very few people about. The night was
very cold, for there was a black frost. There had been a thaw the day
before which had carried away the most of the snow, but in the corners lay
remnants of dirty heaps which had been swept up there. I was waiting near
one of these, which happened to be at the spot where Peter had arranged to
meet me, when from a little shop near a girl came out and walked quickly
down the street. I yielded to the temptation arising in a mind which had
grown a darkness with slimy things crawling in it. I kicked a hole in the
frozen crust of the heap, scraped out a handful of dirty snow, kneaded it
into a snowball, and sent it after the girl. It struck her on the back of
the head. She gave a cry and ran away, with her hand to her forehead.
Brute that I was, I actually laughed. I think I must have been nearer the
devil then than I have been since. At least I hope so. For you see it was
not with me as with worse-trained boys. I knew quite well that I was doing
wrong, and refused to think about it. I felt bad inside. Peter might have
done the same thing without being half as wicked as I was. He did not feel
the wickedness of that kind of thing as I did. He would have laughed over
it merrily. But the vile dregs of my wrath with the Kelpie were fermenting
in my bosom, and the horrid pleasure I found in annoying an innocent girl
because the wicked Kelpie had made me angry, could never have been
expressed in a merry laugh like Mason’s. The fact is, I was more
displeased with myself than with anybody else, though I did not allow it,
and would not take the trouble to repent and do the right thing. If I had
even said to wee Davie that I was sorry, I do not think I should have done
the other wicked things that followed; for this was not all by any means.
In a little while Peter joined me. He laughed, of course, when I told him
how the girl had run like a frighted hare, but that was poor fun in his
eyes.
</p>
<p>
“Look here, Ranald,” he said, holding out something like a piece of wood.
</p>
<p>
“What is it, Peter?” I asked.
</p>
<p>
“It’s the stalk of a cabbage,” he answered. “I’ve scooped out the inside
and filled it with tow. We’ll set fire to one end, and blow the smoke
through the keyhole.”
</p>
<p>
“Whose keyhole, Peter?”
</p>
<p>
“An old witch’s that I know of. She’ll be in such a rage! It’ll be fun to
hear her cursing and swearing. We’d serve the same to every house in the
row, but that would be more than we could get off with. Come along. Here’s
a rope to tie her door with first.”
</p>
<p>
I followed him, not without inward misgivings, which I kept down as well
as I could. I argued with myself, “<i>I</i> am not doing it; I am only
going with Peter: what business is that of anybody’s so long as I don’t
touch the thing myself?” Only a few minutes more, and I was helping Peter
to tie the rope to the latch-handle of a poor little cottage, saying now
to myself, “This doesn’t matter. This won’t do her any harm. This isn’t
smoke. And after all, smoke won’t hurt the nasty old thing. It’ll only
make her angry. It may do her cough good: I dare say she’s got a cough.” I
knew all I was saying was false, and yet I acted on it. Was not that as
wicked as wickedness could be? One moment more, and Peter was blowing
through the hollow cabbage stalk in at the keyhole with all his might.
Catching a breath of the stifling smoke himself, however, he began to
cough violently, and passed the wicked instrument to me. I put my mouth to
it, and blew with all my might. I believe now that there was some far more
objectionable stuff mingled with the tow. In a few moments we heard the
old woman begin to cough. Peter, who was peeping in at the window,
whispered—
</p>
<p>
“She’s rising. Now we’ll catch it, Ranald!”
</p>
<p>
Coughing as she came, I heard her with shuffling steps approach the door,
thinking to open it for air. When she failed in opening it, and found
besides where the smoke was coming from, she broke into a torrent of
fierce and vengeful reproaches, mingled with epithets by no means
flattering. She did not curse and swear as Peter had led me to expect,
although her language was certainly far enough from refined; but therein
I, being, in a great measure, the guilty cause, was more to blame than
she. I laughed because I would not be unworthy of my companion, who was
genuinely amused; but I was, in reality, shocked at the tempest I had
raised. I stopped blowing, aghast at what I had done; but Peter caught the
tube from my hand and recommenced the assault with fresh vigour,
whispering through the keyhole, every now and then between the blasts,
provoking, irritating, even insulting remarks on the old woman’s personal
appearance and supposed ways of living. This threw her into paroxysms of
rage and of coughing, both increasing in violence; and the war of words
grew, she tugging at the door as she screamed, he answering merrily, and
with pretended sympathy for her sufferings, until I lost all remaining
delicacy in the humour of the wicked game, and laughed loud and heartily.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="137.jpg (76K)" src="images/137.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
Of a sudden the scolding and coughing ceased. A strange sound and again
silence followed. Then came a shrill, suppressed scream; and we heard the
voice of a girl, crying:
</p>
<p>
“Grannie! grannie! What’s the matter with you? Can’t you speak to me,
grannie? They’ve smothered my grannie!”
</p>
<p>
Sobs and moans were all we heard now. Peter had taken fright at last, and
was busy undoing the rope. Suddenly he flung the door wide and fled,
leaving me exposed to the full gaze of the girl. To my horror it was Elsie
Duff! She was just approaching the door, her eyes streaming with tears,
and her sweet face white with agony. I stood unable to move or speak. She
turned away without a word, and began again to busy herself with the old
woman, who lay on the ground not two yards from the door. I heard a heavy
step approaching. Guilt awoke fear and restored my powers of motion. I
fled at full speed, not to find Mason, but to leave everything behind me.
</p>
<p>
When I reached the manse, it stood alone in the starry blue night. Somehow
I could not help thinking of the time when I came home after waking up in
the barn. That, too, was a time of misery, but, oh! how different from
this! Then I had only been cruelly treated myself; now I had actually
committed cruelty. Then I sought my father’s bosom as the one refuge; now
I dreaded the very sight of my father, for I could not look him in the
face. He was my father, but I was not his son. A hurried glance at my late
life revealed that I had been behaving very badly, growing worse and
worse. I became more and more miserable as I stood, but what to do I could
not tell. The cold at length drove me into the house. I generally sat with
my father in his study of a winter night now, but I dared not go near it.
I crept to the nursery, where I found a bright fire burning, and Allister
reading by the blaze, while Davie lay in bed at the other side of the
room. I sat down and warmed myself, but the warmth could not reach the
lump of ice at my heart. I sat and stared at the fire. Allister was too
much occupied with his book to take any heed of me. All at once I felt a
pair of little arms about my neck, and Davie was trying to climb upon my
knees. Instead of being comforted, however, I spoke very crossly, and sent
him back to his bed whimpering. You see I was only miserable; I was not
repentant. I was eating the husks with the swine, and did not relish them;
but I had not said, “I will arise and go to my father”.
</p>
<p>
How I got through the rest of that evening I hardly know. I tried to read,
but could not. I was rather fond of arithmetic; so I got my slate and
tried to work a sum; but in a few moments I was sick of it. At family
prayers I never lifted my head to look at my father, and when they were
over, and I had said good night to him, I felt that I was sneaking out of
the room. But I had some small sense of protection and safety when once in
bed beside little Davie, who was sound asleep, and looked as innocent as
little Samuel when the voice of God was going to call him. I put my arm
round him, hugged him close to me, and began to cry, and the crying
brought me sleep.
</p>
<p>
It was a very long time now since I had dreamt my old childish dream; but
this night it returned. The old sunny-faced sun looked down upon me very
solemnly. There was no smile on his big mouth, no twinkle about the
corners of his little eyes. He looked at Mrs. Moon as much as to say,
“What is to be done? The boy has been going the wrong way: must we disown
him?” The moon neither shook her head nor moved her lips, but turned as on
a pivot, and stood with her back to her husband, looking very miserable.
Not one of the star-children moved from its place. They shone sickly and
small. In a little while they faded out; then the moon paled and paled
until she too vanished without ever turning her face to her husband; and
last the sun himself began to change, only instead of paling he drew in
all his beams, and shrunk smaller and smaller, until no bigger than a
candle-flame. Then I found that I was staring at a candle on the table;
and that Tom was kneeling by the side of the other bed, saying his
prayers.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link17" id="link17"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XVII
</h2>
<h3>
The Trouble Grows
</h3>
<p>
When I woke in the morning, I tried to persuade myself that I had made a
great deal too much of the whole business; that if not a dignified thing
to do, it was at worst but a boy’s trick; only I would have no more to say
to Peter Mason, who had betrayed me at the last moment without even the
temptation of any benefit to himself. I went to school as usual. It was
the day for the Shorter Catechism. None failed but Peter and me; and we
two were kept in alone, and left in the schoolroom together. I seated
myself as far from him as I could. In half an hour he had learned his
task, while I had not mastered the half of mine. Thereupon he proceeded,
regardless of my entreaties, to prevent me learning it. I begged, and
prayed, and appealed to his pity, but he would pull the book away from me,
gabble bits of ballads in my ear as I was struggling with <i>Effectual
Calling</i>, tip up the form on which I was seated, and, in short, annoy
me in twenty different ways. At last I began to cry, for Mason was a
bigger and stronger boy than I, and I could not help myself against him.
Lifting my head after the first vexation was over, I thought I saw a
shadow pass from the window. Although I could not positively say I saw it,
I had a conviction it was Turkey, and my heart began to turn again towards
him. Emboldened by the fancied proximity, I attempted my lesson once more,
but that moment Peter was down upon me like a spider. At last, however,
growing suddenly weary of the sport, he desisted, and said:
</p>
<p>
“Ran, you can stay if you like. I’ve learned my catechism, and I don’t see
why I should wait <i>his</i> time.”
</p>
<p>
As he spoke he drew a picklock from his pocket—his father was an
ironmonger—deliberately opened the schoolroom door, slipped out, and
locked it behind him. Then he came to one of the windows, and began making
faces at me. But vengeance was nigher than he knew. A deeper shadow
darkened my page, and when I looked up, there was Turkey towering over
Mason, with his hand on his collar, and his whip lifted. The whip did not
look formidable. Mason received the threat as a joke, and laughed in
Turkey’s face. Perceiving, however, that Turkey looked dangerous, with a
sudden wriggle, at which he was an adept, he broke free, and, trusting to
his tried speed of foot, turned his head and made a grimace as he took to
his heels. Before, however, he could widen the space between them
sufficiently, Turkey’s whip came down upon him. With a howl of pain Peter
doubled himself up, and Turkey fell upon him, and, heedless of his yells
and cries, pommelled him severely. Although they were now at some
distance, too great for the distinguishing of words, I could hear that
Turkey mingled admonition with punishment. A little longer, and Peter
crept past the window, a miserable mass of collapsed and unstrung
impudence, his face bleared with crying, and his knuckles dug into his
eyes. And this was the boy I had chosen for my leader! He had been false
to me, I said to myself; and the noble Turkey, seeing his behaviour
through the window, had watched to give him his deserts. My heart was full
of gratitude.
</p>
<p>
Once more Turkey drew near the window. What was my dismay and indignation
to hear him utter the following words:
</p>
<p>
“If you weren’t your father’s son, Ranald, and my own old friend, I would
serve you just the same.”
</p>
<p>
Wrath and pride arose in me at the idea of Turkey, who used to call
himself my horse, behaving to me after this fashion; and, my evil ways
having half made a sneak of me, I cried out:
</p>
<p>
“I’ll tell my father, Turkey.”
</p>
<p>
“I only wish you would, and then I should be no tell-tale if he asked me
why, and I told him all about it. You young blackguard! You’re no
gentleman! To sneak about the streets and hit girls with snowballs! I
scorn you!”
</p>
<p>
“You must have been watching, then, Turkey, and you had no business to do
that,” I said, plunging at any defence.
</p>
<p>
“I was not watching you. But if I had been, it would have been just as
right as watching Hawkie. You ill-behaved creature! You’re a true
minister’s son.”
</p>
<p>
“It’s a mean thing to do, Turkey,” I persisted, seeking to stir up my own
anger and blow up my self-approval.
</p>
<p>
“I tell you I did not do it. I met Elsie Duff crying in the street because
you had hit her with a dirty snowball. And then to go and smoke her and
her poor grannie, till the old woman fell down in a faint or a fit, I
don’t know which! You deserve a good pommelling yourself, I can tell you,
Ranald. I’m ashamed of you.”
</p>
<p>
He turned to go away.
</p>
<p>
“Turkey, Turkey,” I cried, “isn’t the old woman better?”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know. I’m going to see,” he answered.
</p>
<p>
“Come back and tell me, Turkey,” I shouted, as he disappeared from the
field of my vision.
</p>
<p>
“Indeed I won’t. I don’t choose to keep company with such as you. But if
ever I hear of you touching them again, you shall have more of me than
you’ll like, and you may tell your father so when you please.”
</p>
<p>
I had indeed sunk low when Turkey, who had been such a friend, would have
nothing to say to me more. In a few minutes the master returned, and
finding me crying, was touched with compassion. He sent me home at once,
which was well for me, as I could not have repeated a single question. He
thought Peter had crept through one of the panes that opened for
ventilation, and did not interrogate me about his disappearance.
</p>
<p>
The whole of the rest of that day was miserable enough. I even hazarded
one attempt at making friends with Mrs. Mitchell, but she repelled me so
rudely that I did not try again. I could not bear the company of either
Allister or Davie. I would have gone and told Kirsty, but I said to myself
that Turkey must have already prejudiced her against me. I went to bed the
moment prayers were over, and slept a troubled sleep. I dreamed that
Turkey had gone and told my father, and that he had turned me out of the
house.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link18" id="link18"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XVIII
</h2>
<h3>
Light out of Darkness
</h3>
<p>
I woke early on the Sunday morning, and a most dreary morning it was. I
could not lie in bed, and, although no one was up yet, rose and dressed
myself. The house was as waste as a sepulchre. I opened the front door and
went out. The world itself was no better. The day had hardly begun to
dawn. The dark dead frost held it in chains of iron. The sky was dull and
leaden, and cindery flakes of snow were thinly falling. Everywhere life
looked utterly dreary and hopeless. What was there worth living for? I
went out on the road, and the ice in the ruts crackled under my feet like
the bones of dead things. I wandered away from the house, and the keen
wind cut me to the bone, for I had not put on plaid or cloak. I turned
into a field, and stumbled along over its uneven surface, swollen into
hard frozen lumps, so that it was like walking upon stones. The summer was
gone and the winter was here, and my heart was colder and more miserable
than any winter in the world. I found myself at length at the hillock
where Turkey and I had lain on that lovely afternoon the year before. The
stream below was dumb with frost. The wind blew wearily but sharply across
the bare field. There was no Elsie Duff, with head drooping over her
knitting, seated in the summer grass on the other side of a singing brook.
Her head was aching on her pillow because I had struck her with that vile
lump; and instead of the odour of white clover she was breathing the dregs
of the hateful smoke with which I had filled the cottage. I sat down, cold
as it was, on the frozen hillock, and buried my face in my hands. Then my
dream returned upon me. This was how I sat in my dream when my father had
turned me out-of-doors. Oh how dreadful it would be! I should just have to
lie down and die.
</p>
<p>
I could not sit long for the cold. Mechanically I rose and paced about.
But I grew so wretched in body that it made me forget for a while the
trouble of my mind, and I wandered home again. The house was just
stirring. I crept to the nursery, undressed, and lay down beside little
Davie, who cried out in his sleep when my cold feet touched him. But I did
not sleep again, although I lay till all the rest had gone to the parlour.
I found them seated round a blazing fire waiting for my father. He came in
soon after, and we had our breakfast, and Davie gave his crumbs as usual
to the robins and sparrows which came hopping on the window-sill. I
fancied my father’s eyes were often turned in my direction, but I could
not lift mine to make sure. I had never before known what misery was.
</p>
<p>
Only Tom and I went to church that day: it was so cold. My father preached
from the text, “Be sure your sin shall find you out”. I thought with
myself that he had found out my sin, and was preparing to punish me for
it, and I was filled with terror as well as dismay. I could scarcely keep
my seat, so wretched was I. But when after many instances in which
punishment had come upon evil-doers when they least expected it, and in
spite of every precaution to fortify themselves against it, he proceeded
to say that a man’s sin might find him out long before the punishment of
it overtook him, and drew a picture of the misery of the wicked man who
fled when none pursued him, and trembled at the rustling of a leaf, then I
was certain that he knew what I had done, or had seen through my face into
my conscience. When at last we went home, I kept waiting the whole of the
day for the storm to break, expecting every moment to be called to his
study. I did not enjoy a mouthful of my food, for I felt his eyes upon me,
and they tortured me. I was like a shy creature of the woods whose hole
had been stopped up: I had no place of refuge—nowhere to hide my
head; and I felt so naked!
</p>
<p>
My very soul was naked. After tea I slunk away to the nursery, and sat
staring into the fire. Mrs. Mitchell came in several times and scolded me
for sitting there, instead of with Tom and the rest in the parlour, but I
was too miserable even to answer her. At length she brought Davie, and put
him to bed; and a few minutes after, I heard my father coming down the
stair with Allister, who was chatting away to him. I wondered how he
could. My father came in with the big Bible under his arm, as was his
custom on Sunday nights, drew a chair to the table, rang for candles, and
with Allister by his side and me seated opposite to him, began to find a
place from which to read to us. To my yet stronger conviction, he began
and read through without a word of remark the parable of the Prodigal Son.
When he came to the father’s delight at having him back, the robe, and the
shoes, and the ring, I could not repress my tears. “If I could only go
back,” I thought, “and set it all right! but then I’ve never gone away.”
It was a foolish thought, instantly followed by a longing impulse to tell
my father all about it. How could it be that I had not thought of this
before? I had been waiting all this time for my sin to find me out; why
should I not frustrate my sin, and find my father first?
</p>
<p>
As soon as he had done reading, and before he had opened his mouth to make
any remark, I crept round the table to his side, and whispered in his ear,—
</p>
<p>
“Papa, I want to speak to you.”
</p>
<p>
“Very well, Ranald,” he said, more solemnly, I thought, than usual; “come
up to the study.”
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="151.jpg (76K)" src="images/151.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
He rose and led the way, and I followed. A whimper of disappointment came
from Davie’s bed. My father went and kissed him, and said he would soon be
back, whereupon Davie nestled down satisfied.
</p>
<p>
When we reached the study, he closed the door, sat down by the fire, and
drew me towards him.
</p>
<p>
I burst out crying, and could not speak for sobs. He encouraged me most
kindly. He said—
</p>
<p>
“Have you been doing anything wrong, my boy?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, papa, very wrong,” I sobbed. “I’m disgusted with myself.”
</p>
<p>
“I am glad to hear it, my dear,” he returned. “There is some hope of you,
then.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh! I don’t know that,” I rejoined. “Even Turkey despises me.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s very serious,” said my father. “He’s a fine fellow, Turkey. I
should not like him to despise me. But tell me all about it.”
</p>
<p>
It was with great difficulty I could begin, but with the help of
questioning me, my father at length understood the whole matter. He paused
for a while plunged in thought; then rose, saying,—
</p>
<p>
“It’s a serious affair, my dear boy; but now you have told me, I shall be
able to help you.”
</p>
<p>
“But you knew about it before, didn’t you, papa? Surely you did!”
</p>
<p>
“Not a word of it, Ranald. You fancied so because your sin had found you
out. I must go and see how the poor woman is. I don’t want to reproach you
at all, now you are sorry, but I should like you just to think that you
have been helping to make that poor old woman wicked. She is naturally of
a sour disposition, and you have made it sourer still, and no doubt made
her hate everybody more than she was already inclined to do. You have been
working against God in this parish.”
</p>
<p>
I burst into fresh tears. It was too dreadful.
</p>
<p>
“What <i>am</i> I to do?” I cried.
</p>
<p>
“Of course you must beg Mrs. Gregson’s pardon, and tell her that you are
both sorry and ashamed.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, yes, papa. Do let me go with you.”
</p>
<p>
“It’s too late to find her up, I’m afraid; but we can just go and see.
We’ve done a wrong, a very grievous wrong, my boy, and I cannot rest till
I at least know the consequences of it.”
</p>
<p>
He put on his long greatcoat and muffler in haste, and having seen that I
too was properly wrapped up, he opened the door and stepped out. But
remembering the promise he had made to Davie, he turned and went down to
the nursery to speak to him again, while I awaited him on the doorsteps.
It would have been quite dark but for the stars, and there was no snow to
give back any of their shine. The earth swallowed all their rays, and was
no brighter for it. But oh, what a change to me from the frightful
morning! When my father returned, I put my hand in his almost as
fearlessly as Allister or wee Davie might have done, and away we walked
together.
</p>
<p>
“Papa,” I said, “why did you say <i>we</i> have done a wrong? You did not
do it.”
</p>
<p>
“My dear boy, persons who are so near each other as we are, must not only
bear the consequences together of any wrong done by one of them, but must,
in a sense, bear each other’s iniquities even. If I sin, you must suffer;
if you sin, you being my own boy, I must suffer. But this is not all: it
lies upon both of us to do what we can to get rid of the wrong done; and
thus we have to bear each other’s sin. I am accountable to make amends as
far as I can; and also to do what I can to get you to be sorry and make
amends as far as you can.”
</p>
<p>
“But, papa, isn’t that hard?” I asked.
</p>
<p>
“Do you think I should like to leave you to get out of your sin as you
best could, or sink deeper and deeper into it? Should I grudge anything to
take the weight of the sin, or the wrong to others, off you? Do you think
I should want not to be troubled about it? Or if I were to do anything
wrong, would you think it very hard that you had to help me to be good,
and set things right? Even if people looked down upon you because of me,
would you say it was hard? Would you not rather say, ‘I’m glad to bear
anything for my father: I’ll share with him’?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, indeed, papa. I would rather share with you than not, whatever it
was.”
</p>
<p>
“Then you see, my boy, how kind God is in tying us up in one bundle that
way. It is a grand and beautiful thing that the fathers should suffer for
the children, and the children for the fathers. Come along. We must step
out, or I fear we shall not be able to make our apology to-night. When
we’ve got over this, Ranald, we must be a good deal more careful what
company we keep.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, papa,” I answered, “if Turkey would only forgive me!”
</p>
<p>
“There’s no fear. Turkey is sure to forgive you when you’ve done what you
can to make amends. He’s a fine fellow, Turkey. I have a high opinion of
Turkey—as you call him.”
</p>
<p>
“If he would, papa, I should not wish for any other company than his.”
</p>
<p>
“A boy wants various kinds of companions, Ranald, but I fear you have been
neglecting Turkey. You owe him much.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, indeed I do, papa,” I answered; “and I have been neglecting him. If
I had kept with Turkey, I should never have got into such a dreadful
scrape as this.”
</p>
<p>
“That is too light a word to use for it, my boy. Don’t call a wickedness a
scrape; for a wickedness it certainly was, though I am only too willing to
believe you had no adequate idea at the time <i>how</i> wicked it was.”
</p>
<p>
“I won’t again, papa. But I am so relieved already.”
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps poor old Mrs. Gregson is not relieved, though. You ought not to
forget her.”
</p>
<p>
Thus talking, we hurried on until we arrived at the cottage. A dim light
was visible through the window. My father knocked, and Elsie Duff opened
the door.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link19" id="link19"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XIX
</h2>
<h3>
Forgiveness
</h3>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="157.jpg (88K)" src="images/157.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
When we entered, there sat the old woman on the farther side of the
hearth, rocking herself to and fro. I hardly dared look up. Elsie’s face
was composed and sweet. She gave me a shy tremulous smile, which went to
my heart and humbled me dreadfully. My father took the stool on which
Elsie had been sitting. When he had lowered himself upon it, his face was
nearly on a level with that of the old woman, who took no notice of him,
but kept rocking herself to and fro and moaning. He laid his hand on hers,
which, old and withered and not very clean, lay on her knee.
</p>
<p>
“How do you find yourself to-night, Mrs. Gregson?” he asked.
</p>
<p>
“I’m an ill-used woman,” she replied with a groan, behaving as if it was
my father who had maltreated her, and whose duty it was to make an apology
for it.
</p>
<p>
“I am aware of what you mean, Mrs. Gregson. That is what brought me to
inquire after you. I hope you are not seriously the worse for it.”
</p>
<p>
“I’m an ill-used woman,” she repeated. “Every man’s hand’s against me.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I hardly think that,” said my father in a cheerful tone. “<i>My</i>
hand’s not against you now.”
</p>
<p>
“If you bring up your sons, Mr. Bannerman, to mock at the poor, and find
their amusement in driving the aged and infirm to death’s door, you can’t
say your hand’s not against a poor lone woman like me.”
</p>
<p>
“But I don’t bring up my sons to do so. If I did I shouldn’t be here now.
I am willing to bear my part of the blame, Mrs. Gregson, but to say I
bring my sons up to that kind of wickedness, is to lay on me more than my
share, a good deal.—Come here, Ranald.”
</p>
<p>
I obeyed with bowed head and shame-stricken heart, for I saw what wrong I
had done my father, and that although few would be so unjust to him as
this old woman, many would yet blame the best man in the world for the
wrongs of his children. When I stood by my father’s side, the old woman
just lifted her head once to cast on me a scowling look, and then went on
again rocking herself.
</p>
<p>
“Now, my boy,” said my father, “tell Mrs. Gregson why you have come here
to-night.”
</p>
<p>
I had to use a dreadful effort to make myself speak. It was like resisting
a dumb spirit and forcing the words from my lips. But I did not hesitate a
moment. In fact, I dared not hesitate, for I felt that hesitation would be
defeat.
</p>
<p>
“I came, papa——” I began.
</p>
<p>
“No no, my man,” said my father; “you must speak to Mrs. Gregson, not to
me.”
</p>
<p>
Thereupon I had to make a fresh effort. When at this day I see a child who
will not say the words required of him, I feel again just as I felt then,
and think how difficult it is for him to do what he is told; but oh, how I
wish he would do it, that he might be a conqueror I for I know that if he
will not make the effort, it will grow more and more difficult for him to
make any effort. I cannot be too thankful that I was able to overcome now.
</p>
<p>
“I came, Mrs. Gregson,” I faltered, “to tell you that I am very sorry I
behaved so ill to you.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, indeed,” she returned. “How would you like anyone to come and serve
you so in your grand house? But a poor lone widow woman like me is nothing
to be thought of. Oh no! not at all.”
</p>
<p>
“I am ashamed of myself,” I said, almost forcing my confession upon her.
</p>
<p>
“So you ought to be all the days of your life. You deserve to be drummed
out of the town for a minister’s son that you are! Hoo!”
</p>
<p>
“I’ll never do it again, Mrs. Gregson.”
</p>
<p>
“You’d better not, or you shall hear of it, if there’s a sheriff in the
county. To insult honest people after that fashion!”
</p>
<p>
I drew back, more than ever conscious of the wrong I had done in rousing
such unforgiving fierceness in the heart of a woman. My father spoke now.
</p>
<p>
“Shall I tell you, Mrs. Gregson, what made the boy sorry, and made him
willing to come and tell you all about it?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I’ve got friends after all. The young prodigal!”
</p>
<p>
“You are coming pretty near it, Mrs. Gregson,” said my father; “but you
haven’t touched it quite. It was a friend of yours that spoke to my boy
and made him very unhappy about what he had done, telling him over and
over again what a shame it was, and how wicked of him. Do you know what
friend it was?”
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps I do, and perhaps I don’t. I can guess.”
</p>
<p>
“I fear you don’t guess quite correctly. It was the best friend you ever
had or ever will have. It was God himself talking in my poor boy’s heart.
He would not heed what he said all day, but in the evening we were reading
how the prodigal son went back to his father, and how the father forgave
him; and he couldn’t stand it any longer, and came and told me all about
it.”
</p>
<p>
“It wasn’t you he had to go to. It wasn’t you he smoked to death—was
it now? It was easy enough to go to you.”
</p>
<p>
“Not so easy perhaps. But he has come to you now.”
</p>
<p>
“Come when you made him!”
</p>
<p>
“I didn’t make him. He came gladly. He saw it was all he could do to make
up for the wrong he had done.”
</p>
<p>
“A poor amends!” I heard her grumble; but my father took no notice.
</p>
<p>
“And you know, Mrs. Gregson,” he went on, “when the prodigal son did go
back to his father, his father forgave him at once.”
</p>
<p>
“Easy enough! He was his father, and fathers always side with their sons.”
</p>
<p>
I saw my father thinking for a moment.
</p>
<p>
“Yes; that is true,” he said. “And what he does himself, he always wants
his sons and daughters to do. So he tells us that if we don’t forgive one
another, he will not forgive us. And as we all want to be forgiven, we had
better mind what we’re told. If you don’t forgive this boy, who has done
you a great wrong, but is sorry for it, God will not forgive you—and
that’s a serious affair.”
</p>
<p>
“He’s never begged my pardon yet,” said the old woman, whose dignity
required the utter humiliation of the offender.
</p>
<p>
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Gregson,” I said. “I shall never be rude to you
again.”
</p>
<p>
“Very well,” she answered, a little mollified at last.
</p>
<p>
“Keep your promise, and we’ll say no more about it. It’s for your father’s
sake, mind, that I forgive you.”
</p>
<p>
I saw a smile trembling about my father’s lips, but he suppressed it,
saying,
</p>
<p>
“Won’t you shake hands with him, Mrs. Gregson?”
</p>
<p>
She held out a poor shrivelled hand, which I took very gladly; but it felt
so strange in mine that I was frightened at it: it was like something half
dead. But at the same moment, from behind me another hand, a rough little
hand, but warm and firm and all alive, slipped into my left hand. I knew
it was Elsie Duff’s, and the thought of how I had behaved to her rushed in
upon me with a cold misery of shame. I would have knelt at her feet, but I
could not speak my sorrow before witnesses. Therefore I kept hold of her
hand and led her by it to the other end of the cottage, for there was a
friendly gloom, the only light in the place coming from the glow—not
flame—of a fire of peat and bark. She came readily, whispering
before I had time to open my mouth—
</p>
<p>
I’m sorry grannie’s so hard to make it up.”
</p>
<p>
“I deserve it,” I said. “Elsie, I’m a brute. I could knock my head on the
wall. Please forgive me.”
</p>
<p>
“It’s not me,” she answered. “You didn’t hurt me. I didn’t mind it.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Elsie! I struck you with that horrid snowball.”
</p>
<p>
“It was only on the back of my neck. It didn’t hurt me much. It only
frightened me.”
</p>
<p>
“I didn’t know it was you. If I had known, I am sure I shouldn’t have done
it. But it was wicked and contemptible anyhow, to any girl.”
</p>
<p>
I broke down again, half from shame, half from the happiness of having
cast my sin from me by confessing it. Elsie held my hand now.
</p>
<p>
“Never mind; never mind,” she said; “you won’t do it again.”
</p>
<p>
“I would rather be hanged,” I sobbed.
</p>
<p>
That moment a pair of strong hands caught hold of mine, and the next I
found myself being hoisted on somebody’s back, by a succession of heaves
and pitches, which did not cease until I was firmly seated. Then a voice
said—
</p>
<p>
“I’m his horse again, Elsie, and I’ll carry him home this very night.”
</p>
<p>
Elsie gave a pleased little laugh; and Turkey bore me to the fireside,
where my father was talking away in a low tone to the old woman. I believe
he had now turned the tables upon her, and was trying to convince her of
her unkind and grumbling ways. But he did not let us hear a word of the
reproof.
</p>
<p>
“Eh! Turkey, my lad! is that you? I didn’t know you were there,” he said.
</p>
<p>
I had never before heard my father address him as Turkey.
</p>
<p>
“What are you doing with that great boy upon your back?” he continued.
</p>
<p>
“I’m going to carry him home, sir.”
</p>
<p>
“Nonsense! He can walk well enough.”
</p>
<p>
Half ashamed, I began to struggle to get down, but Turkey held me tight.
</p>
<p>
“But you see, sir,” said Turkey, “we’re friends now. <i>He’s</i> done what
he could, and <i>I</i> want to do what I can.”
</p>
<p>
“Very well,” returned my father, rising; “come along; it’s time we were
going.”
</p>
<p>
When he bade her good night, the old woman actually rose and held out her
hand to both of us.
</p>
<p>
“Good night, Grannie,” said Turkey. “Good night, Elsie.” And away we went.
</p>
<p>
Never conqueror on his triumphal entry was happier than I, as through the
starry night I rode home on Turkey’s back. The very stars seemed rejoicing
over my head. When I think of it now, the words always come with it,
“There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that
repenteth,” and I cannot but believe they rejoiced then, for if ever I
repented in my life I repented then. When at length I was down in bed
beside Davie, it seemed as if there could be nobody in the world so
blessed as I was: I had been forgiven. When I woke in the morning, I was
as it were new born into a new world. Before getting up I had a rare game
with Davie, whose shrieks of laughter at length brought Mrs. Mitchell with
angry face; but I found myself kindly disposed even towards her. The
weather was much the same; but its dreariness had vanished. There was a
glowing spot in my heart which drove out the cold, and glorified the black
frost that bound the earth. When I went out before breakfast, and saw the
red face of the sun looking through the mist like a bright copper kettle,
he seemed to know all about it, and to be friends with me as he had never
been before; and I was quite as well satisfied as if the sun of my dream
had given me a friendly nod of forgiveness.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="165.jpg (80K)" src="images/165.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link20" id="link20"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XX
</h2>
<h3>
I Have a Fall and a Dream
</h3>
<p>
Elsie Duff’s father was a farm-labourer, with a large family. He was what
is called a cottar in Scotland, which name implies that of the large farm
upon which he worked for yearly wages he had a little bit of land to
cultivate for his own use. His wife’s mother was Grannie Gregson. She was
so old that she needed someone to look after her, but she had a cottage of
her own in the village, and would not go and live with her daughter, and,
indeed, they were not anxious to have her, for she was not by any means a
pleasant person. So there was no help for it: Elsie must go and be her
companion. It was a great trial to her at first, for her home was a happy
one, her mother being very unlike her grandmother; and, besides, she
greatly preferred the open fields to the streets of the village. She did
not grumble, however, for where is the good of grumbling where duty is
plain, or even when a thing cannot be helped? She found it very lonely
though, especially when her grannie was in one of her gloomy moods. Then
she would not answer a question, but leave the poor girl to do what she
thought best, and complain of it afterwards. This was partly the reason
why her parents, towards the close of the spring, sent a little brother,
who was too delicate to be of much use at home, to spend some months with
his grannie, and go to school. The intention had been that Elsie herself
should go to school, but what with the cow and her grandmother together
she had not been able to begin. Of course grannie grumbled at the
proposal, but, as Turkey, my informant on these points, explained, she was
afraid lest, if she objected, they should take Elsie away and send a
younger sister in her place. So little Jamie Duff came to the school.
</p>
<p>
He was a poor little white-haired, red-eyed boy, who found himself very
much out of his element there. Some of the bigger boys imagined it good
fun to tease him; but on the whole he was rather a favourite, for he
looked so pitiful, and took everything so patiently. For my part, I was
delighted at the chance of showing Elsie Duff some kindness through her
brother. The girl’s sweetness clung to me, and not only rendered it
impossible for me to be rude to any girl, but kept me awake to the
occurrence of any opportunity of doing something for her sake. Perceiving
one day, before the master arrived, that Jamie was shivering with cold, I
made way for him where I stood by the fire; and then found that he had
next to nothing upon his little body, and that the soles of his shoes were
hanging half off. This in the month of March in the north of Scotland was
bad enough, even if he had not had a cough. I told my father when I went
home, and he sent me to tell Mrs. Mitchell to look out some old garments
of Allister’s for him; but she declared there were none. When I told
Turkey this he looked very grave, but said nothing. When I told my father,
he desired me to take the boy to the tailor and shoemaker, and get warm
and strong clothes and shoes made for him. I was proud enough of the
commission, and if I did act the grand benefactor a little, I have not yet
finished the penance of it, for it never comes into my mind without
bringing its shame with it. Of how many people shall I not have to beg the
precious forgiveness when I meet them in the other world! For the sake of
this penal shame, I confess I let the little fellow walk behind me, as I
took him through the streets. Perhaps I may say this for myself, that I
never thought of demanding any service of him in return for mine: I was
not so bad as that. And I was true in heart to him notwithstanding my
pride, for I had a real affection for him. I had not seen his sister—to
speak to I mean—since that Sunday night.
</p>
<p>
One Saturday afternoon, as we were having a game something like hare and
hounds, I was running very hard through the village, when I set my foot on
a loose stone, and had a violent fall. When I got up, I saw Jamie Duff
standing by my side, with a face of utter consternation. I discovered
afterwards that he was in the way of following me about. Finding the blood
streaming down my face, and remarking when I came to myself a little that
I was very near the house where Turkey’s mother lived, I crawled thither,
and up the stairs to her garret, Jamie following in silence. I found her
busy as usual at her wheel, and Elsie Duff stood talking to her, as if she
had just run in for a moment and must not sit down. Elsie gave a little
cry when she saw the state I was in, and Turkey’s mother got up and made
me take her chair while she hastened to get some water. I grew faint, and
lost my consciousness. When I came to myself I was leaning against Elsie,
whose face was as white as a sheet with dismay. I took a little water and
soon began to revive.
</p>
<p>
When Turkey’s mother had tied up my head, I rose to go home, but she
persuaded me to lie down a while. I was not unwilling to comply. What a
sense of blissful repose pervaded me, weary with running, and perhaps
faint with loss of blood, when I stretched myself on the bed, whose
patchwork counterpane, let me say for Turkey’s mother, was as clean as any
down quilt in chambers of the rich. I remember so well how a single ray of
sunlight fell on the floor from the little window in the roof, just on the
foot that kept turning the spinning-wheel. Its hum sounded sleepy in my
ears. I gazed at the sloping ray of light, in which the ceaseless rotation
of the swift wheel kept the motes dancing most busily, until at length to
my half-closed eyes it became a huge Jacob’s ladder, crowded with an
innumerable company of ascending and descending angels, and I thought it
must be the same ladder I used to see in my dream. The drowsy delight
which follows on the loss of blood possessed me, and the little garret
with the slanting roof, and its sloping sun-ray, and the whirr of the
wheel, and the form of the patient woman that span, had begun to gather
about them the hues of Paradise to my slowly fading senses, when I heard a
voice that sounded miles away, and yet close to my ear:
</p>
<p>
“Elsie, sing a little song, will you?”
</p>
<p>
I heard no reply. A pause followed, and then a voice, clear and melodious
as a brook, began to sing, and before it ceased, I was indeed in a kind of
paradise.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="172.jpg (110K)" src="images/172.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
But here I must pause. Shall I be breaking my promise of not a word of
Scotch in my story, if I give the song? True it is not a part of the story
exactly, but it is in it. If my reader would like the song, he must have
it in Scotch or not at all. I am not going to spoil it by turning it out
of its own natural clothes into finer garments to which it was not born—I
mean by translating it from Scotch into English. The best way will be
this: I give the song as something extra—call it a footnote slipped
into the middle of the page. Nobody needs read a word of it to understand
the story; and being in smaller type and a shape of its own, it can be
passed over without the least trouble.
</p>
<table summary="song">
<tr>
<td>
<p>
SONG
</p>
<p>
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the yorlin[1] sings,<br /> Wi’ a
clip o’ the sunshine atween his wings;<br /> Whaur the birks[2] are
a’ straikit wi’ fair munelicht,<br /> And the broom hings its lamps
by day and by nicht;<br /> Whaur the burnie comes trottin’ ower
shingle and stane,<br /> Liltin’ [3] bonny havers[4] til ‘tsel alane;<br />
And the sliddery[5] troot, wi’ ae soop o’ its tail,<br /> Is awa’
‘neath the green weed’s swingin’ veil!<br /> Oh! the bonny, bonny
dell, whaur I sang as I saw<br /> The yorlin, the broom, an’ the
burnie, an’ a’!
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the primroses wonn,<br /> Luikin’
oot o’ their leaves like wee sons o’ the sun;<br /> Whaur the wild
roses hing like flickers o’ flame,<br /> And fa’ at the touch wi’ a
dainty shame;<br /> Whaur the bee swings ower the white clovery sod,<br />
And the butterfly flits like a stray thoucht o’ God;<br /> Whaur,
like arrow shot frae life’s unseen bow,<br /> The dragon-fly burns
the sunlicht throu’!<br /> Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I sang to
see<br /> The rose and the primrose, the draigon and bee!
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the mune luiks doon,<br /> As gin
she war hearin’ a soundless tune,<br /> Whan the flowers an’ the
birds are a’ asleep,<br /> And the verra burnie gangs creepy-creep;<br />
Whaur the corn-craik craiks in the lang lang rye,<br /> And the nicht
is the safter for his rouch cry;<br /> Whaur the wind wad fain lie
doon on the slope,<br /> And the verra darkness owerflows wi’ hope!<br />
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur, silent, I felt<br /> The mune an’
the darkness baith into me melt.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the sun luiks in,<br /> Sayin’, Here
awa’, there awa’, baud awa’, sin!<br /> Wi’ the licht o’ God in his
flashin’ ee,<br /> Sayin’, Darkness and sorrow a’ work for me!<br />
Whaur the lark springs up on his ain sang borne,<br /> Wi’ bird-shout
and jubilee hailin’ the morn;<br /> For his hert is fu’ o’ the hert
o’ the licht,<br /> An’, come darkness or winter, a’ maun be richt!<br />
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the sun luikit in,<br /> Sayin’,
Here awa’, there awa’, hand awa’, sin.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I used to lie<br /> Wi’ Jeanie aside
me, sae sweet and sae shy!<br /> Whaur the wee white gowan wi’ reid
reid tips,<br /> Was as white as her cheek and as reid as her lips.<br />
Oh, her ee had a licht cam frae far ‘yont the sun,<br /> And her
tears cam frae deeper than salt seas run!<br /> O’ the sunlicht and
munelicht she was the queen,<br /> For baith war but middlin’ withoot
my Jean.<br /> Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I used to lie<br />
Wi’ Jeanie aside me, sae sweet and sae shy!
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the kirkyard lies,<br /> A’ day and
a’ nicht, luikin’ up to the skies;<br /> Whaur the sheep wauk up i’
the summer nicht,<br /> Tak a bite, and lie doon, and await the
licht;<br /> Whaur the psalms roll ower the grassy heaps,<br /> And
the wind comes and moans, and the rain comes and<br /> weeps!
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
But Jeanie, my Jeanie—she’s no lyin’ there,<br /> For she’s up
and awa’ up the angels’ stair.<br /> Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur
the kirkyard lies,<br /> And the stars luik doon, and the nicht-wind
sighs!
</p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p>
[Footnote 1: The Yellow-hammer.]
</p>
<p>
[Footnote 2: Birch-trees.]
</p>
<p>
[Footnote 3: Singing.]
</p>
<p>
[Footnote 4: Nonsense.]
</p>
<p>
[Footnote 5: Slippery.]
</p>
<p>
Elsie’s voice went through every corner of my brain: there was singing in
all its chambers. I could not hear the words of the song well enough to
understand them quite; but Turkey gave me a copy of them afterwards. They
were the schoolmaster’s work. All the winter, Turkey had been going to the
evening school, and the master had been greatly pleased with him, and had
done his best to get him on in various ways. A friendship sprung up
between them; and one night he showed Turkey these verses. Where the air
came from, I do not know: Elsie’s brain was full of tunes. I repeated them
to my father once, and he was greatly pleased with them.
</p>
<p>
On this first acquaintance, however, they put me to sleep; and little
Jamie Duff was sent over to tell my father what had happened. Jamie gave
the message to Mrs. Mitchell, and she, full of her own importance, must
needs set out to see how much was the matter.
</p>
<p>
I was dreaming an unutterably delicious dream. It was a summer evening.
The sun was of a tremendous size, and of a splendid rose-colour. He was
resting with his lower edge on the horizon, and dared go no farther,
because all the flowers would sing instead of giving out their proper
scents, and if he left them, he feared utter anarchy in his kingdom before
he got back in the morning. I woke and saw the ugly face of Mrs. Mitchell
bending over me. She was pushing me, and calling to me to wake up. The
moment I saw her I shut my eyes tight, turned away, and pretended to be
fast asleep again, in the hope that she would go away and leave me with my
friends.
</p>
<p>
“Do let him have his sleep out, Mrs. Mitchell,” said Turkey’s mother.
</p>
<p>
“You’ve let him sleep too long already,” she returned, ungraciously.
“He’ll do all he can, waking or sleeping, to make himself troublesome.
He’s a ne’er-do-well, Ranald. Little good’ll ever come of him. It’s a
mercy his mother is under the mould, for he would have broken her heart.”
</p>
<p>
I had come to myself quite by this time, but I was not in the least more
inclined to acknowledge it to Mrs. Mitchell.
</p>
<p>
“You’re wrong there, Mrs. Mitchell,” said Elsie Duff; and my reader must
remember it required a good deal of courage to stand up against a woman so
much older than herself, and occupying the important position of
housekeeper to the minister. “Ranald is a good boy. I’m sure he is.”
</p>
<p>
“How dare you say so, when he served your poor old grandmother such a
wicked trick? It’s little the children care for their parents nowadays.
Don’t speak to me.”
</p>
<p>
“No, don’t, Elsie,” said another voice, accompanied by a creaking of the
door and a heavy step. “Don’t speak to her, Elsie, or you’ll have the
worst of it. Leave her to me.—If Ranald did what you say, Mrs.
Mitchell, and I don’t deny it, he was at least very sorry for it
afterwards, and begged grannie’s pardon; and that’s a sort of thing <i>you</i>
never did in your life.”
</p>
<p>
“I never had any occasion, Turkey; so you hold your tongue.”
</p>
<p>
“Now don’t you call me <i>Turkey</i>. I won’t stand it. I was christened
as well as you.”
</p>
<p>
“And what are <i>you</i> to speak to me like that? Go home to your cows. I
dare say they’re standing supperless in their stalls while you’re gadding
about. I’ll call you <i>Turkey</i> as long as I please.”
</p>
<p>
“Very well, Kelpie—that’s the name you’re known by, though perhaps
no one has been polite enough to use it to your face, for you’re a great
woman, no doubt—I give you warning that I know you. When you’re
found out, don’t say I didn’t give you a chance beforehand.”
</p>
<p>
“You impudent beggar!” cried Mrs. Mitchell, in a rage. “And you’re all one
pack,” she added, looking round on the two others. “Get up, Ranald, and
come home with me directly. What are you lying shamming there for?”
</p>
<p>
As she spoke, she approached the bed; but Turkey was too quick for her,
and got in front of it. As he was now a great strong lad, she dared not
lay hands upon him, so she turned in a rage and stalked out of the room,
saying,
</p>
<p>
“Mr. Bannerman shall hear of this.”
</p>
<p>
“Then it’ll be both sides of it, Mrs. Mitchell,” I cried from the bed; but
she vanished, vouchsafing me no reply.
</p>
<p>
Once more Turkey got me on his back and carried me home. I told my father
the whole occurrence. He examined the cut and plastered it up for me,
saying he would go and thank Turkey’s mother at once. I confess I thought
more of Elsie Duff and her wonderful singing, which had put me to sleep,
and given me the strange lovely dream from which the rough hands and harsh
voice of the Kelpie had waked me too soon.
</p>
<p>
After this, although I never dared go near her grandmother’s house alone,
I yet, by loitering and watching, got many a peep of Elsie. Sometimes I
went with Turkey to his mother’s of an evening, to which my father had no
objection, and somehow or other Elsie was sure to be there, and we spent a
very happy hour or two together. Sometimes she would sing, and sometimes I
would read to them out of Milton—I read the whole of Comus to them
by degrees in this way; and although there was much I could not at all
understand, I am perfectly certain it had an ennobling effect upon every
one of us. It is not necessary that the intellect should define and
separate before the heart and soul derive nourishment. As well say that a
bee can get nothing out of a flower, because she does not understand
botany. The very music of the stately words of such a poem is enough to
generate a better mood, to make one feel the air of higher regions, and
wish to rise “above the smoke and stir of this dim spot”. The best
influences which bear upon us are of this vague sort—powerful upon
the heart and conscience, although undefined to the intellect.
</p>
<p>
<a name="linkelsie" id="linkelsie"></a> <br /><br /> <a
href="images/il08.jpg"></a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="il08h.jpg (56K)" src="images/il08h.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
But I find I have been forgetting that those for whom I write are young—too
young to understand this. Let it remain, however, for those older persons
who at an odd moment, while waiting for dinner, or before going to bed,
may take up a little one’s book, and turn over a few of its leaves. Some
such readers, in virtue of their hearts being young and old both at once,
discern more in the children’s books than the children themselves.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link21" id="link21"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXI
</h2>
<h3>
The Bees’ Nest
</h3>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="180.jpg (87K)" src="images/180.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
It was twelve o’clock on a delicious Saturday in the height of summer. We
poured out of school with the gladness of a holiday in our hearts. I
sauntered home full of the summer sun, and the summer wind, and the summer
scents which filled the air. I do not know how often I sat down in perfect
bliss upon the earthen walls which divided the fields from the road, and
basked in the heat. These walls were covered with grass and moss. The
odour of a certain yellow feathery flower, which grew on them rather
plentifully, used to give me special delight. Great humble-bees haunted
the walls, and were poking about in them constantly. Butterflies also
found them pleasant places, and I delighted in butterflies, though I
seldom succeeded in catching one. I do not remember that I ever killed
one. Heart and conscience both were against that. I had got the loan of
Mrs. Trimmer’s story of the family of Robins, and was every now and then
reading a page of it with unspeakable delight. We had very few books for
children in those days and in that far out-of-the-way place, and those we
did get were the more dearly prized. It was almost dinner-time before I
reached home. Somehow in this grand weather, welcome as dinner always was,
it did not possess the same amount of interest as in the cold bitter
winter. This day I almost hurried over mine to get out again into the
broad sunlight. Oh, how stately the hollyhocks towered on the borders of
the shrubbery! The guelder-roses hung like balls of snow in their
wilderness of green leaves; and here and there the damask roses, dark
almost to blackness, and with a soft velvety surface, enriched the sunny
air with their colour and their scent. I never see these roses now. And
the little bushes of polyanthus gemmed the dark earth between with their
varied hues. We did not know anything about flowers except the delight
they gave us, and I dare say I am putting some together which would not be
out at the same time, but that is how the picture comes back to my memory.
</p>
<p>
I was leaning in utter idleness over the gate that separated the little
lawn and its surroundings from the road, when a troop of children passed,
with little baskets and tin pails in their hands; and amongst them Jamie
Duff. It was not in the least necessary to ask him where he was going.
</p>
<p>
Not very far, about a mile or so from our house, rose a certain hill famed
in the country round for its store of bilberries. It was the same to which
Turkey and I had fled for refuge from the bull. It was called the Ba’
Hill, and a tradition lingered in the neighbourhood that many years ago
there had been a battle there, and that after the battle the conquerors
played at football with the heads of the vanquished slain, and hence the
name of the hill; but who fought or which conquered, there was not a
shadow of a record. It had been a wild country, and conflicting clans had
often wrought wild work in it. In summer the hill was of course the haunt
of children gathering its bilberries. Jamie shyly suggested whether I
would not join them, but they were all too much younger than myself; and
besides I felt drawn to seek Turkey in the field with the cattle—that
is, when I should get quite tired of doing nothing. So the little troop
streamed on, and I remained leaning over the gate.
</p>
<p>
I suppose I had sunk into a dreamy state, for I was suddenly startled by a
sound beside me, and looking about, saw an old woman, bent nearly double
within an old grey cloak, notwithstanding the heat. She leaned on a stick,
and carried a bag like a pillow-case in her hand. It was one of the poor
people of the village, going her rounds for her weekly dole of a handful
of oatmeal. I knew her very well by sight and by name—she was old
Eppie—and a kindly greeting passed between us. I thank God that the
frightful poor-laws had not invaded Scotland when I was a boy. There was
no degradation in honest poverty then, and it was no burden to those who
supplied its wants; while every person was known, and kindly feelings were
nourished on both sides. If I understand anything of human nature now, it
comes partly of having known and respected the poor of my father’s parish.
She passed in at the gate and went as usual to the kitchen door, while I
stood drowsily contemplating the green expanse of growing crops in the
valley before me. The day had grown as sleepy as myself. There were no
noises except the hum of the unseen insects, and the distant rush of the
water over the dams at our bathing-place. In a few minutes the old woman
approached me again. She was an honest and worthy soul, and very civil in
her manners. Therefore I was surprised to hear her muttering to herself.
Turning, I saw she was very angry. She ceased her muttering when she
descried me observing her, and walked on in silence—was even about
to pass through the little wicket at the side of the larger gate without
any further salutation. Something had vexed her, and instinctively I put
my hand in my pocket, and pulled out a halfpenny my father had given me
that morning—very few of which came in my way—and offered it
to her. She took it with a half-ashamed glance, an attempt at a courtesy,
and a murmured blessing. Then for a moment she looked as if about to say
something, but changing her mind, she only added another grateful word,
and hobbled away. I pondered in a feeble fashion for a moment, came to the
conclusion that the Kelpie had been rude to her, forgot her, and fell
a-dreaming again. Growing at length tired of doing nothing, I roused
myself, and set out to seek Turkey.
</p>
<p>
I have lingered almost foolishly over this day. But when I recall my
childhood, this day always comes back as a type of the best of it.
</p>
<p>
I remember I visited Kirsty, to find out where Turkey was. Kirsty welcomed
me as usual, for she was always loving and kind to us; and although I did
not visit her so often now, she knew it was because I was more with my
father, and had lessons to learn in which she could not assist me. Having
nothing else to talk about, I told her of Eppie, and her altered looks
when she came out of the house. Kirsty compressed her lips, nodded her
head, looked serious, and made me no reply. Thinking this was strange, I
resolved to tell Turkey, which otherwise I might not have done. I did not
pursue the matter with Kirsty, for I knew her well enough to know that her
manner indicated a mood out of which nothing could be drawn. Having
learned where he was, I set out to find him—close by the scene of
our adventure with Wandering Willie. I soon came in sight of the cattle
feeding, but did not see Turkey.
</p>
<p>
When I came near the mound, I caught a glimpse of the head of old Mrs.
Gregson’s cow quietly feeding off the top of the wall from the other side,
like an outcast Gentile; while my father’s cows, like the favoured and
greedy Jews, were busy in the short clover inside. Grannie’s cow managed
to live notwithstanding, and I dare say gave as good milk, though not
perhaps quite so much of it, as ill-tempered Hawkie. Mrs. Gregson’s
granddaughter, however, who did not eat grass, was inside the wall, seated
on a stone which Turkey had no doubt dragged there for her. Trust both her
and Turkey, the cow should not have a mouthful without leave of my father.
Elsie was as usual busy with her knitting. And now I caught sight of
Turkey, running from a neighbouring cottage with a spade over his
shoulder. Elsie had been minding the cows for him.
</p>
<p>
“What’s ado, Turkey?” I cried, running to meet him.
</p>
<p>
“Such a wild bees’ nest!” answered Turkey. “I’m so glad you’re come! I was
just thinking whether I wouldn’t run and fetch you. Elsie and I have been
watching them going out and in for the last half-hour.—Such lots of
bees! There’s a store of honey <i>there</i>.”
</p>
<p>
“But isn’t it too soon to take it, Turkey? There’ll be a great deal more
in a few weeks.—Not that I know anything about bees,” I added
deferentially.
</p>
<p>
“You’re quite right, Ranald,” answered Turkey; “but there are several
things to be considered. In the first place, the nest is by the roadside,
and somebody else might find it. Next, Elsie has never tasted honey all
her life, and it <i>is</i> so nice, and here she is, all ready to eat
some. Thirdly, and lastly, as your father says—though not very
often,” added Turkey slyly, meaning that the <i>lastly</i> seldom came
with the <i>thirdly</i>,—“if we take the honey now, the bees will
have plenty of time to gather enough for the winter before the flowers are
gone, whereas if we leave it too long they will starve.”
</p>
<p>
I was satisfied with this reasoning, and made no further objection.
</p>
<p>
“You must keep a sharp look-out though, Ranald,” he said; “for they’ll be
mad enough, and you must keep them off with your cap.”
</p>
<p>
He took off his own, and gave it to Elsie, saying: “Here, Elsie: you must
look out, and keep off the bees. I can tell you a sting is no joke. I’ve
had three myself.”
</p>
<p>
“But what are <i>you</i> to do, Turkey?” asked Elsie, with an anxious
face.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Ranald will keep them off me and himself too. I shan’t heed them. I
must dig away, and get at the honey.”
</p>
<p>
All things being thus arranged, Turkey manfully approached the <i>dyke</i>,
as they call any kind of wall-fence there. In the midst of the grass and
moss was one little hole, through which the bees kept going and coming
very busily. Turkey put in his finger and felt in what direction the hole
went, and thence judging the position of the hoard, struck his spade with
firm foot into the dyke. What bees were in came rushing out in fear and
rage, and I had quite enough to do to keep them off our bare heads with my
cap. Those who were returning, laden as they were, joined in the defence,
but I did my best, and with tolerable success. Elsie being at a little
distance, and comparatively still, was less the object of their
resentment. In a few moments Turkey had reached the store. Then he began
to dig about it carefully to keep from spoiling the honey. First he took
out a quantity of cells with nothing in them but grub-like things—the
cradles of the young bees they were. He threw them away, and went on
digging as coolly as if he had been gardening. All the defence he left to
me, and I assure you I had enough of it, and thought mine the harder work
of the two: hand or eye had no rest, and my mind was on the stretch of
anxiety all the time.
</p>
<p>
But now Turkey stooped to the nest, cleared away the earth about it with
his hands, and with much care drew out a great piece of honeycomb, just as
well put together as the comb of any educated bees in a garden-hive, who
know that they are working for critics. Its surface was even and yellow,
showing that the cells were full to the brim of the rich store. I think I
see Turkey weighing it in his hand, and turning it over to pick away some
bits of adhering mould ere he presented it to Elsie. She sat on her stone
like a patient, contented queen, waiting for what her subjects would bring
her.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="188.jpg (110K)" src="images/188.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Turkey! what a piece!” she said as she took it, and opened her pretty
mouth and white teeth to have a bite of the treasure.
</p>
<p>
“Now, Ranald,” said Turkey, “we must finish the job before we have any
ourselves.”
</p>
<p>
He went on carefully removing the honey, and piling it on the bank. There
was not a great deal, because it was so early in the year, and there was
not another comb to equal that he had given Elsie. But when he had got it
all out—
</p>
<p>
“They’ll soon find another nest,” he said. “I don’t think it’s any use
leaving this open for them. It spoils the dyke too.”
</p>
<p>
As he spoke he began to fill up the hole, and beat the earth down hard.
Last of all, he put in the sod first dug away, with the grass and flowers
still growing upon it. This done, he proceeded to divide what remained of
the honey.
</p>
<p>
“There’s a piece for Allister and Davie,” he said; “and here’s a piece for
you, and this for me, and Elsie can take the rest home for herself and
Jamie.”
</p>
<p>
Elsie protested, but we both insisted. Turkey got some nice clover, and
laid the bits of honeycomb in it. Then we sat and ate our shares, and
chatted away for a long time, Turkey and I getting up every now and then
to look after the cattle, and Elsie too having sometimes to follow her
cow, when she threatened an inroad upon some neighbouring field while we
were away. But there was plenty of time between, and Elsie sung us two or
three songs at our earnest request, and Turkey told us one or two stories
out of history books he had been reading, and I pulled out my story of the
Robins and read to them. And so the hot sun went down the glowing west,
and threw longer and longer shadows eastward. A great shapeless blot of
darkness, with legs to it, accompanied every cow, and calf, and bullock
wherever it went. There was a new shadow crop in the grass, and a huge
patch with long tree-shapes at the end of it, stretched away from the foot
of the hillock. The weathercock on the top of the church was glistening
such a bright gold, that the wonder was how it could keep from breaking
out into a crow that would rouse all the cocks of the neighbourhood, even
although they were beginning to get sleepy, and thinking of going to
roost. It was time for the cattle, Elsie’s cow included, to go home; for,
although the latter had not had such plenty to eat from as the rest, she
had been at it all day, and had come upon several very nice little patches
of clover, that had overflowed the edges of the fields into the levels and
the now dry ditches on the sides of the road. But just as we rose to break
up the assembly, we spied a little girl come flying across the field, as
if winged with news. As she came nearer we recognized her. She lived near
Mrs. Gregson’s cottage, and was one of the little troop whom I had seen
pass the manse on their way to gather bilberries.
</p>
<p>
“Elsie! Elsie!” she cried, “John Adam has taken Jamie. Jamie fell, and
John got him.”
</p>
<p>
Elsie looked frightened, but Turkey laughed, saying: “Never mind, Elsie.
John is better than he looks. He won’t do him the least harm. He must mind
his business, you know.”
</p>
<p>
The Ba’ Hill was covered with a young plantation of firs, which, hardy as
they were, had yet in a measure to be coaxed into growing in that
inclement region. It was amongst their small stems that the coveted
bilberries grew, in company with cranberries and crowberries, and dwarf
junipers. The children of the village thus attracted to the place were no
doubt careless of the young trees, and might sometimes even amuse
themselves with doing them damage. Hence the keeper, John Adam, whose
business it was to look after them, found it his duty to wage war upon the
annual hordes of these invaders; and in their eyes Adam was a terrible
man. He was very long and very lean, with a flattish yet Roman nose, and
rather ill-tempered mouth, while his face was dead-white and much pitted
with the small-pox. He wore corduroy breeches, a blue coat, and a nightcap
striped horizontally with black and red. The youngsters pretended to
determine, by the direction in which the tassel of it hung, what mood its
owner was in; nor is it for me to deny that their inductions may have led
them to conclusions quite as correct as those of some other scientific
observers. At all events the tassel was a warning, a terror, and a hope.
He could not run very fast, fortunately, for the lean legs within those
ribbed grey stockings were subject to rheumatism, and could take only long
not rapid strides; and if the children had a tolerable start, and had not
the misfortune to choose in their terror an impassable direction, they
were pretty sure to get off. Jamie Duff, the most harmless and
conscientious creature, who would not have injured a young fir upon any
temptation, did take a wrong direction, caught his foot in a hole, fell
into a furze bush, and, nearly paralysed with terror, was seized by the
long fingers of Adam, and ignominiously lifted by a portion of his
garments into the vast aërial space between the ground and the white,
pock-pitted face of the keeper. Too frightened to scream, too conscious of
trespass to make any resistance, he was borne off as a warning to the rest
of the very improbable fate which awaited them.
</p>
<p>
But the character of Adam was not by any means so frightful in the eyes of
Turkey; and he soon succeeded in partially composing the trepidation of
Elsie, assuring her that as soon as he had put up the cattle, he would
walk over to Adam’s house and try to get Jamie off, whereupon Elsie set
off home with her cow, disconsolate but hopeful. I think I see her yet—for
I recall every picture of that lovely day clear as the light of that red
sunset—walking slowly with her head bent half in trouble, half in
attention to her knitting, after her solemn cow, which seemed to take
twice as long to get over the ground because she had two pairs of legs
instead of one to shuffle across it, dragging her long iron chain with the
short stake at the end after her with a gentle clatter over the hard dry
road. I accompanied Turkey, helped him to fasten up and bed the cows, went
in with him and shared his hasty supper of potatoes and oatcake and milk,
and then set out refreshed, and nowise apprehensive in his company, to
seek the abode of the redoubtable ogre, John Adam.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link22" id="link22"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXII
</h2>
<h3>
Vain Intercession
</h3>
<p>
He had a small farm of his own at the foot of the hill of which he had the
charge. It was a poor little place, with a very low thatched cottage for
the dwelling. A sister kept house for him. When we approached it there was
no one to be seen. We advanced to the door along a rough pavement of round
stones, which parted the house from the dunghill. I peeped in at the
little window as we passed. There, to my astonishment, I saw Jamie Duff,
as I thought, looking very happy, and in the act of lifting a spoon to his
mouth. A moment after, however, I concluded that I must have been
mistaken, for, when Turkey lifted the latch and we walked in, there were
the awful John and his long sister seated at the table, while poor Jamie
was in a corner, with no basin in his hand, and a face that looked dismal
and dreary enough. I fancied I caught a glimpse of Turkey laughing in his
sleeve, and felt mildly indignant with him—for Elsie’s sake more, I
confess, than for Jamie’s.
</p>
<p>
“Come in,” said Adam, rising; but, seeing who it was, he seated himself
again, adding, “Oh, it’s you, Turkey!”—Everybody called him Turkey.
“Come in and take a spoon.”
</p>
<p>
“No, thank you,” said Turkey; “I have had my supper. I only came to
inquire after that young rascal there.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah! you see him! There he is!” said Adam, looking towards me with an
awful expression in his dead brown eyes. “Starving. No home and no supper
for him! He’ll have to sleep in the hay-loft with the rats and mice, and a
stray cat or two.”
</p>
<p>
Jamie put his cuffs, the perennial handkerchief of our poor little
brothers, to his eyes. His fate was full of horrors. But again I thought I
saw Turkey laughing in his sleeve.
</p>
<p>
“His sister is very anxious about him, Mr. Adam,” he said. “Couldn’t you
let him off this once?”
</p>
<p>
“On no account. I am here in trust, and I must do my duty. The duke gives
the forest in charge to me. I have got to look after it.”
</p>
<p>
I could not help thinking what a poor thing it was for a forest. All I
knew of forests was from story-books, and there they were full of ever
such grand trees. Adam went on—
</p>
<p>
“And if wicked boys will break down the trees—”
</p>
<p>
“I only pulled the bilberries,” interposed Jamie, in a whine which went
off in a howl.
</p>
<p>
“James Duff!” said Adam, with awful authority, “I saw you myself tumble
over a young larch tree, not two feet high.”
</p>
<p>
“The worse for me!” sobbed Jamie.
</p>
<p>
“Tut! tut! Mr. Adam! the larch tree wasn’t a baby,” said Turkey. “Let
Jamie go. He couldn’t help it, you see.”
</p>
<p>
“It <i>was</i> a baby, and it <i>is</i> a baby,” said Adam, with a
solitary twinkle in the determined dead brown of his eyes. “And I’ll have
no intercession here. Transgressors must be prosecuted, as the board says.
And prosecuted he shall be. He sha’n’t get out of this before school-time
to-morrow morning. He shall be late, too, and I hope the master will give
it him well. We must make some examples, you see, Turkey. It’s no use your
saying anything. I don’t say Jamie’s a worse boy than the rest, but he’s
just as bad, else how did he come to be there tumbling over my babies?
Answer me that, Master Bannerman.”
</p>
<p>
He turned and fixed his eyes upon me. There was question in his mouth, but
neither question nor speculation in his eyes. I could not meet the awful
changeless gaze. My eyes sank before his.
</p>
<p>
“Example, Master Bannerman, is everything. If you serve my trees as this
young man has done—”
</p>
<p>
The idea of James Duff being a young man!
</p>
<p>
“—I’ll serve you the same as I serve him—and that’s no sweet
service, I’ll warrant.”
</p>
<p>
As the keeper ended, he brought down his fist on the table with such a
bang, that poor Jamie almost fell off the stool on which he sat in the
corner.
</p>
<p>
“But let him off just this once,” pleaded Turkey, “and I’ll be surety for
him that he’ll never do it again.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, as to him, I’m not afraid of him,” returned the keeper; “but will you
be surety for the fifty boys that’ll only make game of me if I don’t make
an example of him? I’m in luck to have caught him. No, no, Turkey; it
won’t do, my man. I’m sorry for his father and his mother, and his sister
Elsie, for they’re all very good people; but I must make an example of
him.”
</p>
<p>
At mention of his relatives Jamie burst into another suppressed howl.
</p>
<p>
“Well, you won’t be over hard upon him anyhow: will you now?” said Turkey.
</p>
<p>
“I won’t pull his skin <i>quite</i> over his ears,” said Adam; “and that’s
all the promise you’ll get out of me.”
</p>
<p>
The tall thin grim sister had sat all the time as if she had no right to
be aware of anything that was going on, but her nose, which was more
hooked than her brother’s, and larger, looked as if, in the absence of
eyes and ears, it was taking cognizance of everything, and would inform
the rest of the senses afterwards.
</p>
<p>
I had a suspicion that the keeper’s ferocity was assumed for the occasion,
and that he was not such an ogre as I had considered him. Still, the
prospect of poor little Jamie spending the night alone in the loft amongst
the cats and rats was sufficiently dreadful when I thought of my midnight
awaking in the barn. There seemed to be no help, however, especially when
Turkey rose to say good night.
</p>
<p>
I felt disconsolate, and was not well pleased with Turkey’s coolness. I
thought he had not done his best.
</p>
<p>
When we got into the road—
</p>
<p>
“Poor Elsie!” I said; “she’ll be miserable about Jamie.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh no,” returned Turkey. “I’ll go straight over and tell her. No harm
will come to Jamie. John Adam’s bark is a good deal worse than his bite.
Only I should have liked to take him home if I could.”
</p>
<p>
It was now twilight, and through the glimmering dusk we walked back to the
manse. Turkey left me at the gate and strode on towards the village; while
I turned in, revolving a new scheme which had arisen in my brain, and for
the first time a sense of rivalry with Turkey awoke in my bosom. He did
everything for Elsie Duff, and I did nothing. For her he had robbed the
bees’ nest that very day, and I had but partaken of the spoil. Nay, he had
been stung in her service; for, with all my care—and I think that on
the whole I had done my best—he had received what threatened to be a
bad sting on the back of his neck. Now he was going to comfort her about
her brother whom he had failed to rescue; but what if I should succeed
where he had failed, and carry the poor boy home in triumph!
</p>
<p>
As we left the keeper’s farm, Turkey had pointed out to me, across the
yard, where a small rick or two were standing, the loft in which Jamie
would have to sleep. It was over the cart-shed, and its approach was a
ladder. But for the reported rats, it would have been no hardship to sleep
there in weather like this, especially for one who had been brought up as
Jamie had been. But I knew that he was a very timid boy, and that I myself
would have lain in horror all the night. Therefore I had all the way been
turning over in my mind what I could do to release him. But whatever I did
must be unaided, for I could not reckon upon Turkey, nor indeed was it in
my heart to share with him the honour of the enterprise that opened before
me.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link23" id="link23"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXIII
</h2>
<h3>
Knight-Errantry
</h3>
<p>
I must mention that my father never objected now to my riding his little
mare Missy, as we called her. Indeed, I had great liberty with regard to
her, and took her out for a trot and a gallop as often as I pleased.
Sometimes when there was a press of work she would have to go in a cart or
drag a harrow, for she was so handy they could do anything with her; but
this did not happen often, and her condition at all seasons of the year
testified that she knew little of hard work. My father was very fond of
her, and used to tell wonderful stories of her judgment and skill. I
believe he was never quite without a hope that somehow or other he should
find her again in the next world. At all events I am certain that it was
hard for him to believe that so much wise affection should have been
created to be again uncreated. I cannot say that I ever heard him give
utterance to anything of the sort; but whence else should I have had such
a firm conviction, dating from a period farther back than my memory can
reach, that whatever might become of the other horses, Missy was sure to
go to heaven? I had a kind of notion that, being the bearer of my father
upon all his missions of doctrine and mercy, she belonged to the clergy,
and, sharing in their privileges, must have a chance before other animals
of her kind. I believe this was a right instinct glad of a foolish reason.
I am wiser now, and extend the hope to the rest of the horses, for I
cannot believe that the God who does nothing in vain ever creates in order
to destroy.
</p>
<p>
I made haste to learn my lessons for the Monday, although it was but after
a fashion, my mind was so full of the adventure before me. As soon as
prayers and supper were over—that is, about ten o’clock—I
crept out of the house and away to the stable. It was a lovely night. A
kind of grey peace filled earth and air and sky. It was not dark, although
rather cloudy; only a dim dusk, like a vapour of darkness, floated around
everything. I was fond of being out at night, but I had never before
contemplated going so far alone. I should not, however, feel alone with
Missy under me, for she and I were on the best of terms, although
sometimes she would take a fit of obstinacy, and refuse to go in any other
than the direction she pleased. Of late, however, she had asserted herself
less frequently in this manner. I suppose she was aware that I grew
stronger and more determined.
</p>
<p>
I soon managed to open the door of the stable, for I knew where the key
lay. It was very dark, but I felt my way through, talking all the time
that the horses might not be startled if I came upon one of them
unexpectedly, for the stable was narrow, and they sometimes lay a good bit
out of their stalls. I took care, however, to speak in a low tone that the
man who slept with only a wooden partition between him and the stable
might not hear. I soon had the bridle upon Missy, but would not lose time
in putting on the saddle. I led her out, got on her back with the help of
a stone at the stable door, and rode away. She had scarcely been out all
day, and was rather in the mood for a ride. The voice of Andrew, whom the
noise of her feet had aroused, came after me, calling to know who it was.
I called out in reply, for I feared he might rouse the place; and he went
back composed, if not contented. It was no use, at all events, to follow
me.
</p>
<p>
I had not gone far before the extreme stillness of the night began to sink
into my soul and make me quiet. Everything seemed thinking about me, but
nothing would tell me what it thought. Not feeling, however, that I was
doing wrong, I was only awed not frightened by the stillness. I made Missy
slacken her speed, and rode on more gently, in better harmony with the
night. Not a sound broke the silence except the rough cry of the land-rail
from the fields and the clatter of Missy’s feet. I did not like the noise
she made, and got upon the grass, for here there was no fence. But the
moment she felt the soft grass, off she went at a sudden gallop. Her head
was out before I had the least warning of her intention. She tore away
over the field in quite another direction from that in which I had been
taking her, and the gallop quickened until she was going at her utmost
speed. The rapidity of the motion and the darkness together—for it
seemed darkness now—I confess made me frightened. I pulled hard at
the reins, but without avail. In a minute I had lost my reckoning, and
could not tell where I was in the field, which was a pretty large one; but
soon finding that we were galloping down a hill so steep that I had
trouble in retaining my seat, I began, not at all to my comfort, to
surmise in what direction the mare was carrying me. We were approaching
the place where we had sat that same afternoon, close by the mound with
the trees upon it, the scene of my adventure with Wandering Willie, and of
the fancied murder. I had scarcely thought of either until the shadows had
begun to fall long, and now in the night, when all was shadow, both
reflections made it horrible. Besides, if Missy should get into the bog!
But she knew better than that, wild as her mood was. She avoided it, and
galloped past, but bore me to a far more frightful goal, suddenly dropping
into a canter, and then standing stock-still.
</p>
<p>
<a name="linkstill" id="linkstill"></a> <br /><br /> <a
href="images/il09.jpg"></a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="il09h.jpg (56K)" src="images/il09h.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
It was a cottage half in ruins, occupied by an old woman whom I dimly
recollected having once gone with my father to see—a good many years
ago, as it appeared to me now. She was still alive, however, very old, and
bedridden. I recollected that from the top of her wooden bed hung a rope
for her to pull herself up by when she wanted to turn, for she was very
rheumatic, and this rope for some cause or other had filled me with
horror. But there was more of the same sort. The cottage had once been a
smithy, and the bellows had been left in its place. Now there is nothing
particularly frightful about a pair of bellows, however large it may be,
and yet the recollection of that huge structure of leather and wood, with
the great iron nose projecting from the contracting cheeks of it, at the
head of the old woman’s bed, so capable yet so useless, did return upon me
with terror in the dusk of that lonely night. It was mingled with a vague
suspicion that the old woman was a bit of a witch, and a very doubtful
memory that she had been seen on one occasion by some night-farer, when a
frightful storm was raging, blowing away at that very bellows as hard as
her skinny arms and lean body could work the lever, so that there was
almost as great a storm of wind in her little room as there was outside of
it. If there was any truth in the story, it is easily accounted for by the
fact that the poor old woman had been a little out of her mind for many
years,—and no wonder, for she was nearly a hundred, they said.
Neither is it any wonder that when Missy stopped almost suddenly, with her
fore-feet and her neck stretched forward, and her nose pointed straight
for the door of the cottage at a few yards’ distance, I should have felt
very queer indeed. Whether my hair stood on end or not I do not know, but
I certainly did feel my skin creep all over me. An ancient elder-tree grew
at one end of the cottage, and I heard the lonely sigh of a little breeze
wander through its branches. The next instant a frightful sound from
within the cottage broke the night air into what seemed a universal
shriek. Missy gave a plunge, turned round on her hind-legs, and tore from
the place. I very nearly lost my seat, but terror made me cling the faster
to my only companion, as <i>ventre-à-terre</i> she flew home. It did not
take her a minute to reach the stable-door. There she had to stop, for I
had shut it when I brought her out. It was mortifying to find myself there
instead of under John Adam’s hayloft, the rescuer of Jamie Duff. But I did
not think of that for a while. Shaken with terror, and afraid to dismount
and be next the ground, I called upon Andrew as well as my fear would
permit; but my voice was nearly unmanageable, and I could do little more
than howl with it.
</p>
<p>
In a few minutes, to me a time of awful duration—for who could tell
what might be following me up from the hollow?—Andrew appeared
half-dressed, and not in the best of tempers, remarking it was an odd
thing to go out riding when honest people were in their beds, except, he
added, I meant to take to the highway. Thereupon, rendered more
communicative by the trial I had gone through, I told him the whole story,
what I had intended and how I had been frustrated. He listened, scratched
his head, and saying someone ought to see if anything was the matter with
the old woman, turned in to put on the rest of his clothes.
</p>
<p>
“You had better go home to bed, Ranald,” he said.
</p>
<p>
“Won’t you be frightened, Andrew?” I asked.
</p>
<p>
“Frightened? What should I be frightened at? It’s all waste to be
frightened before you know whether the thing is worth it.”
</p>
<p>
My courage had been reviving fast in the warm presence of a human being. I
was still seated on Missy. To go home having done nothing for Jamie, and
therefore nothing for Elsie, after all my grand ideas of rescue and
restoration, was too mortifying. I should feel so small when I woke in the
morning! And yet suppose the something which gave that fearful cry in the
cottage should be out roaming the fields and looking for mel I had courage
enough, however, to remain where I was till Andrew came out again, and as
I sat still on the mare’s back, my courage gradually rose. Nothing
increases terror so much as running away. When he reappeared, I asked him:
</p>
<p>
“What do you think it could be, Andrew?”
</p>
<p>
“How should I tell?” returned Andrew. “The old woman has a very queer
cock, I know, that always roosts on the top of her bed, and crows like no
cock I ever heard crow. Or it might be Wandering Willie—he goes to
see her sometimes, and the demented creature might strike up his pipes at
any unearthly hour.”
</p>
<p>
I was not satisfied with either suggestion; but the sound I had heard had
already grown so indistinct in my memory, that for anything I could tell
it might have been either. The terror which it woke in my mind had
rendered me incapable of making any observations or setting down any facts
with regard to it. I could only remember that I had heard a frightful
noise, but as to what it was like I could scarcely bear the smallest
testimony.
</p>
<p>
I begged Andrew to put the saddle on for me, as I should then have more
command of Missy. He went and got it, appearing, I thought, not at all
over-anxious about old Betty; and I meantime buckled on an old rusty spur
which lay in the stable window, the leathers of it crumbling off in
flakes. Thus armed, and mounted with my feet in the stirrups, and
therefore a good pull on Missy’s mouth, I found my courage once more equal
to the task before me. Andrew and I parted at right angles; he across the
field to old Betty’s cottage, and I along the road once more in the
direction of John Adam’s farm.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link24" id="link24"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXIV
</h2>
<h3>
Failure
</h3>
<p>
It must have been now about eleven o’clock. The clouds had cleared off,
and the night had changed from brown and grey to blue sparkling with gold.
I could see much better, and fancied I could hear better too. But neither
advantage did much for me. I had not ridden far from the stable, before I
again found myself very much alone and unprotected, with only the wide,
silent fields about me, and the wider and more silent sky over my head.
The fear began to return. I fancied something strange creeping along every
ditch—something shapeless, but with a terrible cry in it. Next I
thought I saw a scarcely visible form—now like a creature on
all-fours, now like a man, far off, but coming rapidly towards me across
the nearest field. It always vanished, however, before it came close. The
worst of it was, that the faster I rode, the more frightened I became; for
my speed seemed to draw the terrors the faster after me. Having discovered
this, I changed my plan, and when I felt more frightened, drew rein and
went slower. This was to throw a sort of defiance to the fear; and
certainly as often as I did so it abated. Fear is a worse thing than
danger.
</p>
<p>
I had to pass very nigh the pool to which Turkey and I had gone the night
of our adventure with Bogbonny’s bull. That story was now far off in the
past, but I did not relish the dull shine of the water in the hollow,
notwithstanding. In fact I owed the greater part of the courage I
possessed—and it was little enough for my needs—to Missy. I
dared not have gone on my own two legs. It was not that I could so easily
run away with four instead, but that somehow I was lifted above the
ordinary level of fear by being upon her back. I think many men draw their
courage out of their horses.
</p>
<p>
At length I came in sight of the keeper’s farm; and just at that moment
the moon peeped from behind a hill, throwing as long shadows as the
setting sun, but in the other direction. The shadows were very different
too. Somehow they were liker to the light that made them than the
sun-shadows are to the sunlight. Both the light and the shadows of the
moon were strange and fearful to me. The sunlight and its shadows are all
so strong and so real and so friendly, you seem to know all about them;
they belong to your house, and they sweep all fear and dismay out of
honest people’s hearts. But with the moon and its shadows it is very
different indeed. The fact is, the moon is trying to do what she cannot
do. She is trying to dispel a great sun-shadow—for the night is just
the gathering into one mass of all the shadows of the sun. She is not able
for this, for her light is not her own; it is second-hand from the sun
himself; and her shadows therefore also are second-hand shadows, pieces
cut out of the great sun-shadow, and coloured a little with the moon’s
yellowness. If I were writing for grown people I should tell them that
those who understand things because they think about them, and ask God to
teach them, walk in the sunlight; and others, who take things because
other people tell them so, are always walking in the strange moonlight,
and are subject to no end of stumbles and terrors, for they hardly know
light from darkness. Well, at first, the moon frightened me a little—she
looked so knowing, and yet all she said round about me was so strange. But
I rode quietly up to the back of the yard where the ricks stood, got off
Missy and fastened the bridle to the gate, and walked across to the
cart-shed, where the moon was shining upon the ladder leading up to the
loft. I climbed the ladder, and after several failures succeeded in
finding how the door was fastened. When I opened it, the moonlight got in
before me, and poured all at once upon a heap of straw in the farthest
corner, where Jamie was lying asleep with a rug over him. I crossed the
floor, knelt down by him, and tried to wake him. This was not so easy. He
was far too sound asleep to be troubled by the rats; for sleep is an
armour—yes, a castle—against many enemies. I got hold of one
of his hands, and in lifting it to pull him up found a cord tied to his
wrist. I was indignant: they had actually manacled him like a thief! I
gave the cord a great tug of anger, pulled out my knife, and cut it; then,
hauling Jamie up, got him half-awake at last. He stared with fright first,
and then began to cry. As soon as he was awake enough to know me, he
stopped crying but not staring, and his eyes seemed to have nothing better
than moonlight in them.
</p>
<p>
“Come along, Jamie,” I said. “I’m come to take you home.”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t want to go home,” said Jamie. “I want to go to sleep again.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s very ungrateful of you, Jamie,” I said, full of my own importance,
“when I’ve come so far, and all at night too, to set you free.”
</p>
<p>
“I’m free enough,” said Jamie. “I had a better supper a great deal than I
should have had at home. I don’t want to go before the morning.”
</p>
<p>
And he began to whimper again.
</p>
<p>
“Do you call this free?” I said, holding up his wrist where the remnant of
the cord was hanging.
</p>
<p>
“Oh!” said Jamie, “that’s only—”
</p>
<p>
But ere he got farther the moonlight in the loft was darkened. I looked
hurriedly towards the door. There stood the strangest figure, with the
moon behind it. I thought at first it was the Kelpie come after me, for it
was a tall woman. My heart gave a great jump up, but I swallowed it down.
I would not disgrace myself before Jamie. It was not the Kelpie, however,
but the keeper’s sister, the great, grim, gaunt woman I had seen at the
table at supper. I will not attempt to describe her appearance. It was
peculiar enough, for she had just got out of bed and thrown an old shawl
about her. She was not pleasant to look at. I had myself raised the
apparition, for, as Jamie explained to me afterwards, the cord which was
tied to his wrist, instead of being meant to keep him a prisoner, was a
device of her kindness to keep him from being too frightened. The other
end had been tied to her wrist, that if anything happened he might pull
her, and then she would come to him.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="212.jpg (115K)" src="images/212.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
“What’s the matter, Jamie Duff?” she said in a gruff voice as she advanced
along the stream of moonlight.
</p>
<p>
I stood up as bravely as I could.
</p>
<p>
“It’s only me, Miss Adam,” I said.
</p>
<p>
“And who are you?” she returned.
</p>
<p>
“Ranald Bannerman,” I answered.
</p>
<p>
“Oh!” she said in a puzzled tone. “What are you doing here at this time of
the night?”
</p>
<p>
“I came to take Jamie home, but he won’t go.”
</p>
<p>
“You’re a silly boy to think my brother John would do him any harm,” she
returned. “You’re comfortable enough, aren’t you, Jamie Duff?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, thank you, ma’am, quite comfortable,” said Jamie, who was now
wide-awake. “But, please ma’am, Ranald didn’t mean any harm.”
</p>
<p>
“He’s a housebreaker, though,” she rejoined with a grim chuckle; “and he’d
better go home again as fast as he can. If John Adam should come out, I
don’t exactly know what might happen. Or perhaps he’d like to stop and
keep you company.”
</p>
<p>
“No, thank you, Miss Adam,” I said. “I will go home.”
</p>
<p>
“Come along, then, and let me shut the door after you.”
</p>
<p>
Somewhat nettled with Jamie Duff’s indifference to my well-meant exertions
on his behalf, I followed her without even bidding him good night.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, you’ve got Missy, have you?” she said, spying her where she stood.
“Would you like a drink of milk or a piece of oatcake before you go?”
</p>
<p>
“No, thank you,” I said. “I shall be glad to go to bed.”
</p>
<p>
“I should think so,” she answered. “Jamie is quite comfortable, I assure
you; and I’ll take care he’s in time for school in the morning. There’s no
harm in <i>him</i>, poor thing!”
</p>
<p>
She undid the bridle for me, helped me to mount in the kindest way, bade
me good night, and stood looking after me till I was some distance off. I
went home at a good gallop, took off the saddle and bridle and laid them
in a cart in the shed, turned Missy loose into the stable, shut the door,
and ran across the field to the manse, desiring nothing but bed.
</p>
<p>
When I came near the house from the back, I saw a figure entering the gate
from the front. It was in the full light of the moon, which was now up a
good way. Before it had reached the door I had got behind the next corner,
and peeping round saw that my first impression was correct: it was the
Kelpie. She entered, and closed the door behind her very softly. Afraid of
being locked out, a danger which had scarcely occurred to me before, I
hastened after her; but finding the door already fast, I called through
the keyhole. She gave a cry of alarm, but presently opened the door,
looking pale and frightened.
</p>
<p>
“What are you doing out of doors this time of the night?” she asked, but
without quite her usual arrogance, for, although she tried to put it on,
her voice trembled too much.
</p>
<p>
I retorted the question.
</p>
<p>
“What were you doing out yourself?” I said.
</p>
<p>
“Looking after you, of course.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s why you locked the door, I suppose—to keep me out.”
</p>
<p>
She had no answer ready, but looked as if she would have struck me.
</p>
<p>
“I shall let your father know of your goings on,” she said, recovering
herself a little.
</p>
<p>
“You need not take the trouble. I shall tell him myself at breakfast
to-morrow morning. I have nothing to hide. You had better tell him too.”
</p>
<p>
I said this not that I did not believe she had been out to look for me,
but because I thought she had locked the door to annoy me, and I wanted to
take my revenge in rudeness. For doors were seldom locked in the summer
nights in that part of the country. She made me no reply, but turned and
left me, not even shutting the door. I closed it, and went to bed weary
enough.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link25" id="link25"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXV
</h2>
<h3>
Turkey Plots
</h3>
<p>
The next day, at breakfast, I told my father all the previous day’s
adventures. Never since he had so kindly rescued me from the misery of
wickedness had I concealed anything from him. He, on his part, while he
gave us every freedom, expected us to speak frankly concerning our doings.
To have been unwilling to let him know any of our proceedings would have
simply argued that they were already disapproved of by ourselves, and no
second instance of this had yet occurred with me. Hence it came that still
as I grew older I seemed to come nearer to my father. He was to us like a
wiser and more beautiful self over us,—a more enlightened
conscience, as it were, ever lifting us up towards its own higher level.
</p>
<p>
This was Sunday; but he was not so strict in his ideas concerning the day
as most of his parishioners. So long as we were sedate and orderly, and
neither talked nor laughed too loud, he seldom interfered with our
behaviour, or sought to alter the current of our conversation. I believe
he did not, like some people, require or expect us to care about religious
things as much as he did: we could not yet know as he did what they really
were. But when any of the doings of the week were referred to on the
Sunday, he was more strict, I think, than on other days, in bringing them,
if they involved the smallest question, to the standard of right, to be
judged, and approved or condemned thereby. I believe he thought that to
order our ways was our best preparation for receiving higher instruction
afterwards. For one thing, we should then, upon failure, feel the burden
of it the more, and be the more ready to repent and seek the forgiveness
of God, and that best help of his which at length makes a man good within
himself.
</p>
<p>
He listened attentively to my story, seemed puzzled at the cry I had heard
from the cottage, said nothing could have gone very wrong, or we should
have heard of it, especially as Andrew had been to inquire, laughed over
the apparition of Miss Adam, and my failure in rescuing Jamie Duff. He
said, however, that I had no right to interefere with constituted
authority—that Adam was put there to protect the trees, and if he
had got hold of a harmless person, yet Jamie was certainly trespassing,
and I ought to have been satisfied with Turkey’s way of looking at the
matter.
</p>
<p>
I saw that my father was right, and a little further reflection convinced
me that, although my conduct had a root in my regard for Jamie Duff, it
had a deeper root in my regard for his sister, and one yet deeper in my
regard for myself—for had I not longed to show off in her eyes? I
suspect almost all silly actions have their root in selfishness, whether
it take the form of vanity, of conceit, of greed, or of ambition.
</p>
<p>
While I was telling my tale, Mrs. Mitchell kept coming into the room
oftener, and lingering longer, than usual. I did not think of this till
afterwards. I said nothing about her, for I saw no occasion; but I do not
doubt she was afraid I would, and wished to be at hand to defend herself.
She was a little more friendly to me in church that day: she always sat
beside little Davie.
</p>
<p>
When we came out, I saw Andrew, and hurried after him to hear how he had
sped the night before. He told me he had found all perfectly quiet at the
cottage, except the old woman’s cough, which was troublesome, and gave
proof that she was alive, and probably as well as usual. He suggested now
that the noise was all a fancy of mine—at which I was duly
indignant, and desired to know if it was also Missy’s fancy that made her
go off like a mad creature. He then returned to his former idea of the
cock, and as this did not insult my dignity, I let it pass, leaning
however myself to the notion of Wandering Willie’s pipes.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="220.jpg (120K)" src="images/220.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
On the following Wednesday we had a half holiday, and before dinner I went
to find Turkey at the farm. He met me in the yard, and took me into the
barn.
</p>
<p>
“I want to speak to you, Ranald,” he said.
</p>
<p>
I remember so well how the barn looked that day. The upper half of one of
the doors had a hole in it, and a long pencil of sunlight streamed in, and
fell like a pool of glory upon a heap of yellow straw. So golden grew the
straw beneath it, that the spot looked as if it were the source of the
shine, and sent the slanting ray up and out of the hole in the door. We
sat down beside it, I wondering why Turkey looked so serious and
important, for it was not his wont.
</p>
<p>
“Ranald,” said Turkey, “I can’t bear that the master should have bad
people about him.”
</p>
<p>
“What do you mean, Turkey?” I rejoined.
</p>
<p>
“I mean the Kelpie.”
</p>
<p>
“She’s a nasty thing, I know,” I answered. “But my father considers her a
faithful servant.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s just where it is. She is not faithful. I’ve suspected her for a
long time. She’s so rough and ill-tempered that she looks honest; but I
shall be able to show her up yet. You wouldn’t call it honest to cheat the
poor, would you?”
</p>
<p>
“I should think not. But what do you mean?”
</p>
<p>
“There must have been something to put old Eppie in such an ill-temper on
Saturday, don’t you think?”
</p>
<p>
“I suppose she had had a sting from the Kelpie’s tongue.”
</p>
<p>
“No, Ranald, that’s not it. I had heard whispers going about; and last
Saturday, after we came home from John Adam’s, and after I had told Elsie
about Jamie, I ran up the street to old Eppie. You would have got nothing
out of her, for she would not have liked to tell you; but she told me all
about it.”
</p>
<p>
“What a creature you are, Turkey! Everybody tells you everything.”
</p>
<p>
“No, Ranald; I don’t think I am such a gossip as that. But when you have a
chance, you ought to set right whatever you can. Right’s the only thing,
Ranald.”
</p>
<p>
“But aren’t you afraid they’ll call you a meddler, Turkey? Not that <i>I</i>
think so, for I’m sure if you do anything <i>against</i> anybody, it’s <i>for</i>
some other body.”
</p>
<p>
“That would be no justification if I wasn’t in the right,” said Turkey.
“But if I am, I’m willing to bear any blame that comes of it. And I
wouldn’t meddle for anybody that could take care of himself. But neither
old Eppie nor your father can do that: the one’s too poor, and the other
too good.”
</p>
<p>
“I <i>was</i> wondering what you meant by saying my father couldn’t take
care of himself.”
</p>
<p>
“He’s too good; he’s too good, Ranald. He believes in everybody. <i>I</i>
wouldn’t have kept that Kelpie in <i>my</i> house half the time.”
</p>
<p>
“Did you ever say anything to Kirsty about her?”
</p>
<p>
“I did once; but she told me to mind my own business. Kirsty snubs me
because I laugh at her stories. But Kirsty is as good as gold, and I
wouldn’t mind if she boxed my ears—as indeed she’s done—many’s
the time.”
</p>
<p>
“But what’s the Kelpie been doing to old Eppie?”
</p>
<p>
“First of all, Eppie has been playing her a trick.”
</p>
<p>
“Then she mustn’t complain.”
</p>
<p>
“Eppie’s was a lawful trick, though. The old women have been laying their
old heads together—but to begin at the beginning: there has been for
some time a growing conviction amongst the poor folk that the Kelpie never
gives them an honest handful of meal when they go their rounds. But this
was very hard to prove, and although they all suspected it, few of them
were absolutely certain about it. So they resolved that some of them
should go with empty bags. Every one of those found a full handful at the
bottom. Still they were not satisfied. They said she was the one to take
care what she was about. Thereupon old Eppie resolved to go with something
at the bottom of her bag to look like a good quantity of meal already
gathered. The moment the door was closed behind her—that was last
Saturday—she peeped into the bag. Not one grain of meal was to be
discovered. That was why she passed you muttering to herself and looking
so angry. Now it will never do that the manse, of all places, should be
the one where the poor people are cheated of their dues. But we roust have
yet better proof than this before we can say anything.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, what do you mean to do, Turkey?” I asked. “Why does she do it, do
you suppose? It’s not for the sake of saving my father’s meal, I should
think.”
</p>
<p>
“No, she does something with it, and, I suppose, flatters herself she is
not stealing—only saving it off the poor, and so making a right to
it for herself. I can’t help thinking that her being out that same night
had something to do with it. Did you ever know her go to see old Betty?”
</p>
<p>
“No, she doesn’t like her. I know that.”
</p>
<p>
“I’m not so sure. She pretends perhaps. But we’ll have a try. I think I
can outwit her. She’s fair game, you know.”
</p>
<p>
“How? What? Do tell me, Turkey,” I cried, right eagerly.
</p>
<p>
“Not to-day. I will tell you by and by.”
</p>
<p>
He got up and went about his work.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link26" id="link26"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXVI
</h2>
<h3>
Old John Jamieson
</h3>
<p>
As I returned to the house I met my father.
</p>
<p>
“Well, Ranald, what are you about?” he said, in his usual gentle tone.
</p>
<p>
“Nothing in particular, father,” I answered.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I’m going to see an old man—John Jamieson—I don’t think
you know him: he has not been able to come to church for a long time. They
tell me he is dying. Would you like to go with me?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, father. But won’t you take Missy?”
</p>
<p>
“Not if you will walk with me. It’s only about three miles.”
</p>
<p>
“Very well, father. I should like to go with you.”
</p>
<p>
My father talked about various things on the way. I remember in particular
some remarks he made about reading Virgil, for I had just begun the Æneid.
For one thing, he told me I must scan every line until I could make it
sound like poetry, else I should neither enjoy it properly, nor be fair to
the author. Then he repeated some lines from Milton, saying them first
just as if they were prose, and after that the same lines as they ought to
be sounded, making me mark the difference. Next he did the same with a few
of the opening lines of Virgil’s great poem, and made me feel the
difference there.
</p>
<p>
“The sound is the shape of it, you know, Ranald,” he said, “for a poem is
all for the ear and not for the eye. The eye sees only the sense of it;
the ear sees the shape of it. To judge poetry without heeding the sound of
it, is nearly as bad as to judge a rose by smelling it with your eyes
shut. The sound, besides being a beautiful thing in itself, has a sense in
it which helps the other out. A psalm tune, if it’s the right one, helps
you to see how beautiful the psalm is. Every poem carries its own tune in
its own heart, and to read it aloud is the only way to bring out its
tune.”
</p>
<p>
I liked Virgil ever so much better after this, and always tried to get at
the tune of it, and of every other poem I read.
</p>
<p>
“The right way of anything,” said my father, “may be called the tune of
it. We have to find out the tune of our own lives. Some people don’t seem
ever to find it out, and so their lives are a broken and uncomfortable
thing to them—full of ups and downs and disappointments, and never
going as it was meant to go.”
</p>
<p>
“But what is the right tune of a body’s life, father?”
</p>
<p>
“The will of God, my boy.”
</p>
<p>
“But how is a person to know that, father?”
</p>
<p>
“By trying to do what he knows of it already. Everybody has a different
kind of tune in his life, and no one can find out another’s tune for him,
though he <i>may</i> help him to find it for himself.”
</p>
<p>
“But aren’t we to read the Bible, father?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, if it’s in order to obey it. To read the Bible thinking to please
God by the mere reading of it, is to think like a heathen.”
</p>
<p>
“And aren’t we to say our prayers, father?”
</p>
<p>
“We are to ask God for what we want. If we don’t want a thing, we are only
acting like pagans to speak as if we did, and call it prayer, and think we
are pleasing him.”
</p>
<p>
I was silent. My father resumed.
</p>
<p>
“I fancy the old man we are going to see found out the tune of <i>his</i>
life long ago.”
</p>
<p>
“Is he a very wise man then, father?”
</p>
<p>
“That depends on what you mean by <i>wise</i>. <i>I</i> should call him a
wise man, for to find out that tune is the truest wisdom. But he’s not a
learned man at all. I doubt if he ever read a book but the Bible, except
perhaps the Pilgrim’s Progress. I believe he has always been very fond of
that. <i>You</i> like that—don’t you, Ranald?”
</p>
<p>
“I’ve read it a good many times, father. But I was a little tired of it
before I got through it last time.”
</p>
<p>
“But you did read it through—did you—the last time, I mean?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh yes, father. I never like to leave the loose end of a thing hanging
about.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s right, my boy; that’s right. Well, I think you’d better not open
the book again for a long time—say twenty years at least. It’s a
great deal too good a book to let yourself get tired of. By that time I
trust you will be able to understand it a great deal better than you can
at present.”
</p>
<p>
I felt a little sorry that I was not to look at the Pilgrim’s Progress for
twenty years; but I am very glad of it now.
</p>
<p>
“We must not spoil good books by reading them too much,” my father added.
“It is often better to think about them than to read them; and it is best
never to do either when we are tired of them. We should get tired of the
sunlight itself, beautiful as it is, if God did not send it away every
night. We’re not even fit to have moonlight always. The moon is buried in
the darkness every month. And because we can bear nothing for any length
of time together, we are sent to sleep every night, that we may begin
fresh again in the morning.”
</p>
<p>
“I see, father, I see,” I answered.
</p>
<p>
We talked on until we came in sight of John Jamieson’s cottage.
</p>
<p>
What a poor little place it was to look at—built of clay, which had
hardened in the sun till it was just one brick! But it was a better place
to live in than it looked, for no wind could come through the walls,
although there was plenty of wind about. Three little windows looked
eastward to the rising sun, and one to the south: it had no more. It stood
on the side of a heathy hill, which rose up steep behind it, and bending
round sheltered it from the north. A low wall of loose stones enclosed a
small garden, reclaimed from the hill, where grew some greens and cabbages
and potatoes, with a flower here and there between. In summer it was
pleasant enough, for the warm sun makes any place pleasant. But in winter
it must have been a cold dreary place indeed. There was no other house
within sight of it. A little brook went cantering down the hill close to
the end of the cottage, singing merrily.
</p>
<p>
“It is a long way to the sea, but by its very nature the water will find
it at last,” said my father, pointing to the stream as we crossed it by
the single stone that was its bridge.
</p>
<p>
He had to bend his head low to enter the cottage. An old woman, the sick
man’s wife, rose from the side of the chimney to greet us. My father asked
how John was.
</p>
<p>
“Wearing away,” was her answer. “But he’ll be glad to see you.”
</p>
<p>
We turned in the direction in which her eyes guided us. The first thing I
saw was a small withered-looking head, and the next a withered-looking
hand, large and bony. The old man lay in a bed closed in with boards, so
that very little light fell upon him; but his hair glistened silvery
through the gloom. My father drew a chair beside him. John looked up, and
seeing who it was, feebly held out his hand. My father took it and stroked
it, and said:
</p>
<p>
“Well, John, my man, you’ve had a hard life of it.”
</p>
<p>
“No harder than I could bear,” said John.
</p>
<p>
“It’s a grand thing to be able to say that,” said my father.
</p>
<p>
“Oh sir! for that matter, I would go through it all again, if it was <i>his</i>
will, and willingly. I have no will but his, sir.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, John, I wish we could all say the same. When a man comes to that,
the Lord lets him have what he wants. What do you want now, John?”
</p>
<p>
“To depart and be with the Lord. It wouldn’t be true, sir, to say that I
wasn’t weary. It seems to me, if it’s the Lord’s will, I’ve had enough of
this life. Even if death be a long sleep, as some people say, till the
judgment, I think I would rather sleep, for I’m very weary. Only there’s
the old woman there! I don’t like leaving her.”
</p>
<p>
“But you can trust God for her too, can’t you?”
</p>
<p>
“It would be a poor thing if I couldn’t, sir.”
</p>
<p>
“Were you ever hungry, John—dreadfully hungry, I mean?”
</p>
<p>
“Never longer than I could bear,” he answered. “When you think it’s the
will of God, hunger doesn’t get much hold of you, sir.”
</p>
<p>
“You must excuse me, John, for asking so many questions. You know God
better than I do, and I want my young man here to know how strong the will
of God makes a man, old or young. He needn’t care about anything else,
need he?”
</p>
<p>
“There’s nothing else to care about, sir. If only the will of God be done,
everything’s all right, you know. I do believe, sir, God cares more for me
than my old woman herself does, and she’s been as good a wife to me as
ever was. Young gentleman, you know who says that God numbers the very
hairs of our heads? There’s not many of mine left to number,” he added
with a faint smile, “but there’s plenty of yours. You mind the will of
God, and he’ll look after you. That’s the way he divides the business of
life.”
</p>
<p>
I saw now that my father’s talk as we came, had been with a view to
prepare me for what John Jamieson would say. I cannot pretend, however, to
have understood the old man at the time, but his words have often come
back to me since, and helped me through trials pretty severe, although,
like the old man, I have never found any of them too hard to bear.
</p>
<p>
“Have you no child to come and help your wife to wait upon you?” my father
asked.
</p>
<p>
“I have had ten, sir, but only three are left alive. There’ll be plenty to
welcome me home when I go. One of the three’s in Canada, and can’t come.
Another’s in Australia, and he can’t come. But Maggie’s not far off, and
she’s got leave from her mistress to come for a week—only we don’t
want her to come till I’m nearer my end. I should like her to see the last
of her old father, for I shall be young again by the next time she sees
me, please God, sir. He’s all in all—isn’t he, sir?”
</p>
<p>
“True, John. If we have God, we have all things; for all things are his
and we are his. But we mustn’t weary you too much. Thank you for your good
advice.”
</p>
<p>
“I beg your pardon, sir; I had no intention of speaking like that. I never
could give advice in all my life. I always found it was as much as I could
do to take the good advice that was given to me. I should like to be
prayed for in the church next Sunday, sir, if you please.”
</p>
<p>
“But can’t you pray for yourself, John?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, sir; but I would like to have some spiritual gift because my friends
asked it for me. Let them pray for more faith for me. I want more and more
of that. The more you have, the more you want. Don’t you, sir? And I
mightn’t ask enough for myself, now I’m so old and so tired. I sleep a
great deal, sir.”
</p>
<p>
“Then don’t you think God will take care to give you enough, even if you
shouldn’t ask for enough?” said my father.
</p>
<p>
“No doubt of that. But you see I am able to think of it now, and so I must
put things in a train for the time when I shan’t be able to think of it.”
</p>
<p>
Something like this was what John said; and although I could not
understand it then, my father spoke to me several times about it
afterwards, and I came to see how the old man wanted to provide against
the evil time by starting prayers heavenward beforehand, as it were.
</p>
<p>
My father prayed by his bedside, pulled a parcel or two from his pocket
for his wife, and then we walked home together in silence. My father was
not the man to heap words upon words and so smother the thought that lay
in them. He had taken me for the sake of the lesson I might receive, and
he left it to strike root in my mind, which he judged more likely if it
remained undisturbed.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link27" id="link27"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXVII
</h2>
<h3>
Turkey’s Trick
</h3>
<p>
When we came to the farm on our way home, we looked in to see Kirsty, but
found the key in the door, indicating that she had gone out. As we left
the yard, we saw a strange-looking woman, to all appearance a beggar,
approaching. She had a wallet over her shoulder, and walked stooping with
her eyes on the ground, nor lifted them to greet us—behaviour which
rarely showed itself in our parish. My father took no notice, but I could
not help turning to look after the woman. To my surprise she stood looking
after us, but the moment I turned, she turned also and walked on. When I
looked again she had vanished. Of course she must have gone into the
farm-yard. Not liking the look of her, and remembering that Kirsty was
out, I asked my father whether I had not better see if any of the men were
about the stable. He approved, and I ran back to the house. The door was
still locked. I called Turkey, and heard his voice in reply from one of
the farthest of the cow-houses. When I had reached it and told him my
story, he asked if my father knew I had come back. When he heard that he
did know, he threw down his pitchfork, and hastened with me. We searched
every house about the place, but could find no sign whatever of the woman.
</p>
<p>
“Are you sure it wasn’t all a fancy of your own, Ranald?” said Turkey.
</p>
<p>
“Quite sure. Ask my father. She passed as near us as you are to me now.”
</p>
<p>
Turkey hurried away to search the hayloft once more, but without success;
and at last I heard my father calling me.
</p>
<p>
I ran to him, and told him there was no woman to be seen.
</p>
<p>
“That’s odd,” he said. “She must have passed straight through the yard and
got out at the other side before you went in. While you were looking for
her, she was plodding away out of sight. Come along, and let us have our
tea.”
</p>
<p>
I could not feel quite satisfied about it, but, as there was no other
explanation, I persuaded myself that my father was right.
</p>
<p>
The next Saturday evening I was in the nursery with my brothers. It was
growing dusk, when I heard a knocking. Mrs. Mitchell did not seem to hear
it, so I went and opened the door. There was the same beggar woman. Rather
frightened, I called aloud, and Mrs. Mitchell came. When she saw it was a
beggar, she went back and reappeared with a wooden basin filled with meal,
from which she took a handful as she came in apparent preparation for
dropping it, in the customary way, into the woman’s bag. The woman never
spoke, but closed the mouth of her wallet, and turned away. Curiosity gave
me courage to follow her. She walked with long strides in the direction of
the farm, and I kept at a little distance behind her. She made for the
yard. She should not escape me this time. As soon as she entered it, I ran
as fast as I could, and just caught sight of her back as she went into one
of the cow-houses. I darted after her. She turned round upon me—fiercely,
I thought, but judge my surprise when she held out the open mouth of the
bag towards me, and said—
</p>
<p>
“Not one grain, Ranald! Put in your hand and feel.”
</p>
<p>
It was Turkey.
</p>
<p>
I stared in amazement, unable for a time to get rid of the apparition and
see the reality. Turkey burst out laughing at my perplexed countenance.
</p>
<p>
“Why didn’t you tell me before, Turkey?” I asked, able at length to join
in the laugh.
</p>
<p>
“Because then you would have had to tell your father, and I did not want
him to be troubled about it, at least before we had got things clear. I
always <i>did</i> wonder how he could keep such a creature about him.”
</p>
<p>
“He doesn’t know her as we do, Turkey.”
</p>
<p>
“No. She never gives him the chance. But now, Ranald, couldn’t you manage
to find out whether she makes any store of the meal she pretends to give
away?”
</p>
<p>
A thought struck me.
</p>
<p>
“I heard Davie the other day asking her why she had two meal-tubs: perhaps
that has something to do with it.”
</p>
<p>
“You must find out. Don’t ask Davie.”
</p>
<p>
For the first time it occurred to me that the Kelpie had upon that night
of terror been out on business of her own, and had not been looking for me
at all.
</p>
<p>
“Then she was down at old Betty’s cottage,” said Turkey, when I
communicated the suspicion, “and Wandering Willie was there too, and
Andrew was right about the pipes. Willie hasn’t been once to the house
ever since he took Davie, but she has gone to meet him at Betty’s. Depend
on it, Ranald, he’s her brother, or nephew, or something, as I used to
say. I do believe she gives him the meal to take home to her family
somewhere. Did you ever hear anything about her friends?”
</p>
<p>
“I never heard her speak of any.”
</p>
<p>
“Then I don’t believe they’re respectable. I don’t, Ranald. But it will be
a great trouble to the minister to have to turn her away. I wonder if we
couldn’t contrive to make her go of herself. I wish we could scare her out
of the country. It’s not nice either for a woman like that to have to do
with such innocents as Allister and Davie.”
</p>
<p>
“She’s very fond of Davie.”
</p>
<p>
“So she is. That’s the only good thing I know of her. But hold your
tongue, Ranald, till we find out more.”
</p>
<p>
Acting on the hint Davie had given me, I soon discovered the second
meal-tub. It was small, and carefully stowed away. It was now nearly full,
and every day I watched in the hope that when she emptied it, I should be
able to find out what she did with the meal. But Turkey’s suggestion about
frightening her away kept working in my brain.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link28" id="link28"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXVIII
</h2>
<h3>
I Scheme Too
</h3>
<p>
I began a series of persecutions of the Kelpie on my own account. I was
doubtful whether Turkey would approve of them, so I did not tell him for
some time; but I was ambitious of showing him that I could do something
without him. I doubt whether it is worth while to relate the silly tricks
I played her—my father made me sorry enough for them afterwards. My
only excuse for them is, that I hoped by them to drive the Kelpie away.
</p>
<p>
There was a closet in the hall, the floor of which was directly over the
Kelpie’s bed, with no ceiling between. With a gimlet I bored a hole in the
floor, through which I passed a piece of string. I had already got a bit
of black cloth, and sewed and stuffed it into something of the shape of a
rat. Watching an opportunity, I tied this to the end of the string by the
head, and hid it under her bolster. When she was going to bed, I went into
the closet, and, laying my mouth to the floor, began squeaking like a rat,
and scratching with my nails. Knowing by the exclamation she made that I
had attracted her attention, I tugged at the string; this lifted the
bolster a little, and of course out came my rat. I heard her scream, and
open her door. I pulled the rat up tight to the ceiling. Then the door of
the nursery, where we slept only in the winter, opened and shut, and I
concluded she had gone to bed there to avoid the rat. I could hardly sleep
for pleasure at my success.
</p>
<p>
As she waited on us at breakfast next morning, she told my father that she
had seen in her bed the biggest rat she ever saw in her life, and had not
had a wink of sleep in consequence.
</p>
<p>
“Well,” said my father, “that comes of not liking cats. You should get a
pussy to take care of you.”
</p>
<p>
She grumbled something and retired.
</p>
<p>
She removed her quarters to the nursery. But there it was yet easier for
me to plague her. Having observed in which bed she lay, I passed the
string with the rat at the end of it over the middle of a bar that ran
across just above her head, then took the string along the top of the
other bed, and through a little hole in the door. As soon as I judged her
safe in bed, I dropped the rat with a plump. It must have fallen on or
very near her face. I heard her give a loud cry, but before she could
reach the door, I had fastened the string to a nail and got out of the
way.
</p>
<p>
It was not so easy in those days to get a light, for the earliest form of
lucifer match was only just making its appearance in that part of the
country, and was very dear: she had to go to the kitchen, where the fire
never went out summer or winter. Afraid lest on her return she should
search the bed, find my harmless animal suspended by the neck, and descend
upon me with all the wrath generated of needless terror, I crept into the
room, got down my rat, pulled away the string, and escaped. The next
morning she said nothing about the rat, but went to a neighbour’s and
brought home a fine cat. I laughed in my sleeve, thinking how little her
cat could protect her from my rat.
</p>
<p>
Once more, however, she changed her quarters, and went into a sort of
inferior spare room in the upper part of the house, which suited my
operations still better, for from my own bed I could now manage to drop
and pull up the rat, drawing it away beyond the danger of discovery. The
next night she took the cat into the room with her, and for that one I
judged it prudent to leave her alone, but the next, having secured
Kirsty’s cat, I turned him into the room after she was in bed: the result
was a frightful explosion of feline wrath.
</p>
<p>
I now thought I might boast of my successes to Turkey, but he was not
pleased.
</p>
<p>
“She is sure to find you out, Ranald,” he said, “and then whatever else we
do will be a failure. Leave her alone till we have her quite.”
</p>
<p>
I do not care to linger over this part of my story. I am a little ashamed
of it.
</p>
<p>
We found at length that her private reservoir was quite full of meal. I
kept close watch still, and finding one night that she was not in the
house, discovered also that the meal-tub was now empty. I ran to Turkey,
and together we hurried to Betty’s cottage.
</p>
<p>
It was a cloudy night with glimpses of moonlight. When we reached the
place, we heard voices talking, and were satisfied that both the Kelpie
and Wandering Willie were there.
</p>
<p>
“We must wait till she comes out,” said Turkey. “We must be able to say we
saw her.”
</p>
<p>
There was a great stone standing out of the ground not far from the door,
just opposite the elder-tree, and the path lay between them.
</p>
<p>
“You get behind that tree—no, you are the smaller object—you
get behind that stone, and I’ll get behind the tree,” said Turkey; “and
when the Kelpie comes out, you make a noise like a beast, and rush at her
on all-fours.”
</p>
<p>
“I’m good at a pig, Turkey,” I said. “Will a pig do?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, well enough.”
</p>
<p>
“But what if she should know me, and catch me, Turkey?”
</p>
<p>
“She will start away from you to my side; I shall rush out like a mad dog,
and then she’ll run for it.”
</p>
<p>
We waited a long time—a very long time, it seemed to me. It was well
it was summer. We talked a little across, and that helped to beguile the
weary time; but at last I said in a whisper:
</p>
<p>
“Let’s go home, Turkey, and lock the doors, and keep her out.”
</p>
<p>
“You go home then, Ranald, and I’ll wait. I don’t mind if it be till
to-morrow morning. It is not enough to be sure ourselves; we must be able
to make other people sure.”
</p>
<p>
“I’ll wait as long as you do, Turkey; only I’m very sleepy, and she might
come out when I was asleep.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I shall keep you awake!” replied Turkey; and we settled down again
for a while.
</p>
<p>
At the long last the latch of the door was lifted. I was just falling
asleep, but the sound brought me wide awake at once. I peeped from behind
my shelter. It was the Kelpie, with an empty bag—a pillow-case, I
believe—in her hand. Behind her came Wandering Willie, but did not
follow her from the door. The moment was favourable, for the moon was
under a thick cloud. Just as she reached the stone, I rushed out on hands
and knees, grunting and squeaking like a very wild pig indeed. As Turkey
had foretold, she darted aside, and I retreated behind my stone. The same
instant Turkey rushed at her with such canine fury, that the imitation
startled even me, who had expected it. You would have thought the animal
was ready to tear a whole army to pieces, with such a complication of
fierce growls and barks and squeals did he dart on the unfortunate
culprit. She took to her heels at once, not daring to make for the
cottage, because the enemy was behind her. But I had hardly ensconced
myself behind the stone, repressing my laughter with all my might, when I
was seized from behind by Wandering Willie, who had no fear either of pig
or dog. He began pommelling me.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="244.jpg (106K)" src="images/244.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
“Turkey! Turkey!” I cried.
</p>
<p>
The cry stopped his barking pursuit of the Kelpie. He rose to his feet and
rushed to my aid. But when he saw the state of affairs, he turned at once
for the cottage, crying:
</p>
<p>
“Now for a kick at the bagpipes!”
</p>
<p>
Wandering Willie was not too much a fool to remember and understand. He
left me instantly, and made for the cottage. Turkey drew back and let him
enter, then closed the door, and held it.
</p>
<p>
“Get away a bit, Ranald. I can run faster than Willie. You’ll be out of
sight in a few yards.”
</p>
<p>
But instead of coming after us, Wandering Willie began playing a most
triumphant tune upon his darling bagpipes. How the poor old woman enjoyed
it, I do not know. Perhaps she liked it. For us, we set off to outstrip
the Kelpie. It did not matter to Turkey, but she might lock me out again.
I was almost in bed before I heard her come in. She went straight to her
own room.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link29" id="link29"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXIX
</h2>
<h3>
A Double Exposure
</h3>
<p>
Whether the Kelpie had recognized us I could not tell, but not much of the
next morning passed before my doubt was over. When she had set our
porridge on the table, she stood up, and, with her fists in her sides,
addressed my father:
</p>
<p>
“I’m very sorry, sir, to have to make complaints. It’s a thing I don’t
like, and I’m not given to. I’m sure I try to do my duty by Master Ranald
as well as everyone else in this house.”
</p>
<p>
I felt a little confused, for I now saw clearly enough that my father
could not approve of our proceedings. I whispered to Allister—
</p>
<p>
“Run and fetch Turkey. Tell him to come directly.”
</p>
<p>
Allister always did whatever I asked him. He set off at once. The Kelpie
looked suspicious as he left the room, but she had no pretext for
interference. I allowed her to tell her tale without interruption. After
relating exactly how we had served her the night before, when she had gone
on a visit of mercy, as she represented it, she accused me of all my
former tricks—that of the cat having, I presume, enlightened her as
to the others; and ended by saying that if she were not protected against
me and Turkey, she must leave the place.
</p>
<p>
“Let her go, father,” I said. “None of us like her.”
</p>
<p>
“I like her,” whimpered little Davie.
</p>
<p>
“Silence, sir!” said my father, very sternly. “Are these things true?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, father,” I answered. “But please hear what <i>I</i>’ve got to say.
She’s only told you <i>her</i> side of it.”
</p>
<p>
“You have confessed to the truth of what she alleges,” said my father. “I
did think,” he went on, more in sorrow than in anger, though a good deal
in both, “that you had turned from your bad ways. To think of my taking
you with me to the death-bed of a holy man, and then finding you so soon
after playing such tricks!—more like the mischievousness of a monkey
than of a human being!”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t say it was right, father; and I’m very sorry if I have offended
you.”
</p>
<p>
“You <i>have</i> offended me, and very deeply. You have been unkind and
indeed cruel to a good woman who has done her best for you for many
years!”
</p>
<p>
I was not too much abashed to take notice that the Kelpie bridled at this.
</p>
<p>
“I can’t say I’m sorry for what I’ve done to her,” I said.
</p>
<p>
“Really, Ranald, you are impertinent. I would send you out of the room at
once, but you must beg Mrs. Mitchell’s pardon first, and after that there
will be something more to say, I fear.”
</p>
<p>
“But, father, you have not heard my story yet.”
</p>
<p>
“Well—go on. It is fair, I suppose, to hear both sides. But nothing
can justify such conduct.”
</p>
<p>
I began with trembling voice. I had gone over in my mind the night before
all I would say, knowing it better to tell the tale from the beginning
circumstantially. Before I had ended, Turkey made his appearance, ushered
in by Allister. Both were out of breath with running.
</p>
<p>
My father stopped me, and ordered Turkey away until I should have
finished. I ventured to look up at the Kelpie once or twice. She had grown
white, and grew whiter. When Turkey left the room, she would have gone
too. But my father told her she must stay and hear me to the end. Several
times she broke out, accusing me of telling a pack of wicked lies, but my
father told her she should have an opportunity of defending herself, and
she must not interrupt me. When I had done, he called Turkey, and made him
tell the story. I need hardly say that, although he questioned us closely,
he found no discrepancy between our accounts. He turned at last to Mrs.
Mitchell, who, but for her rage, would have been in an abject condition.
</p>
<p>
“Now, Mrs. Mitchell!” he said.
</p>
<p>
She had nothing to reply beyond asserting that Turkey and I had always
hated and persecuted her, and had now told a pack of lies which we had
agreed upon, to ruin her, a poor lone woman, with no friends to take her
part.
</p>
<p>
“I do not think it likely they could be so wicked,” said my father.
</p>
<p>
“So I’m to be the only wicked person in the world! Very well, sir! I will
leave the house this very day.”
</p>
<p>
“No, no, Mrs. Mitchell; that won’t do. One party or the other <i>is</i>
very wicked—that is clear; and it is of the greatest consequence to
me to find out which. If you go, I shall know it is you, and have you
taken up and tried for stealing. Meantime I shall go the round of the
parish. I do not think all the poor people will have combined to lie
against you.”
</p>
<p>
“They all hate me,” said the Kelpie.
</p>
<p>
“And why?” asked my father.
</p>
<p>
She made no answer.
</p>
<p>
“I must get at the truth of it,” said my father. “You can go now.”
</p>
<p>
She left the room without another word, and my father turned to Turkey.
</p>
<p>
“I am surprised at you, Turkey, lending yourself to such silly pranks. Why
did you not come and tell me.”
</p>
<p>
“I am very sorry, sir. I was afraid you would be troubled at finding how
wicked she was, and I thought we might frighten her away somehow. But
Ranald began his tricks without letting me know, and then I saw that mine
could be of no use, for she would suspect them after his. Mine would have
been better, sir.”
</p>
<p>
“I have no doubt of it, but equally unjustifiable. And you as well as he
acted the part of a four-footed animal last night.”
</p>
<p>
“I confess I yielded to temptation then, for I knew it could do no good.
It was all for the pleasure of frightening her. It was very foolish of me,
and I beg your pardon, sir.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, Turkey, I confess you have vexed me, not by trying to find out the
wrong she was doing me and the whole parish, but by taking the whole thing
into your own hands. It is worse of you, inasmuch as you are older and far
wiser than Ranald. It is worse of Ranald because I was his father. I will
try to show you the wrong you have done.—Had you told me without
doing anything yourselves, then I might have succeeded in bringing Mrs.
Mitchell to repentance. I could have reasoned with her on the matter, and
shown her that she was not merely a thief, but a thief of the worst kind,
a Judas who robbed the poor, and so robbed God. I could have shown her how
cruel she was—”
</p>
<p>
“Please, sir,” interrupted Turkey, “I don’t think after all she did it for
herself. I do believe,” he went on, and my father listened, “that
Wandering Willie is some relation of hers. He is the only poor person,
almost the only person except Davie, I ever saw her behave kindly to. He
was there last night, and also, I fancy, that other time, when Ranald got
such a fright. She has poor relations somewhere, and sends the meal to
them by Willie. You remember, sir, there were no old clothes of Allister’s
to be found when you wanted them for Jamie Duff.”
</p>
<p>
“You may be right, Turkey—I dare say you are right. I hope you are,
for though bad enough, that would not be quite so bad as doing it for
herself.”
</p>
<p>
“I am very sorry, father,” I said; “I beg your pardon.”
</p>
<p>
“I hope it will be a lesson to you, my boy. After what you have done,
rousing every bad and angry passion in her, I fear it will be of no use to
try to make her be sorry and repent. It is to her, not to me, you have
done the wrong. I have nothing to complain of for myself—quite the
contrary. But it is a very dreadful thing to throw difficulties in the way
of repentance and turning from evil works.”
</p>
<p>
“What can I do to make up for it?” I sobbed.
</p>
<p>
“I don’t see at this moment what you can do. I will turn it over in my
mind. You may go now.”
</p>
<p>
Thereupon Turkey and I walked away, I to school, he to his cattle. The
lecture my father had given us was not to be forgotten. Turkey looked sad,
and I felt subdued and concerned.
</p>
<p>
Everything my father heard confirmed the tale we had told him. But the
Kelpie frustrated whatever he may have resolved upon with regard to her:
before he returned she had disappeared. How she managed to get her chest
away, I cannot tell. I think she must have hid it in some outhouse, and
fetched it the next night. Many little things were missed from the house
afterwards, but nothing of great value, and neither she nor Wandering
Willie ever appeared again. We were all satisfied that poor old Betty knew
nothing of her conduct. It was easy enough to deceive her, for she was
alone in her cottage, only waited upon by a neighbour who visited her at
certain times of the day.
</p>
<p>
My father, I heard afterwards, gave five shillings out of his own pocket
to every one of the poor people whom the Kelpie had defrauded. Her place
in the house was, to our endless happiness, taken by Kirsty, and
faithfully she carried out my father’s instructions that, along with the
sacred handful of meal, a penny should be given to every one of the parish
poor from that time forward, so long as he lived at the manse.
</p>
<p>
Not even little Davie cried when he found that Mrs. Mitchell was really
gone. It was more his own affection than her kindness that had attached
him to her.
</p>
<p>
Thus were we at last delivered from our Kelpie.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link30" id="link30"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXX
</h2>
<h3>
Tribulation
</h3>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="253.jpg (105K)" src="images/253.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
After the expulsion of the Kelpie, and the accession of Kirsty, things
went on so peaceably, that the whole time rests in my memory like a summer
evening after sundown. I have therefore little more to say concerning our
home-life.
</p>
<p>
There were two schools in the little town—the first, the parish
school, the master of which was appointed by the presbytery; the second,
one chiefly upheld by the dissenters of the place, the master of which was
appointed by the parents of the scholars. This difference, however,
indicated very little of the distinction and separation which it would
have involved in England. The masters of both were licentiates of the
established church, an order having a vague resemblance to that of deacons
in the English church; there were at both of them scholars whose fees were
paid by the parish, while others at both were preparing for the
University; there were many pupils at the second school whose parents took
them to the established church on Sundays, and both were yearly examined
by the presbytery—that is, the clergymen of a certain district;
while my father was on friendly terms with all the parents, some of whom
did not come to his church because they thought the expenses of religion
should be met by the offerings of those who prized its ministrations,
while others regarded the unity of the nation, and thought that religion,
like any other of its necessities, ought to be the care of its chosen
government. I do not think the second school would ever have come into
existence at all except for the requirements of the population, one school
being insufficient. There was little real schism in the matter, except
between the boys themselves. They made far more of it than their parents,
and an occasional outbreak was the consequence.
</p>
<p>
At this time there was at the second school a certain very rough lad, the
least developed beyond the brute, perhaps, of all the scholars of the
village. It is more amazing to see how close to the brute a man may remain
than it is to see how far he may leave the brute behind. How it began I
cannot recall; but this youth, a lad of seventeen, whether moved by
dislike or the mere fascination of injury, was in the habit of teasing me
beyond the verge of endurance as often as he had the chance. I did not
like to complain to my father, though that would have been better than to
hate him as I did. I was ashamed of my own impotence for self-defence; but
therein I was little to blame, for I was not more than half his size, and
certainly had not half his strength. My pride forbidding flight, the
probability was, when we met in an out-of-the-way quarter, that he would
block my path for half an hour at least, pull my hair, pinch my cheeks,
and do everything to annoy me, short of leaving marks of violence upon me.
If we met in a street, or other people were in sight, he would pass me
with a wink and a grin, as much as to say—<i>Wait</i>.
</p>
<p>
One of the short but fierce wars between the rival schools broke out. What
originated the individual quarrel I cannot tell. I doubt if anyone knew.
It had not endured a day, however, before it came to a pitched battle
after school hours. The second school was considerably the smaller, but it
had the advantage of being perched on the top of the low, steep hill at
the bottom of which lay ours. Our battles always began with missiles; and
I wonder, as often as I recall the fact, that so few serious accidents
were the consequence. From the disadvantages of the ground, we had little
chance against the stone-showers which descended upon us like hail, except
we charged right up the hill, in the face of the inferior but well-posted
enemy. When this was not in favour at the moment, I employed myself in
collecting stones and supplying them to my companions, for it seemed to me
that every boy, down to the smallest in either school, was skilful in
throwing them, except myself: I could not throw halfway up the hill. On
this occasion, however, I began to fancy it an unworthy exercise of my
fighting powers, and made my first attempt at organizing a troop for an
up-hill charge. I was now a tall boy, and of some influence amongst those
about my own age. Whether the enemy saw our intent and proceeded to
forestall it, I cannot say, but certainly that charge never took place.
</p>
<p>
A house of some importance was then building, just on the top of the hill,
and a sort of hand-wagon, or lorry on low wheels, was in use for moving
the large stones employed, the chips from the dressing of which were then
for us most formidable missiles. Our adversaries laid hold of this
chariot, and turned it into an engine of war. They dragged it to the top
of the hill, jumped upon it, as many as it would hold, and, drawn by their
own weight, came thundering down upon our troops. Vain was the storm of
stones which assailed their advance: they could not have stopped if they
would. My company had to open and make way for the advancing prodigy,
conspicuous upon which towered my personal enemy Scroggie.
</p>
<p>
“Now,” I called to my men, “as soon as the thing stops, rush in and seize
them: they’re not half our number. It will be an endless disgrace to let
them go.”
</p>
<p>
Whether we should have had the courage to carry out the design had not
fortune favoured us, I cannot tell. But as soon as the chariot reached a
part of the hill where the slope was less, it turned a little to one side,
and Scroggie fell off, drawing half of the load after him. My men rushed
in with shouts of defiant onset, but were arrested by the non-resistance
of the foe. I sprung to seize Scroggie. He tried to get up, but fell back
with a groan. The moment I saw his face, my mood changed. My hatred,
without will or wish or effort of mine, turned all at once into pity or
something better. In a moment I was down on my knees beside him. His face
was white, and drops stood upon his forehead. He lay half upon his side,
and with one hand he scooped handfuls of dirt from the road and threw them
down again. His leg was broken. I got him to lean his head against me, and
tried to make him lie more comfortably; but the moment I sought to move
the leg he shrieked out. I sent one of our swiftest runners for the
doctor, and in the meantime did the best I could for him. He took it as a
matter of course, and did not even thank me. When the doctor came, we got
a mattress from a neighbouring house, laid it on the wagon, lifted
Scroggie on the top, and dragged him up the hill and home to his mother.
</p>
<p>
I have said a little, but only a little, concerning our master, Mr.
Wilson. At the last examination I had, in compliance with the request of
one of the clergymen, read aloud a metrical composition of my own, sent in
by way of essay on the given subject, <i>Patriotism</i>, and after this he
had shown me a great increase of favour. Perhaps he recognized in me some
germ of a literary faculty—I cannot tell: it has never come to much
if he did, and he must be greatly disappointed in me, seeing I labour not
in living words, but in dead stones. I am certain, though, that whether I
build good or bad houses, I should have built worse had I not had the
insight he gave me into literature and the nature of literary utterance. I
read Virgil and Horace with him, and scanned every doubtful line we came
across. I sometimes think now, that what certain successful men want to
make them real artists, is simply a knowledge of the literature—which
is the essence of the possible art—of the country.
</p>
<p>
My brother Tom had left the school, and gone to the county town, to
receive some final preparation for the University; consequently, so far as
the school was concerned, I was no longer in the position of a younger
brother. Also Mr. Wilson had discovered that I had some faculty for
imparting what knowledge I possessed, and had begun to make use of me in
teaching the others. A good deal was done in this way in the Scotch
schools. Not that there was the least attempt at system in it: the master,
at any moment, would choose the one he thought fit, and set him to teach a
class, while he attended to individuals, or taught another class himself.
Nothing can be better for the verification of knowledge, or for the
discovery of ignorance, than the attempt to teach. In my case it led to
other and unforeseen results as well.
</p>
<p>
The increasing trust the master reposed in me, and the increasing favour
which openly accompanied it, so stimulated the growth of my natural
vanity, that at length it appeared in the form of presumption, and, I have
little doubt, although I was unaware of it at the time, influenced my
whole behaviour to my school-fellows. Hence arose the complaint that I was
a favourite with the master, and the accusation that I used underhand
means to recommend myself to him, of which I am not yet aware that I was
ever guilty. My presumption I confess, and wonder that the master did not
take earlier measures to check it. When teaching a class, I would not
unfrequently, if Mr. Wilson had vacated his chair, climb into it, and sit
there as if I were the master of the school. I even went so far as to
deposit some of my books in the master’s desk, instead of in my own
recess. But I had not the least suspicion of the indignation I was thus
rousing against me.
</p>
<p>
One afternoon I had a class of history. They read very badly, with what
seemed wilful blundering; but when it came to the questioning on the
subject of the lesson, I soon saw there had been a conspiracy. The answers
they gave were invariably wrong, generally absurd, sometimes utterly
grotesque. I ought to except those of a few girls, who did their best, and
apparently knew nothing of the design of the others. One or two girls,
however, infected with the spirit of the game, soon outdid the whole class
in the wildness of their replies. This at last got the better of me; I
lost my temper, threw down my book, and retired to my seat, leaving the
class where it stood. The master called me and asked the reason. I told
him the truth of the matter. He got very angry, and called out several of
the bigger boys and punished them severely. Whether these supposed that I
had mentioned them in particular, as I had not, I do not know; but I could
read in their faces that they vowed vengeance in their hearts. When the
school broke up, I lingered to the last, in the hope they would all go
home as usual; but when I came out with the master, and saw the silent
waiting groups, it was evident there was more thunder in the moral
atmosphere than would admit of easy discharge. The master had come to the
same conclusion, for instead of turning towards his own house, he walked
with me part of the way home, without alluding however to the reason.
Allister was with us, and I led Davie by the hand: it was his first week
of school life. When we had got about half the distance, believing me now
quite safe, he turned into a footpath and went through the fields back
towards the town; while we, delivered from all immediate apprehension,
jogged homewards.
</p>
<p>
When we had gone some distance farther, I happened to look about—why,
I could not tell. A crowd was following us at full speed. As soon as they
saw that we had discovered them, they broke the silence with a shout,
which was followed by the patter of their many footsteps.
</p>
<p>
“Run, Allister!” I cried; and kneeling, I caught up Davie on my back, and
ran with the feet of fear. Burdened thus, Allister was soon far ahead of
me.
</p>
<p>
“Bring Turkey!” I cried after him. “Run to the farm as hard as you can
pelt, and bring Turkey to meet us.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, yes, Ranald,” shouted Allister, and ran yet faster.
</p>
<p>
They were not getting up with us quite so fast as they wished; they began
therefore to pick up stones as they ran, and we soon heard them hailing on
the road behind us. A little farther, and the stones began to go bounding
past us, so that I dared no longer carry Davie on my back. I had to stop,
which lost us time, and to shift him into my arms, which made running much
harder. Davie kept calling, “Run, Ranald!—here they come!” and
jumping so, half in fear, half in pleasure, that I found it very hard work
indeed.
</p>
<p>
Their taunting voices reached me at length, loaded with all sorts of
taunting and opprobrious words—some of them, I dare say, deserved,
but not all. Next a stone struck me, but not in a dangerous place, though
it crippled my running still more. The bridge was now in sight, however,
and there I could get rid of Davie and turn at bay, for it was a small
wooden bridge, with rails and a narrow gate at the end to keep horsemen
from riding over it. The foremost of our pursuers were within a few yards
of my heels, when, with a last effort, I bounded on it; and I had just
time to set Davie down and turn and bar their way by shutting the gate,
before they reached it. I had no breath left but just enough to cry, “Run,
Davie!” Davie, however, had no notion of the state of affairs, and did not
run, but stood behind me staring. So I was not much better off yet. If he
had only run, and I had seen him far enough on the way home, I would have
taken to the water, which was here pretty deep, before I would have run
any further risk of their getting hold of me. If I could have reached the
mill on the opposite bank, a shout would have brought the miller to my
aid. But so long as I could prevent them from opening the gate, I thought
I could hold the position. There was only a latch to secure it, but I
pulled a thin knife from my pocket, and just as I received a blow in the
face from the first arrival which knocked me backwards, I had jammed it
over the latch through the iron staple in which it worked. Before the
first attempt to open it had been followed by the discovery of the
obstacle, I was up, and the next moment, with a well-directed kick,
disabled a few of the fingers which were fumbling to remove it. To protect
the latch was now my main object, but my efforts would have been quite
useless, for twenty of them would have been over the top in an instant.
Help, however, although unrecognized as such, was making its way through
the ranks of the enemy.
</p>
<p>
They parted asunder, and Scroggie, still lame, strode heavily up to the
gate. Recalling nothing but his old enmity, I turned once more and
implored Davie. “Do run, Davie, dear! it’s all up,” I said; but my
entreaties were lost upon Davie. Turning again in despair, I saw the lame
leg being hoisted over the gate. A shudder ran through me: I could <i>not</i>
kick that leg; but I sprang up and hit Scroggie hard in the face. I might
as well have hit a block of granite. He swore at me, caught hold of my
hand, and turning to the assailants said:
</p>
<p>
“Now, you be off! This is my little business. I’ll do for him!”
</p>
<p>
Although they were far enough from obeying his orders, they were not
willing to turn him into an enemy, and so hung back expectant. Meantime
the lame leg was on one side of the gate, the splints of which were
sharpened at the points, and the sound leg was upon the other. I, on the
one side—for he had let go my hand in order to support himself—retreated
a little, and stood upon the defensive, trembling, I must confess; while
my enemies on the other side could not reach me so long as Scroggie was
upon the top of the gate.
</p>
<p>
The lame leg went searching gently about, but could find no rest for the
sole of its foot, for there was no projecting cross bar upon this side;
the repose upon the top was anything but perfect, and the leg suspended
behind was useless. The long and the short, both in legs and results, was,
that there Scroggie stuck; and so long as he stuck, I was safe. As soon as
I saw this, I turned and caught up Davie, thinking to make for home once
more. But that very instant there was a rush at the gate; Scroggie was
hoisted over, the knife was taken out, and on poured the assailants,
before I had quite reached the other end of the bridge.
</p>
<p>
“At them, Oscar!” cried a voice.
</p>
<p>
The dog rushed past me on to the bridge, followed by Turkey. I set Davie
down, and, holding his hand, breathed again. There was a scurry and a
rush, a splash or two in the water, and then back came Oscar with his
innocent tongue hanging out like a blood-red banner of victory. He was
followed by Scroggie, who was exploding with laughter.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="265.jpg (95K)" src="images/265.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
Oscar came up wagging his tail, and looking as pleased as if he had
restored obedience to a flock of unruly sheep. I shrank back from
Scroggie, wishing Turkey, who was still at the other end of the bridge,
would make haste.
</p>
<p>
“Wasn’t it fun, Ranald?” said Scroggie. “You don’t think I was so lame
that I couldn’t get over that gate? I stuck on purpose.”
</p>
<p>
Turkey joined us with an inquiring look, for he knew how Scroggie had been
in the habit of treating me.
</p>
<p>
“It’s all right, Turkey,” I said. “Scroggie stuck on the gate on purpose.”
</p>
<p>
“A good thing for you, Ranald!” said Turkey. “Didn’t you see Peter Mason
amongst them?”
</p>
<p>
“No. He left the school last year.”
</p>
<p>
“He was there, though, and I don’t suppose <i>he</i> meant to be
agreeable.”
</p>
<p>
“I tell you what,” said Scroggie: “if you like, I’ll leave my school and
come to yours. My mother lets me do as I like.”
</p>
<p>
I thanked him, but said I did not think there would be more of it. It
would blow over.
</p>
<p>
Allister told my father as much as he knew of the affair; and when he
questioned me, I told him as much as I knew.
</p>
<p>
The next morning, just as we were all settling to work, my father entered
the school. The hush that followed was intense. The place might have been
absolutely empty for any sound I could hear for some seconds. The
ringleaders of my enemies held down their heads, as anticipating an
outbreak of vengeance. But after a few moments’ conversation with Mr.
Wilson, my father departed. There was a mystery about the proceeding, an
unknown possibility of result, which had a very sedative effect the whole
of the morning. When we broke up for dinner, Mr. Wilson detained me, and
told me that my father thought it better that, for some time at least, I
should not occupy such a prominent position as before. He was very sorry,
he said, for I had been a great help to him; and if I did not object, he
would ask my father to allow me to assist him in the evening-school during
the winter. I was delighted at the prospect, sank back into my natural
position, and met with no more annoyance. After a while I was able to
assure my former foes that I had had no voice in bringing punishment upon
them in particular, and the enmity was, I believe, quite extinguished.
</p>
<p>
When winter came, and the evening-school was opened, Mr. Wilson called at
the manse, and my father very willingly assented to the proposed
arrangement. The scholars were mostly young men from neighbouring farms,
or from workshops in the village, with whom, although I was so much
younger than they, there was no danger of jealousy. The additional
assistance they would thus receive, and their respect for superior
knowledge, in which, with my advantages, I had no credit over them, would
prevent any false shame because of my inferiority in years.
</p>
<p>
There were a few girls at the school as well—among the rest, Elsie
Duff. Although her grandmother was very feeble, Elsie was now able to have
a little more of her own way, and there was no real reason why the old
woman should not be left for an hour or two in the evening. I need hardly
say that Turkey was a regular attendant. He always, and I often, saw Elsie
home.
</p>
<p>
<a name="linkhelping" id="linkhelping"></a> <br /><br /> <a
href="images/il10.jpg"></a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="il10h.jpg (64K)" src="images/il10h.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
My chief pleasure lay in helping her with her lessons. I did my best to
assist all who wanted my aid, but offered unsolicited attention to her.
She was not quick, but would never be satisfied until she understood, and
that is more than any superiority of gifts. Hence, if her progress was
slow, it was unintermitting. Turkey was far before me in trigonometry, but
I was able to help him in grammar and geography, and when he commenced
Latin, which he did the same winter, I assisted him a good deal.
</p>
<p>
Sometimes Mr. Wilson would ask me to go home with him after school, and
take supper. This made me late, but my father did not mind it, for he
liked me to be with Mr. Wilson. I learned a good deal from him at such
times. He had an excellent little library, and would take down his
favourite books and read me passages. It is wonderful how things which, in
reading for ourselves, we might pass over in a half-blind manner, gain
their true power and influence through the voice of one who sees and feels
what is in them. If a man in whom you have confidence merely lays his
finger on a paragraph and says to you, “Read that,” you will probably
discover three times as much in it as you would if you had only chanced
upon it in the course of your reading. In such case the mind gathers
itself up, and is all eyes and ears.
</p>
<p>
But Mr. Wilson would sometimes read me a few verses of his own; and this
was a delight such as I have rarely experienced. My reader may wonder that
a full-grown man and a good scholar should condescend to treat a boy like
me as so much of an equal; but sympathy is precious even from a child, and
Mr. Wilson had no companions of his own standing. I believe he read more
to Turkey than to me, however.
</p>
<p>
As I have once apologized already for the introduction of a few of his
verses with Scotch words in them, I will venture to try whether the same
apology will not cover a second offence of the same sort.
</p>
<table summary="Jeanie">
<tr>
<td>
<p>
JEANIE BRAW[1]
</p>
<p>
I like ye weel upo’ Sundays, Jeanie,<br /> In yer goon an’ yer
ribbons gay;<br /> But I like ye better on Mondays, Jeanie,<br /> And
I like ye better the day.[2]
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
[Footnote 1: Brave; well dressed.].<br /> [Footnote 2: To-day.]
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
For it <i>will</i> come into my heid, Jeanie,<br /> O’ yer braws[1]
ye are thinkin’ a wee;<br /> No’ a’ o’ the Bible-seed, Jeanie,<br />
Nor the minister nor me.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
[Footnote 1: Bravery; finery.]
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
And hame across the green, Jeanie,<br /> Ye gang wi’ a toss o’ yer
chin:<br /> Us twa there’s a shadow atween, Jeanie,<br /> Though yer
hand my airm lies in.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
But noo, whan I see ye gang, Jeanie,<br /> Busy wi’ what’s to be
dune,<br /> Liltin’ a haveless[2] sang, Jeanie,<br /> I could kiss yer
verra shune.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
[Footnote 2: Careless.]
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
Wi’ yer silken net on yer hair, Jeanie,<br /> In yer bonny blue
petticoat,<br /> Wi’ yer kindly airms a’ bare, Jeanie,<br /> On yer
verra shadow I doat.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
For oh! but ye’re eident[3] and free, Jeanie,<br /> Airy o’ hert and
o’ fit[4];<br /> There’s a licht shines oot o’ yer ee, Jeanie;<br />
O’ yersel’ ye thinkna a bit.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
[Footnote 3: Diligent.]<br /> [Footnote 4: Foot.]
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
Turnin’ or steppin’ alang, Jeanie,<br /> Liftin’ an’ layin’ doon,<br />
Settin’ richt what’s aye gaein’ wrang, Jeanie,<br /> Yer motion’s
baith dance an’ tune.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
Fillin’ the cogue frae the coo, Jeanie,<br /> Skimmin’ the yallow
cream,<br /> Poorin’ awa’ the het broo, Jeanie,<br /> Lichtin’ the
lampie’s leme[5]—
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
[Footnote 5: Flame.]
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
I’ the hoose ye’re a licht an’ a law, Jeanie,<br /> A servant like
him that’s abune:<br /> Oh! a woman’s bonniest o’ a’, Jeanie,<br />
Whan she’s doin’ what <i>maun</i> be dune.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
Sae, dressed in yer Sunday claes, Jeanie,<br /> Fair kythe[1] ye
amang the fair;<br /> But dressed in yer ilka-day’s[2], Jeanie,<br />
Yer beauty’s beyond compare.
</p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p>
[Footnote 1: Appear.]
</p>
<p>
[Footnote 2: Everyday clothes.]
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link31" id="link31"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXXI
</h2>
<h3>
A Winter’s Ride
</h3>
<p>
In this winter, the stormiest I can recollect, occurred the chief
adventure of my boyhood—indeed, the event most worthy to be called
an adventure I have ever encountered.
</p>
<p>
There had been a tremendous fall of snow, which a furious wind, lasting
two days and the night between, had drifted into great mounds, so that the
shape of the country was much altered with new heights and hollows. Even
those who were best acquainted with them could only guess at the direction
of some of the roads, and it was the easiest thing in the world to lose
the right track, even in broad daylight. As soon as the storm was over,
however, and the frost was found likely to continue, they had begun to cut
passages through some of the deeper wreaths, as they called the
snow-mounds; while over the tops of others, and along the general line of
the more frequented roads, footpaths were soon trodden. It was many days,
however, before vehicles could pass, and coach-communication be resumed
between the towns. All the short day, the sun, though low, was brilliant,
and the whole country shone with dazzling whiteness; but after sunset,
which took place between three and four o’clock, anything more dreary can
hardly be imagined, especially when the keenest of winds rushed in gusts
from the north-east, and lifting the snow-powder from untrodden shadows,
blew it, like so many stings, in the face of the freezing traveller.
</p>
<p>
Early one afternoon, just as I came home from school, which in winter was
always over at three o’clock, my father received a message that a certain
laird, or <i>squire</i> as he would be called in England—whose house
lay three or four miles off amongst the hills, was at the point of death,
and very anxious to see him: a groom on horseback had brought the message.
The old man had led a life of indifferent repute, and that probably made
him the more anxious to see my father, who proceeded at once to get ready
for the uninviting journey.
</p>
<p>
Since my brother Tom’s departure, I had become yet more of a companion to
my father; and now when I saw him preparing to set out, I begged to be
allowed to go with him. His little black mare had a daughter, not unused
to the saddle. She was almost twice her mother’s size, and none the less
clumsy that she was chiefly employed upon the farm. Still she had a touch
of the roadster in her, and if not capable of elegant motion, could get
over the ground well enough, with a sort of speedy slouch, while, as was
of far more consequence on an expedition like the present, she was of
great strength, and could go through the wreaths, Andrew said, like a
red-hot iron. My father hesitated, looked out at the sky, and hesitated
still.
</p>
<p>
“I hardly know what to say, Ranald. If I were sure of the weather—but
I am very doubtful. However, if it should break up, we can stay there all
night. Yes.—Here, Allister; run and tell Andrew to saddle both the
mares, and bring them down directly.—Make haste with your dinner,
Ranald.”
</p>
<p>
Delighted at the prospect, I did make haste; the meal was soon over, and
Kirsty expended her utmost care in clothing me for the journey, which
would certainly be a much longer one in regard of time than of space. In
half an hour we were all mounted and on our way—the groom, who had
so lately traversed the road, a few yards in front.
</p>
<p>
I have already said, perhaps more than once, that my father took
comparatively little notice of us as children, beyond teaching us of a
Sunday, and sometimes of a week-evening in winter, generally after we were
in bed. He rarely fondled us, or did anything to supply in that manner the
loss of our mother. I believe his thoughts were tenderness itself towards
us, but they did not show themselves in ordinary shape: some connecting
link was absent. It seems to me now sometimes, that perhaps he was wisely
retentive of his feelings, and waited a better time to let them flow. For,
ever as we grew older, we drew nearer to my father, or, more properly, my
father drew us nearer to him, dropping, by degrees, that reticence which,
perhaps, too many parents of character keep up until their children are
full grown; and by this time he would converse with me most freely. I
presume he had found, or believed he had found me trustworthy, and
incapable of repeating unwisely any remarks he made. But much as he hated
certain kinds of gossip, he believed that indifference to your neighbour
and his affairs was worse. He said everything depended on the spirit in
which men spoke of each other; that much of what was called gossip was
only a natural love of biography, and, if kindly, was better than
blameless; that the greater part of it was objectionable, simply because
it was not loving, only curious; while a portion was amongst the wickedest
things on earth, because it had for its object to believe and make others
believe the worst. I mention these opinions of my father, lest anyone
should misjudge the fact of his talking to me as he did.
</p>
<p>
Our horses made very slow progress. It was almost nowhere possible to
trot, and we had to plod on, step by step. This made it more easy to
converse.
</p>
<p>
“The country looks dreary, doesn’t it, Ranald?” he said.
</p>
<p>
“Just like as if everything was dead, father,” I replied.
</p>
<p>
“If the sun were to cease shining altogether, what do you think would
happen?”
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="276.jpg (99K)" src="images/276.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
I thought a bit, but was not prepared to answer, when my father spoke
again.
</p>
<p>
“What makes the seeds grow, Ranald—the oats, and the wheat, and the
barley?”
</p>
<p>
“The rain, father,” I said, with half-knowledge.
</p>
<p>
“Well, if there were no sun, the vapours would not rise to make clouds.
What rain there was already in the sky would come down in snow or lumps of
ice. The earth would grow colder and colder, and harder and harder, until
at last it went sweeping through the air, one frozen mass, as hard as
stone, without a green leaf or a living creature upon it.”
</p>
<p>
“How dreadful to think of, father!” I said. “That would be frightful.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, my boy. It is the sun that is the life of the world. Not only does
he make the rain rise to fall on the seeds in the earth, but even that
would be useless, if he did not make them warm as well—and do
something else to them besides which we cannot understand. Farther down
into the earth than any of the rays of light can reach, he sends other
rays we cannot see, which go searching about in it, like long fingers; and
wherever they find and touch a seed, the life that is in that seed begins
to talk to itself, as it were, and straightway begins to grow. Out of the
dark earth he thus brings all the lovely green things of the spring, and
clothes the world with beauty, and sets the waters running, and the birds
singing, and the lambs bleating, and the children gathering daisies and
butter-cups, and the gladness overflowing in all hearts—very
different from what we see now—isn’t it, Ranald?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, father; a body can hardly believe, to look at it now, that the world
will ever be like that again.”
</p>
<p>
“But, for as cold and wretched as it looks, the sun has not forsaken it.
He has only drawn away from it a little, for good reasons, one of which is
that we may learn that we cannot do without him. If he were to go, not one
breath more could one of us draw. Horses and men, we should drop down
frozen lumps, as hard as stones. Who is the sun’s father, Ranald?”
</p>
<p>
“He hasn’t got a father,” I replied, hoping for some answer as to a
riddle.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, he has, Ranald: I can prove that. You remember whom the apostle
James calls the Father of Lights?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh yes, of course, father. But doesn’t that mean another kind of lights?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes. But they couldn’t be called lights if they were not like the sun.
All kinds of lights must come from the Father of Lights. Now the Father of
the sun must be like the sun, and, indeed of all material things, the sun
is likest to God. We pray to God to shine upon us and give us light. If
God did not shine into our hearts, they would be dead lumps of cold. We
shouldn’t care for anything whatever.”
</p>
<p>
“Then, father, God never stops shining upon us. He wouldn’t be like the
sun if he did. For even in winter the sun shines enough to keep us alive.”
</p>
<p>
“True, my boy. I am very glad you understand me. In all my experience I
have never yet known a man in whose heart I could not find proofs of the
shining of the great Sun. It might be a very feeble wintry shine, but
still he was there. For a human heart though, it is very dreadful to have
a cold, white winter like this inside it, instead of a summer of colour
and warmth and light. There’s the poor old man we are going to see. They
talk of the winter of age: that’s all very well, but the heart is not made
for winter. A man may have the snow on his roof, and merry children about
his hearth; he may have grey hairs on his head, and the very gladness of
summer in his bosom. But this old man, I am afraid, feels wintry cold
within.”
</p>
<p>
“Then why doesn’t the Father of Lights shine more on him and make him
warmer?”
</p>
<p>
“The sun is shining as much on the earth in the winter as in the summer:
why is the earth no warmer?”
</p>
<p>
“Because,” I answered, calling up what little astronomy I knew, “that part
of it is turned away from the sun.”
</p>
<p>
“Just so. Then if a man turns himself away from the Father of Lights—the
great Sun—how can he be warmed?”
</p>
<p>
“But the earth can’t help it, father.”
</p>
<p>
“But the man can, Ranald. He feels the cold, and he knows he can turn to
the light. Even this poor old man knows it now. God is shining on him—a
wintry way—or he would not feel the cold at all; he would be only a
lump of ice, a part of the very winter itself. The good of what warmth God
gives him is, that he feels cold. If he were all cold, he couldn’t feel
cold.”
</p>
<p>
“Does he want to turn to the Sun, then, father?”
</p>
<p>
“I do not know. I only know that he is miserable because he has not turned
to the Sun.”
</p>
<p>
“What will you say to him, father?”
</p>
<p>
“I cannot tell, my boy. It depends on what I find him thinking. Of all
things, my boy, keep your face to the Sun. You can’t shine of yourself,
you can’t be good of yourself, but God has made you able to turn to the
Sun whence all goodness and all shining comes. God’s children may be very
naughty, but they must be able to turn towards him. The Father of Lights
is the Father of every weakest little baby of a good thought in us, as
well as of the highest devotion of martyrdom. If you turn your face to the
Sun, my boy, your soul will, when you come to die, feel like an autumn,
with the golden fruits of the earth hanging in rich clusters ready to be
gathered—not like a winter. You may feel ever so worn, but you will
not feel withered. You will die in peace, hoping for the spring—and
such a spring!”
</p>
<p>
Thus talking, in the course of two hours or so we arrived at the dwelling
of the old laird.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link32" id="link32"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXXII
</h2>
<h3>
The Peat-Stack
</h3>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="281.jpg (95K)" src="images/281.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
How dreary the old house looked as we approached it through the gathering
darkness! All the light appeared to come from the snow which rested
wherever it could lie—on roofs and window ledges and turrets. Even
on the windward walls, every little roughness sustained its own frozen
patch, so that their grey was spotted all over with whiteness. Not a
glimmer shone from the windows.
</p>
<p>
“Nobody lives <i>there</i>, father,” I said,—“surely?”
</p>
<p>
“It does not look very lively,” he answered.
</p>
<p>
The house stood upon a bare knoll. There was not a tree within sight.
Rugged hills arose on all sides of it. Not a sound was heard but the moan
of an occasional gust of wind. There was a brook, but it lay frozen
beneath yards of snow. For miles in any direction those gusts might wander
without shaking door or window, or carrying with them a puff of smoke from
any hearth. We were crossing the yard at the back of the house, towards
the kitchen-door, for the front door had not been opened for months, when
we recognized the first sign of life. That was only the low of a bullock.
As we dismounted on a few feet of rough pavement which had been swept
clear, an old woman came to the door, and led us into a dreary parlour
without even a fire to welcome us.
</p>
<p>
I learned afterwards that the laird, from being a spendthrift in his
youth, had become a miser in his age, and that every household arrangement
was on the narrowest scale. From wasting righteous pounds, he had come to
scraping unrighteous farthings.
</p>
<p>
After we had remained standing for some time, the housekeeper returned,
and invited my father to go to the laird’s room. As they went, he
requested her to take me to the kitchen, which, after conducting him, she
did. The sight of the fire, although it was of the smallest, was most
welcome. She laid a few more peats upon it, and encouraged them to a
blaze, remarking, with a sidelong look: “We daren’t do this, you see, sir,
if the laird was about. The honest man would call it waste.”
</p>
<p>
“Is he dying?” I asked, for the sake of saying something; but she only
shook her head for reply, and, going to a press at the other end of the
large, vault-like kitchen, brought me some milk in a basin, and some
oatcake upon a platter, saying,
</p>
<p>
“It’s not my house, you see, or I would have something better to set
before the minister’s son.”
</p>
<p>
I was glad of any food however, and it was well for me that I ate
heartily. I had got quite warm also before my father stepped into the
kitchen, very solemn, and stood up with his back to the fire. The old
woman set him a chair, but he neither sat down nor accepted the
refreshment which she humbly offered him.
</p>
<p>
“We must be going,” he objected, “for it looks stormy, and the sooner we
set out the better.”
</p>
<p>
“I’m sorry I can’t ask you to stop the night,” she said, “for I couldn’t
make you comfortable. There’s nothing fit to offer you in the house, and
there’s not a bed that’s been slept in for I don’t know how long.”
</p>
<p>
“Never mind,” said my father cheerfully. “The moon is up already, and we
shall get home I trust before the snow begins to fall. Will you tell the
man to get the horses out?”
</p>
<p>
When she returned from taking the message, she came up to my father and
said, in a loud whisper,
</p>
<p>
“Is he in a bad way, sir?”
</p>
<p>
“He is dying,” answered my father.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="284.jpg (118K)" src="images/284.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
“I know that,” she returned. “He’ll be gone before the morning. But that’s
not what I meant. Is he in a bad way for the other world? That’s what I
meant, sir.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, my good woman, after a life like his, we are only too glad to
remember what our Lord told us—not to judge. I do think he is
ashamed and sorry for his past life. But it’s not the wrong he has done in
former time that stands half so much in his way as his present fondness
for what he counts his own. It seems like to break his heart to leave all
his little bits of property—particularly the money he has saved; and
yet he has some hope that Jesus Christ will be kind enough to pardon him.
I am afraid he will find himself very miserable though, when he has not
one scrap left to call his own—not a pocket-knife even.”
</p>
<p>
“It’s dreadful to think of him flying through the air on a night like
this,” said she.
</p>
<p>
“My good woman,” returned my father, “we know nothing about where or how
the departed spirit exists after it has left the body. But it seems to me
just as dreadful to be without God in the world, as to be without him
anywhere else. Let us pray for him that God may be with him wherever he
is.”
</p>
<p>
So saying, my father knelt down, and we beside him, and he prayed
earnestly to God for the old man. Then we rose, mounted our horses, and
rode away.
</p>
<p>
We were only about halfway home, when the clouds began to cover the moon,
and the snow began to fall. Hitherto we had got on pretty well, for there
was light enough to see the track, feeble as it was. Now, however, we had
to keep a careful lookout. We pressed our horses, and they went bravely,
but it was slow work at the best. It got darker and darker, for the clouds
went on gathering, and the snow was coming down in huge dull flakes.
Faster and thicker they came, until at length we could see nothing of the
road before us, and were compelled to leave all to the wisdom of our
horses. My father, having great confidence in his own little mare, which
had carried him through many a doubtful and difficult place, rode first. I
followed close behind. He kept on talking to me very cheerfully—I
have thought since—to prevent me from getting frightened. But I had
not a thought of fear. To be with my father was to me perfect safety. He
was in the act of telling me how, on more occasions than one, Missy had
got him through places where the road was impassable, by walking on the
tops of the walls, when all at once both our horses plunged into a gulf of
snow. The more my mare struggled, the deeper we sank in it. For a moment I
thought it was closing over my head.
</p>
<p>
“Father! father!” I shouted.
</p>
<p>
“Don’t be frightened, my boy,” cried my father, his voice seeming to come
from far away. “We are in God’s hands. I can’t help you now, but as soon
as Missy has got quieter, I shall come to you. I think I know whereabouts
we are. We’ve dropped right off the road. You’re not hurt, are you?”
</p>
<p>
“Not in the least,” I answered. “I was only frightened.”
</p>
<p>
A few moments more, and my mare lay or rather stuck quiet, with her neck
and head thrown back, and her body deep in the snow. I put up my hands to
feel. It rose above my head farther than I could reach. I got clear of the
stirrups and scrambled up, first on my knees, and then on my feet.
Standing thus upon the saddle, again I stretched my hands above my head,
but still the broken wall of snow ascended above my reach. I could see
nothing of my father, but I heard him talking to Missy. My mare soon began
floundering again, so that I tumbled about against the sides of the hole,
and grew terrified lest I should bring the snow down. I therefore cowered
upon the mare’s back until she was quiet again. “Woa! Quiet, my lass!” I
heard my father saying, and it seemed his Missy was more frightened than
mine.
</p>
<p>
My fear was now quite gone, and I felt much inclined to laugh at the fun
of the misadventure. I had as yet no idea of how serious a thing it might
be. Still I had sense enough to see that something must be done—but
what? I saw no way of getting out of the hole except by trampling down the
snow upon the back of my poor mare, and that I could not think of; while I
doubted much whether my father even could tell in what direction to turn
for help or shelter.
</p>
<p>
Finding our way home, even if we got free, seemed out of the question.
Again my mare began plunging violently, and this time I found myself
thrown against some hard substance. I thrust my hand through the snow, and
felt what I thought the stones of one of the dry walls common to the
country. I might clear away enough of the snow to climb upon that; but
then what next—it was so dark?
</p>
<p>
“Ranald!” cried my father; “how do you get on?”
</p>
<p>
“Much the same, father,” I answered.
</p>
<p>
“I’m out of the wreath,” he returned. “We’ve come through on the other
side. You are better where you are I suspect, however. The snow is warmer
than the air. It is beginning to blow. Pull your feet out and get right
upon the mare’s back.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s just where I am, father—lying on her back, and pretty
comfortable,” I rejoined.
</p>
<p>
All this time the snow was falling thick. If it went on like this, I
should be buried before morning, and the fact that the wind was rising
added to the danger of it. We were at the wrong end of the night too.
</p>
<p>
“I’m in a kind of ditch, I think, father,” I cried—the place we fell
off on one side and a stone wall on the other.”
</p>
<p>
“That can hardly be, or I shouldn’t have got out,” he returned. “But now
I’ve got Missy quiet, I’ll come to you. I must get you out, I see, or you
will be snowed up. Woa, Missy! Good mare! Stand still.”
</p>
<p>
The next moment he gave a joyous exclamation.
</p>
<p>
“What is it, father?” I cried.
</p>
<p>
“It’s not a stone wall; it’s a peat-stack. That <i>is</i> good.”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t see what good it is. We can’t light a fire.”
</p>
<p>
“No, my boy; but where there’s a peat-stack, there’s probably a house.”
</p>
<p>
He began uttering a series of shouts at the top of his voice, listening
between for a response. This lasted a good while. I began to get very
cold.
</p>
<p>
“I’m nearly frozen, father,” I said, “and what’s to become of the poor
mare—she’s got no clothes on?”
</p>
<p>
“I’ll get you out, my boy; and then at least you will be able to move
about a little.”
</p>
<p>
I heard him shovelling at the snow with his hands and feet.
</p>
<p>
“I have got to the corner of the stack, and as well as I can judge you
must be just round it,” he said.
</p>
<p>
“Your voice is close to me,” I answered.
</p>
<p>
“I’ve got a hold of one of the mare’s ears,” he said next. “I won’t try to
get her out until I get you off her.”
</p>
<p>
I put out my hand, and felt along the mare’s neck. What a joy it was to
catch my father’s hand through the darkness and the snow! He grasped mine
and drew me towards him, then got me by the arm and began dragging me
through the snow. The mare began plunging again, and by her struggles
rather assisted my father. In a few moments he had me in his arms.
</p>
<p>
“Thank God!” he said, as he set me down against the peat-stack. “Stand
there. A little farther. Keep well off for fear she hurt you. She must
fight her way out now.”
</p>
<p>
He went back to the mare, and went on clearing away the snow. Then I could
hear him patting and encouraging her. Next I heard a great blowing and
scrambling, and at last a snort and the thunder of hoofs.
</p>
<p>
“Woa! woa! Gently! gently!—She’s off!” cried my father.
</p>
<p>
Her mother gave one snort, and away she went, thundering after her. But
their sounds were soon quenched in the snow.
</p>
<p>
“There’s a business!” said my father. “I’m afraid the poor things will
only go farther to fare the worse. We are as well without them, however;
and if they should find their way home, so much the better for us. They
might have kept us a little warmer though. We must fight the cold as we
best can for the rest of the night, for it would only be folly to leave
the spot before it is light enough to see where we are going.”
</p>
<p>
It came into my mind suddenly how I had burrowed in the straw to hide
myself after running from Dame Shand’s. But whether that or the thought of
burrowing in the peat-stack came first, I cannot tell. I turned and felt
whether I could draw out a peat. With a little loosening I succeeded.
</p>
<p>
“Father,” I said, “couldn’t we make a hole in the peat-stalk, and build
ourselves in?”
</p>
<p>
“A capital idea, my boy!” he answered, with a gladness in his voice which
I venture to attribute in part to his satisfaction at finding that I had
some practical sense in me. “We’ll try it at once.”
</p>
<p>
“I’ve got two or three out already,” I said, for I had gone on pulling,
and it was easy enough after one had been started.
</p>
<p>
“We must take care we don’t bring down the whole stack though,” said my
father.
</p>
<p>
“Even then,” I returned, “we could build ourselves up in them, and that
would be something.”
</p>
<p>
“Right, Ranald! It would be only making houses to our own shape, instead
of big enough to move about in—turning crustaceous animals, you
know.”
</p>
<p>
“It would be a peat-greatcoat at least,” I remarked, pulling away.
</p>
<p>
“Here,” he said, “I will put my stick in under the top row. That will be a
sort of lintel to support those above.”
</p>
<p>
He always carried his walking-stick whether he rode or walked.
</p>
<p>
We worked with a will, piling up the peats a little in front that we might
with them build up the door of our cave after we were inside. We got quite
merry over it.
</p>
<p>
“We shall be brought before the magistrates for destruction of property,”
said my father.
</p>
<p>
“You’ll have to send Andrew to build up the stack again—that’s all.”
</p>
<p>
“But I wonder how it is that nobody hears us. How can they have a
peat-stack so far from the house?”
</p>
<p>
“I can’t imagine,” I said; “except it be to prevent them from burning too
many peats. It is more like a trick of the poor laird than anybody else.”
</p>
<p>
Every now and then a few would come down with a rush, and before long we
had made a large hole. We left a good thick floor to sit upon.
</p>
<p>
Creeping in, we commenced building up the entrance. We had not proceeded
far, however, before we found that our cave was too small, and that as we
should have to remain in it for hours, we must find it very cramped.
Therefore, instead of using any more of the peats already pulled out, we
finished building up the wall with others fresh drawn from the inside.
When at length we had, to the best of our ability, completed our immuring,
we sat down to wait for the morning—my father as calm as if he had
been seated in his study-chair, and I in a state of condensed delight; for
was not this a grand adventure—with my father to share it, and keep
it from going too far? He sat with his back leaning against the side of
the hole, and I sat between his knees, and leaned against him. His arms
were folded round me; and could ever boy be more blessed than I was then?
The sense of outside danger; the knowledge that if the wind rose, we might
be walled up in snow before the morning; the assurance of present safety
and good hope—all made such an impression upon my mind that ever
since when any trouble has threatened me, I have invariably turned first
in thought to the memory of that harbour of refuge from the storm. There I
sat for long hours secure in my father’s arms, and knew that the soundless
snow was falling thick around us, and marked occasionally the threatening
wail of the wind like the cry of a wild beast scenting us from afar.
</p>
<p>
“This is grand, father,” I said.
</p>
<p>
“You would like better to be at home in bed, wouldn’t you?” he asked,
trying me.
</p>
<p>
“No, indeed, I should not,” I answered, with more than honesty; for I felt
exuberantly happy.
</p>
<p>
“If only we can keep warm,” said my father. “If you should get very cold
indeed, you must not lose heart, my man, but think how pleasant it will be
when we get home to a good fire and a hot breakfast.”
</p>
<p>
“I think I can bear it all right. I have often been cold enough at
school.”
</p>
<p>
“This may be worse. But we need not anticipate evil: that is to send out
for the suffering. It is well to be prepared for it, but it is ill to
brood over a fancied future of evil. In all my life, my boy—and I
should like you to remember what I say—I have never found any trial
go beyond what I could bear. In the worst cases of suffering, I think
there is help given which those who look on cannot understand, but which
enables the sufferer to endure. The last help of that kind is death, which
I think is always a blessing, though few people can regard it as such.”
</p>
<p>
I listened with some wonder. Without being able to see that what he said
was true, I could yet accept it after a vague fashion.
</p>
<p>
“This nest which we have made to shelter us,” he resumed, “brings to my
mind what the Psalmist says about dwelling in the secret place of the Most
High. Everyone who will, may there, like the swallow, make himself a
nest.”
</p>
<p>
“This can’t be very like that, though, surely, father,” I ventured to
object.
</p>
<p>
“Why not, my boy?”
</p>
<p>
“It’s not safe enough, for one thing.”
</p>
<p>
“You are right there. Still it is like. It is our place of refuge.”
</p>
<p>
“The cold does get through it, father.”
</p>
<p>
“But it keeps our minds at peace. Even the refuge in God does not always
secure us from external suffering. The heart may be quite happy and strong
when the hands are benumbed with cold. Yes, the heart even may grow cold
with coming death, while the man himself retreats the farther into the
secret place of the Most High, growing more calm and hopeful as the last
cold invades the house of his body. I believe that all troubles come to
drive us into that refuge—that secret place where alone we can be
safe. You will, when you go out into the world, my boy, find that most men
not only do not believe this, but do not believe that you believe it. They
regard it at best as a fantastic weakness, fit only for sickly people. But
watch how the strength of such people, their calmness and common sense,
fares when the grasp of suffering lays hold upon them. It was a sad sight—that
abject hopeless misery I saw this afternoon. If his mind had been an
indication of the reality, one must have said that there was no God—no
God at least that would have anything to do with him. The universe as
reflected in the tarnished mirror of his soul, was a chill misty void,
through which blew the moaning wind of an unknown fate. As near as ever I
saw it, that man was without God and without hope in the world. All who
have done the mightiest things—I do not mean the showiest things—all
that are like William of Orange—the great William, I mean, not our
King William—or John Milton, or William Penn, or any other of the
cloud of witnesses spoken of in the Epistle to the Hebrews—all the
men I say who have done the mightiest things, have not only believed that
there was this refuge in God, but have themselves more or less entered
into the secret place of the Most High. There only could they have found
strength to do their mighty deeds. They were able to do them because they
knew God wanted them to do them, that he was on their side, or rather they
were on his side, and therefore safe, surrounded by God on every side. My
boy, do the will of God—that is, what you know or believe to be
right, and fear nothing.”
</p>
<p>
I never forgot the lesson. But my readers must not think that my father
often talked like this. He was not at all favourable to much talk about
religion. He used to say that much talk prevented much thought, and talk
without thought was bad. Therefore it was for the most part only upon
extraordinary occasions, of which this is an example, that he spoke of the
deep simplicities of that faith in God which was the very root of his
conscious life.
</p>
<p>
He was silent after this utterance, which lasted longer than I have
represented, although unbroken, I believe, by any remark of mine. Full of
inward repose, I fell asleep in his arms.
</p>
<p>
When I awoke I found myself very cold. Then I became aware that my father
was asleep, and for the first time began to be uneasy. It was not because
of the cold: that was not at all unendurable; it was that while the night
lay awful in white silence about me, while the wind was moaning outside,
and blowing long thin currents through the peat walls around me, while our
warm home lay far away, and I could not tell how many hours of cold
darkness had yet to pass before we could set out to find it,—it was
not all these things together, but that, in the midst of all these, I was
awake and my father slept. I could easily have waked him, but I was not
selfish enough for that: I sat still and shivered and felt very dreary.
Then the last words of my father began to return upon me, and, with a
throb of relief, the thought awoke in my mind that although my father was
asleep, the great Father of us both, he in whose heart lay that secret
place of refuge, neither slumbered nor slept. And now I was able to wait
in patience, with an idea, if not a sense of the present care of God, such
as I had never had before. When, after some years, my father was taken
from us, the thought of this night came again and again, and I would say
in my heart: “My father sleeps that I may know the better that The Father
wakes.”
</p>
<p>
At length he stirred. The first sign of his awaking was, that he closed
again the arms about me which had dropped by his sides as he slept.
</p>
<p>
“I’m so glad you’re awake, father,” I said, speaking first.
</p>
<p>
“Have <i>you</i> been long awake then?”
</p>
<p>
“Not so very long, but I felt lonely without you.”
</p>
<p>
“Are you very cold? <i>I</i> feel rather chilly.”
</p>
<p>
So we chatted away for a while.
</p>
<p>
“I wonder if it is nearly day yet. I do not in the least know how long we
have slept. I wonder if my watch is going. I forgot to wind it up last
night. If it has stopped I shall know it is near daylight.”
</p>
<p>
He held his watch to his ear: alas! it was ticking vigorously. He felt for
the keyhole, and wound it up. After that we employed ourselves in
repeating as many of the metrical psalms and paraphrases of Scripture as
we could recollect, and this helped away a good part of the weary time.
</p>
<p>
But it went very slowly, and I was growing so cold that I could hardly
bear it.
</p>
<p>
“I’m afraid you feel very cold, Ranald,” said my father, folding me closer
in his arms. “You must try not to go to sleep again, for that would be
dangerous now. I feel more cramped than cold.”
</p>
<p>
As he said this, he extended his legs and threw his head back, to get rid
of the uneasiness by stretching himself. The same moment, down came a
shower of peats upon our heads and bodies, and when I tried to move, I
found myself fixed. I could not help laughing.
</p>
<p>
“Father,” I cried, as soon as I could speak, “you’re like Samson: you’ve
brought down the house upon us.”
</p>
<p>
“So I have, my boy. It was very thoughtless of me. I don’t know what we <i>are</i>
to do now.”
</p>
<p>
“Can you move, father? <i>I</i> can’t,” I said.
</p>
<p>
“I can move my legs, but I’m afraid to move even a toe in my boot for fear
of bringing down another avalanche of peats. But no—there’s not much
danger of that: they are all down already, for I feel the snow on my
face.”
</p>
<p>
With hands and feet my father struggled, but could not do much, for I lay
against him under a great heap. His struggles made an opening sideways
however.
</p>
<p>
“Father! father! shout,” I cried. “I see a light somewhere; and I think it
is moving.”
</p>
<p>
We shouted as loud as we could, and then lay listening. My heart beat so
that I was afraid I should not hear any reply that might come. But the
next moment it rang through the frosty air.
</p>
<p>
“It’s Turkey! That’s Turkey, father!” I cried. “I know his shout. He makes
it go farther than anybody else.—Turkey! Turkey!” I shrieked, almost
weeping with delight.
</p>
<p>
Again Turkey’s cry rang through the darkness, and the light drew wavering
nearer.
</p>
<p>
“Mind how you step, Turkey,” cried my father. “There’s a hole you may
tumble into.”
</p>
<p>
“It wouldn’t hurt him much in the snow,” I said.
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps not, but he would probably lose his light, and that we can hardly
afford.”
</p>
<p>
“Shout again,” cried Turkey. “I can’t make out where you are.”
</p>
<p>
My father shouted.
</p>
<p>
“Am I coming nearer to you now?”
</p>
<p>
“I can hardly say. I cannot see well. Are you going along the road?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes. Can’t you come to me?”
</p>
<p>
“Not yet. We can’t get out. We’re upon your right hand, in a peat-stack.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh! I know the peat-stack. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
</p>
<p>
He did not however find it so easily as he had expected, the peats being
covered with snow. My father gave up trying to free himself and took to
laughing instead at the ridiculous situation in which we were about to be
discovered. He kept directing Turkey, however, who at length after some
disappearances which made us very anxious about the lantern, caught sight
of the stack, and walked straight towards it. Now first we saw that he was
not alone, but accompanied by the silent Andrew.
</p>
<p>
“Where are you, sir?” asked Turkey, throwing the light of the lantern over
the ruin.
</p>
<p>
“Buried in the peats,” answered my father, laughing. “Come and get us
out.”
</p>
<p>
Turkey strode up to the heap, and turning the light down into it said,
</p>
<p>
“I didn’t know it had been raining peats, sir.”
</p>
<p>
“The peats didn’t fall quite so far as the snow, Turkey, or they would
have made a worse job of it,” answered my father.
</p>
<p>
Meantime Andrew and Turkey were both busy; and in a few moments we stood
upon our feet, stiff with cold and cramped with confinement, but merry
enough at heart.
</p>
<p>
“What brought you out to look for us?” asked my father.
</p>
<p>
“I heard Missy whinnying at the stable-door,” said Andrew. “When I saw she
was alone, I knew something had happened, and waked Turkey. We only
stopped to run to the manse for a drop of whisky to bring with us, and set
out at once.”
</p>
<p>
“What o’clock is it now?” asked my father.
</p>
<p>
“About one o’clock,” answered Andrew.
</p>
<p>
“One o’clock!” thought I. “What a time we should have had to wait!”
</p>
<p>
“Have you been long in finding us?”
</p>
<p>
“Only about an hour.”
</p>
<p>
“Then the little mare must have had great trouble in getting home. You say
the other was not with her?”
</p>
<p>
“No, sir. She’s not made her appearance.”
</p>
<p>
“Then if we don’t find her, she will be dead before morning. But what
shall we do with you, Ranald? Turkey had better go home with you first.”
</p>
<p>
“Please let me go too,” I said.
</p>
<p>
“Are you able to walk?”
</p>
<p>
“Quite—or at least I shall be, after my legs come to themselves a
bit.”
</p>
<p>
Turkey produced a bottle of milk which he had brought for me, and Andrew
produced the little flask of whisky which Kirsty had sent; and my father
having taken a little of the latter, while I emptied my bottle, we set out
to look for young Missy.
</p>
<p>
“Where are we?” asked my father.
</p>
<p>
Turkey told him.
</p>
<p>
“How comes it that nobody heard our shouting, then?”
</p>
<p>
“You know, sir,” answered Turkey, “the old man is as deaf as a post, and I
dare say his people were all fast asleep.”
</p>
<p>
The snow was falling only in a few large flakes now, which sank through
the air like the moultings of some lovely bird of heaven. The moon had
come out again, and the white world lay around us in lovely light. A good
deal of snow had fallen while we lay in the peats, but we could yet trace
the track of the two horses. We followed it a long way through the little
valley into which we had dropped from the side of the road. We came to
more places than one where they had been floundering together in a
snow-wreath, but at length reached the spot where one had parted from the
other. When we had traced one of the tracks to the road, we concluded it
was Missy’s, and returned to the other. But we had not followed it very
far before we came upon the poor mare lying upon her back in a deep
runnel, in which the snow was very soft. She had put her forefeet in it as
she galloped heedlessly along, and tumbled right over. The snow had
yielded enough to let the banks get a hold of her, and she lay helpless.
Turkey and Andrew, however, had had the foresight to bring spades with
them and a rope, and they set to work at once, my father taking a turn now
and then, and I holding the lantern, which was all but useless now in the
moonlight. It took more than an hour to get the poor thing on her legs
again, but when she was up, it was all they could do to hold her. She was
so wild with cold, and with delight at feeling her legs under her once
more, that she would have broken loose again, and galloped off as
recklessly as ever. They set me on her back, and with my father on one
side and Turkey on the other, and Andrew at her head, I rode home in great
comfort. It was another good hour before we arrived, and right glad were
we to see through the curtains of the parlour the glow of the great fire
which Kirsty had kept up for us. She burst out crying when we made our
appearance.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link33" id="link33"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXXIII
</h2>
<h3>
A Solitary Chapter
</h3>
<p>
During all that winter I attended the evening school and assisted the
master. I confess, however, it was not by any means so much for the master
as to be near Elsie Duff, of whom I now thought many times an hour. Her
sweet face grew more and more dear to me. When I pointed out an error in
her work, or suggested a better mode of working, it would flush like the
heart of a white rose, and eagerly she would set herself to rectification
or improvement, her whole manner a dumb apology for what could be a fault
in no eyes but her own. It was this sweetness that gained upon me: at
length her face was almost a part of my consciousness. I suppose my
condition was what people would call being in love with her; but I never
thought of that; I only thought of her. Nor did I ever dream of saying a
word to her on the subject. I wished nothing other than as it was. To
think about her all day, so gently that it never disturbed Euclid or Livy;
to see her at night, and get near her now and then, sitting on the same
form with her as I explained something to her on the slate or in her book;
to hear her voice, and look into her tender eyes, was all that I desired.
It never occurred to me that things could not go on so; that a change must
come; that as life cannot linger in the bud, but is compelled by the
sunshine and air into the flower, so life would go on and on, and things
would change, and the time blossom into something else, and my love find
itself set out-of-doors in the midst of strange plants and a new order of
things.
</p>
<p>
When school was over, I walked home with her—not alone, for Turkey
was always on the other side. I had not a suspicion that Turkey’s
admiration of Elsie could ever come into collision with mine. We joined in
praising her, but my admiration ever found more words than Turkey’s, and I
thought my love to her was greater than his.
</p>
<p>
We seldom went into her grandmother’s cottage, for she did not make us
welcome. After we had taken her home we generally repaired to Turkey’s
mother, with whom we were sure of a kind reception. She was a patient
diligent woman, who looked as if she had nearly done with life, and had
only to gather up the crumbs of it. I have often wondered since, what was
her deepest thought—whether she was content to be unhappy, or
whether she lived in hope of some blessedness beyond. It is marvellous
with how little happiness some people can get through the world. Surely
they are inwardly sustained with something even better than joy.
</p>
<p>
“Did you ever hear my mother sing?” asked Turkey, as we sat together over
her little fire, on one of these occasions.
</p>
<p>
“No. I should like very much,” I answered.
</p>
<p>
The room was lighted only by a little oil-lamp, for there was no flame to
the fire of peats and dried oak-bark.
</p>
<p>
“She sings such queer ballads as you never heard,” said Turkey. “Give us
one, mother; do.”
</p>
<p>
She yielded, and, in a low chanting voice, sang something like this:—
</p>
<table summary="chaunt">
<tr>
<td>
<p>
Up cam’ the waves o’ the tide wi’ a whush,<br /> And back gaed the
pebbles wi’ a whurr,<br /> Whan the king’s ae son cam’ walking i’ the
hush,<br /> To hear the sea murmur and murr.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
The half mune was risin’ the waves abune,<br /> An’ a glimmer o’
cauld weet licht<br /> Cam’ ower the water straucht frae the mune,<br />
Like a path across the nicht.
</p>
<br /> <br /><br />
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="308.jpg (122K)" src="images/308.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<br /><br />
<p>
What’s that, an’ that, far oot i’ the grey<br /> Atwixt the mune and
the land?<br /> It’s the bonny sea-maidens at their play—<br />
Haud awa’, king’s son, frae the strand.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
Ae rock stud up wi’ a shadow at its foot:<br /> The king’s son
stepped behind:<br /> The merry sea-maidens cam’ gambolling oot,<br />
Combin’ their hair i’ the wind.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
O merry their laugh when they felt the land<br /> Under their light
cool feet!<br /> Each laid her comb on the yellow sand,<br /> And the
gladsome dance grew fleet.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
But the fairest she laid her comb by itsel’<br /> On the rock where
the king’s son lay.<br /> He stole about, and the carven shell<br />
He hid in his bosom away.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
And he watched the dance till the clouds did gloom,<br /> And the
wind blew an angry tune:<br /> One after one she caught up her comb,<br />
To the sea went dancin’ doon.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
But the fairest, wi’ hair like the mune in a clud,<br /> She sought
till she was the last.<br /> He creepin’ went and watchin’ stud,<br />
And he thought to hold her fast.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
She dropped at his feet without motion or heed;<br /> He took her,
and home he sped.—<br /> All day she lay like a withered
seaweed,<br /> On a purple and gowden bed.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
But at night whan the wind frae the watery bars<br /> Blew into the
dusky room,<br /> She opened her een like twa settin’ stars,<br /> And
back came her twilight bloom.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
The king’s son knelt beside her bed:<br /> She was his ere a month
had passed;<br /> And the cold sea-maiden he had wed<br /> Grew a
tender wife at last.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
And all went well till her baby was born,<br /> And then she couldna
sleep;<br /> She would rise and wander till breakin’ morn,<br />
Hark-harkin’ the sound o’ the deep.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
One night when the wind was wailing about,<br /> And the sea was
speckled wi’ foam,<br /> From room to room she went in and out<br />
And she came on her carven comb.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
She twisted her hair with eager hands,<br /> She put in the comb with
glee:<br /> She’s out and she’s over the glittering sands,<br /> And
away to the moaning sea.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
One cry came back from far away:<br /> He woke, and was all alone.<br />
Her night robe lay on the marble grey,<br /> And the cold sea-maiden
was gone.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
Ever and aye frae first peep o’ the moon,<br /> Whan the wind blew
aff o’ the sea,<br /> The desert shore still up and doon<br /> Heavy
at heart paced he.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
But never more came the maidens to play<br /> From the merry
cold-hearted sea;<br /> He heard their laughter far out and away,<br />
But heavy at heart paced he.
</p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p>
I have modernized the ballad—indeed spoiled it altogether, for I
have made up this version from the memory of it—with only, I fear,
just a touch here and there of the original expression.
</p>
<p>
“That’s what comes of taking what you have no right to,” said Turkey, in
whom the practical had ever the upper hand of the imaginative.
</p>
<p>
As we walked home together I resumed the subject.
</p>
<p>
“I think you’re too hard on the king’s son,” I said. “He couldn’t help
falling in love with the mermaid.”
</p>
<p>
“He had no business to steal her comb, and then run away with herself,”
said Turkey.
</p>
<p>
“She was none the worse for it,” said I.
</p>
<p>
“Who told you that?” he retorted. “I don’t think the girl herself would
have said so. It’s not every girl that would care to marry a king’s son.
She might have had a lover of her own down in the sea. At all events the
prince was none the better for it.”
</p>
<p>
“But the song says she made a tender wife,” I objected.
</p>
<p>
“She couldn’t help herself. She made the best of it. I dare say he wasn’t
a bad sort of a fellow, but he was no gentleman.”
</p>
<p>
“Turkey!” I exclaimed. “He was a prince!”
</p>
<p>
“I know that.”
</p>
<p>
“Then he must have been a gentleman.”
</p>
<p>
“I don’t know that. I’ve read of a good many princes who did things I
should be ashamed to do.”
</p>
<p>
“But you’re not a prince, Turkey,” I returned, in the low endeavour to
bolster up the wrong with my silly logic.
</p>
<p>
“No. Therefore if I were to do what was rude and dishonest, people would
say: ‘What could you expect of a ploughboy?’ A prince ought to be just so
much better bred than a ploughboy. I would scorn to do what that prince
did. What’s wrong in a ploughboy can’t be right in a prince, Ranald. Or
else right is only right sometimes; so that right may be wrong and wrong
may be right, which is as much as to say there is no right and wrong; and
if there’s no right and wrong, the world’s an awful mess, and there can’t
be any God, for a God would never have made it like that.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, Turkey, you know best. I can’t help thinking the prince was not so
much to blame, though.”
</p>
<p>
“You see what came of it—misery.”
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps he would rather have had the misery and all together than none of
it.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s for him to settle. But he must have seen he was wrong, before he
had done wandering by the sea like that.”
</p>
<p>
“Well now, Turkey, what would you have done yourself, suppose the
beautifulest of them all had laid her comb down within an inch of where
you were standing—and never saw you, you know?”
</p>
<p>
Turkey thought for a moment before answering.
</p>
<p>
“I’m supposing you fell in love with her at first sight, you know,” I
added.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I’m sure I should not have kept the comb, even if I had taken it
just to get a chance of speaking to her. And I can’t help fancying if he
had behaved like a gentleman, and let her go without touching her the
first time, she might have come again; and if he had married her at last
of her own free will, she would not have run away from him, let the sea
have kept calling her ever so much.”
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="313.jpg (87K)" src="images/313.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
The next evening, I looked for Elsie as usual, but did not see her. How
blank and dull the schoolroom seemed! Still she might arrive any moment.
But she did not come. I went through my duties wearily, hoping ever for
the hour of release. I could see well enough that Turkey was anxious too.
The moment school was over, we hurried away, almost without a word, to the
cottage. There we found her weeping. Her grandmother had died suddenly.
She clung to Turkey, and seemed almost to forget my presence. But I
thought nothing of that. Had the case been mine, I too should have clung
to Turkey from faith in his help and superior wisdom.
</p>
<p>
There were two or three old women in the place. Turkey went and spoke to
them, and then took Elsie home to his mother. Jamie was asleep, and they
would not wake him.
</p>
<p>
How it was arranged, I forget, but both Elsie and Jamie lived for the rest
of the winter with Turkey’s mother. The cottage was let, and the cow taken
home by their father. Before summer Jamie had got a place in a shop in the
village, and then Elsie went back to her mother.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link34" id="link34"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXXIV
</h2>
<h3>
An Evening Visit
</h3>
<p>
I now saw much less of Elsie; but I went with Turkey, as often as I could,
to visit her at her father’s cottage. The evenings we spent there are
amongst the happiest hours in my memory. One evening in particular appears
to stand out as a type of the whole. I remember every point in the visit.
I think it must have been almost the last. We set out as the sun was going
down on an evening in the end of April, when the nightly frosts had not
yet vanished. The hail was dancing about us as we started; the sun was
disappearing in a bank of tawny orange cloud; the night would be cold and
dark and stormy; but we cared nothing for that: a conflict with the
elements always added to the pleasure of any undertaking then. It was in
the midst of another shower of hail, driven on the blasts of a keen wind,
that we arrived at the little cottage. It had been built by Duff himself
to receive his bride, and although since enlarged, was still a very little
house. It had a foundation of stone, but the walls were of turf. He had
lined it with boards, however, and so made it warmer and more comfortable
than most of the labourers’ dwellings. When we entered, a glowing fire of
peat was on the hearth, and the pot with the supper hung over it. Mrs.
Duff was spinning, and Elsie, by the light of a little oil lamp suspended
against the wall, was teaching her youngest brother to read. Whatever she
did, she always seemed in my eyes to do it better than anyone else; and to
see her under the lamp, with one arm round the little fellow who stood
leaning against her, while the other hand pointed with a knitting-needle
to the letters of the spelling-book which lay on her knee, was to see a
lovely picture. The mother did not rise from her spinning, but spoke a
kindly welcome, while Elsie got up, and without approaching us, or saying
more than a word or two, set chairs for us by the fire, and took the
little fellow away to put him to bed.
</p>
<p>
“It’s a cold night,” said Mrs. Duff. “The wind seems to blow through me as
I sit at my wheel. I wish my husband would come home.”
</p>
<p>
“He’ll be suppering his horses,” said Turkey. “I’ll just run across and
give him a hand, and that’ll bring him in the sooner.”
</p>
<p>
“Thank you, Turkey,” said Mrs. Duff as he vanished.
</p>
<p>
“He’s a fine lad,” she remarked, much in the same phrase my father used
when speaking of him.
</p>
<p>
“There’s nobody like Turkey,” I said.
</p>
<p>
“Indeed, I think you’re right there, Ranald. A better-behaved lad doesn’t
step. He’ll do something to distinguish himself some day. I shouldn’t
wonder if he went to college, and wagged his head in a pulpit yet.”
</p>
<p>
The idea of Turkey wagging his head in a pulpit made me laugh.
</p>
<p>
“Wait till you see,” resumed Mrs. Duff, somewhat offended at my reception
of her prophecy. “Folk will hear of him yet.”
</p>
<p>
“I didn’t mean he couldn’t be a minister, Mrs. Duff. But I don’t think he
will take to that.”
</p>
<p>
Here Elsie came back, and lifting the lid of the pot, examined the state
of its contents. I got hold of her hand, but for the first time she
withdrew it. I did not feel hurt, for she did it very gently. Then she
began to set the white deal table in the middle of the floor, and by the
time she had put the plates and spoons upon it, the water in the pot was
boiling, and she began to make the porridge, at which she was judged to be
first-rate—in my mind, equal to our Kirsty. By the time it was
ready, her father and Turkey came in. James Duff said grace, and we sat
down to our supper. The wind was blowing hard outside, and every now and
then the hail came in deafening rattles against the little windows, and,
descending the wide chimney, danced on the floor about the hearth; but not
a thought of the long, stormy way between us and home interfered with the
enjoyment of the hour.
</p>
<p>
After supper, which was enlivened by simple chat about the crops and the
doings on the farm, James turned to me, and said:
</p>
<p>
“Haven’t you got a song or a ballad to give us, Ranald? I know you’re
always getting hold of such things.”
</p>
<p>
I had expected this; for, every time I went, I tried to have something to
repeat to them. As I could not sing, this was the nearest way in which I
might contribute to the evening’s entertainment. Elsie was very fond of
ballads, and I could hardly please her better than by bringing a new one
with me. But in default of that, an old one or a story would be welcomed.
My reader must remember that there were very few books to be had then in
that part of the country, and therefore any mode of literature was
precious. The schoolmaster was the chief source from which I derived my
provision of this sort. On the present occasion, I was prepared with a
ballad of his. I remember every word of it now, and will give it to my
readers, reminding them once more how easy it is to skip it, if they do
not care for that kind of thing.
</p>
<table summary="lassie">
<tr>
<td>
<p>
“Bonny lassie, rosy lassie,<br /> Ken ye what is care?<br /> Had ye
ever a thought, lassie,<br /> Made yer hertie sair?”
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
Johnnie said it, Johnnie luikin’<br /> Into Jeannie’s face;<br />
Seekin’ in the garden hedge<br /> For an open place.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
“Na,” said Jeannie, saftly smilin’,<br /> “Nought o’ care ken I;<br />
For they say the carlin’<br /> Is better passit by.”
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
“Licht o’ hert ye are, Jeannie,<br /> As o’ foot and ban’!<br /> Lang
be yours sic answer<br /> To ony spierin’ man.”
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
“I ken what ye wad hae, sir,<br /> Though yer words are few;<br /> Ye
wad hae me aye as careless,<br /> Till I care for you.”
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
“Dinna mock me, Jeannie, lassie,<br /> Wi’ yer lauchin’ ee;<br /> For
ye hae nae notion<br /> What gaes on in me.”
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
“No more I hae a notion<br /> O’ what’s in yonder cairn;<br /> I’m no
sae pryin’, Johnnie,<br /> It’s none o’ my concern.”
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
“Well, there’s ae thing, Jeannie,<br /> Ye canna help, my doo—<br />
Ye canna help me carin’<br /> Wi’ a’ my hert for you.”
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
Johnnie turned and left her,<br /> Listed for the war;<br /> In a year
cam’ limpin’<br /> Hame wi’ mony a scar.
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
Wha was that was sittin’<br /> Wan and worn wi’ care?<br /> Could it
be his Jeannie<br /> Aged and alter’d sair?
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
Her goon was black, her eelids<br /> Reid wi’ sorrow’s dew:<br />
Could she in a twalmonth<br /> Be wife and widow too?
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
Jeannie’s hert gaed wallop,<br /> Ken ‘t him whan he spak’:<br /> “I
thocht that ye was deid, Johnnie:<br /> Is’t yersel’ come back?”
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
“O Jeannie, are ye, tell me,<br /> Wife or widow or baith?<br /> To
see ye lost as I am,<br /> I wad be verra laith,”
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
“I canna be a widow<br /> That wife was never nane;<br /> But gin ye
will hae me,<br /> Noo I will be ane.”
</p>
<br /> <br />
<p>
His crutch he flang it frae him,<br /> Forgetful o’ war’s harms;<br />
But couldna stan’ withoot it,<br /> And fell in Jeannie’s arms.
</p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
“That’s not a bad ballad,” said James Duff. “Have you a tune it would go
to, Elsie?”
</p>
<p>
Elsie thought a little, and asked me to repeat the first verse. Then she
sung it out clear and fair to a tune I had never heard before.
</p>
<p>
“That will do splendidly, Elsie,” I said. “I will write it out for you,
and then you will be able to sing it all the next time I come.”
</p>
<p>
She made me no answer. She and Turkey were looking at each other, and did
not hear me. James Duff began to talk to me. Elsie was putting away the
supper-things. In a few minutes I missed her and Turkey, and they were
absent for some time. They did not return together, but first Turkey, and
Elsie some minutes after. As the night was now getting quite stormy, James
Duff counselled our return, and we obeyed. But little either Turkey or I
cared for wind or hail.
</p>
<p>
I saw Elsie at church most Sundays; but she was far too attentive and
modest ever to give me even a look. Sometimes I had a word with her when
we came out, but my father expected us to walk home with him; and I
generally saw Turkey walk away with her.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="322.jpg (102K)" src="images/322.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link35" id="link35"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXXV
</h2>
<h3>
A Break in my Story
</h3>
<p>
I am now rapidly approaching the moment at which I said I should bring
this history to an end—the moment, namely, when I became aware that
my boyhood was behind me.
</p>
<p>
I left home this summer for the first time, and followed my brother Tom to
the grammar school in the county-town, in order afterwards to follow him
to the University. There was so much of novelty and expectation in the
change, that I did not feel the separation from my father and the rest of
my family much at first. That came afterwards. For the time, the pleasure
of a long ride on the top of the mail-coach, with a bright sun and a
pleasant breeze, the various incidents connected with changing horses and
starting afresh, and then the outlook for the first peep of the sea,
occupied my attention too thoroughly.
</p>
<p>
I do not care to dwell on my experience at the grammar school. I worked
fairly, and got on; but whether I should gain a scholarship remained
doubtful enough. Before the time for the examination arrived, I went to
spend a week at home. It was a great disappointment to me that I had to
return again without seeing Elsie. But it could not be helped. The only
Sunday I had there was a stormy day, late in October, and Elsie had a bad
cold, as Turkey informed me, and could not be out; while my father had
made so many engagements for me, that, with one thing and another, I was
not able to go and see her.
</p>
<p>
Turkey was now doing a man’s work on the farm, and stood as high as ever
in the estimation of my father and everyone who knew him. He was as great
a favourite with Allister and Davie as with myself, and took very much the
same place with the former as he had taken with me. I had lost nothing of
my regard for him, and he talked to me with the same familiarity as
before, urging me to diligence and thoroughness in my studies, pressing
upon me that no one had ever done lasting work, “that is,” Turkey would
say—“work that goes to the making of the world,” without being in
earnest as to the <i>what</i> and conscientious as to the <i>how</i>.
</p>
<p>
“I don’t want you to try to be a great man,” he said once. “You might
succeed, and then find out you had failed altogether.”
</p>
<p>
“How could that be, Turkey?” I objected. “A body can’t succeed and fail
both at once.”
</p>
<p>
“A body might succeed,” he replied, “in doing what he wanted to do, and
then find out that it was not in the least what he had thought it.”
</p>
<p>
“What rule are you to follow, then, Turkey?” I asked.
</p>
<p>
“Just the rule of duty,” he replied. “What you ought to do, that you must
do. Then when a choice comes, not involving duty, you know, choose what
you like best.”
</p>
<p>
This is the substance of what he said. If anyone thinks it pedantic, I can
only say, he would not have thought so if he had heard it as it was
uttered—in the homely forms and sounds of the Scottish tongue.
</p>
<p>
“Aren’t you fit for something better than farm-work yourself, Turkey?” I
ventured to suggest, foolishly impelled, I suppose, to try whether I could
not give advice too.
</p>
<p>
“It’s <i>my</i> work,” said Turkey, in a decisive tone, which left me no
room for rejoinder.
</p>
<p>
This conversation took place in the barn, where Turkey happened to be
thrashing alone that morning. In turning the sheaf, or in laying a fresh
one, there was always a moment’s pause in the din, and then only we
talked, so that our conversation was a good deal broken. I had buried
myself in the straw, as in days of old, to keep myself warm, and there I
lay and looked at Turkey while he thrashed, and thought with myself that
his face had grown much more solemn than it used to be. But when he
smiled, which was seldom, all the old merry sweetness dawned again. This
was the last long talk I ever had with him. The next day I returned for
the examination, was happy enough to gain a small scholarship, and entered
on my first winter at college.
</p>
<p>
My father wrote to me once a week or so, and occasionally I had a letter
with more ink than matter in it from one of my younger brothers. Tom was
now in Edinburgh, in a lawyer’s office. I had no correspondence with
Turkey. Mr. Wilson wrote to me sometimes, and along with good advice would
occasionally send me some verses, but he told me little or nothing of what
was going on.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a name="link36" id="link36"></a><br /><br />
</p>
<h2>
CHAPTER XXXVI
</h2>
<h3>
I Learn that I am not a Man
</h3>
<p>
<a name="linkhome" id="linkhome"></a> <br /><br /> <a href="images/il12.jpg"></a>
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="il12h.jpg (61K)" src="images/il12h.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
It was a Saturday morning, very early in April, when I climbed the
mail-coach to return to my home for the summer; for so the university year
is divided in Scotland. The sky was bright, with great fleecy clouds
sailing over it, from which now and then fell a shower in large drops. The
wind was keen, and I had to wrap myself well in my cloak. But my heart was
light, and full of the pleasure of ended and successful labour, of
home-going, and the signs which sun and sky gave that the summer was at
hand.
</p>
<p>
Five months had gone by since I last left home, and it had seemed such an
age to Davie, that he burst out crying when he saw me. My father received
me with a certain still tenderness, which seemed to grow upon him. Kirsty
followed Davie’s example, and Allister, without saying much, haunted me
like my shadow. I saw nothing of Turkey that evening.
</p>
<p>
In the morning we went to church, of course, and I sat beside the
reclining stone warrior, from whose face age had nearly worn the features
away. I gazed at him all the time of the singing of the first psalm, and
there grew upon me a strange solemnity, a sense of the passing away of
earthly things, and a stronger conviction than I had ever had of the need
of something that could not pass. This feeling lasted all the time of the
service, and increased while I lingered in the church almost alone until
my father should come out of the vestry.
</p>
<p>
I stood in the passage, leaning against the tomb. A cloud came over the
sun, and the whole church grew dark as a December day—gloomy and
cheerless. I heard for some time, almost without hearing them, two old
women talking together close by me. The pulpit was between them and me,
but when I became thoroughly aware of their presence, I peeped round and
saw them.
</p>
<p>
“And when did it happen, said you?” asked one of them, whose head moved
with an incessant capricious motion from palsy.
</p>
<p>
“About two o’clock this morning,” answered the other, who leaned on a
stick, almost bent double with rheumatism. “I saw their next-door
neighbour this morning, and he had seen Jamie, who goes home of a Saturday
night, you know; but William being a Seceder, nobody’s been to tell the
minister, and I’m just waiting to let him know; for she was a great
favourite of his, and he’s been to see her often. They’re much to be
pitied—poor people! Nobody thought it would come so sudden like.
When I saw her mother last, there was no such notion in her head.”
</p>
<p>
Before I could ask of whom they were talking, my father came up the aisle
from the vestry, and stopped to speak to the old women.
</p>
<p>
“Elsie Duff’s gone, poor thing!” said the rheumatic one.
</p>
<p>
I grew stupid. What followed I have forgotten. A sound was in my ears, and
my body seemed to believe it, though my soul could not comprehend it. When
I came to myself I was alone in the church. They had gone away without
seeing me. I was standing beside the monument, leaning on the carved
Crusader. The sun was again shining, and the old church was full of light.
But the sunshine had changed to me, and I felt very mournful. I should see
the sweet face, hear the lovely voice, no more in this world. I
endeavoured to realize the thought, but could not, and I left the church
hardly conscious of anything but a dull sense of loss.
</p>
<p>
I found my father very grave. He spoke tenderly of Elsie; but he did not
know how I had loved her, and I could not make much response. I think,
too, that he said less than he otherwise would, from the fear of calling
back to my mind too vivid a memory of how ill I had once behaved to her.
It was, indeed, my first thought the moment he uttered her name, but it
soon passed, for much had come between.
</p>
<p>
In the evening I went up to the farm to look for Turkey, who had not been
at church morning or afternoon. He was the only one I could talk to about
Elsie. I found him in one of the cow-houses, bedding the cows. His back
was towards me when I entered.
</p>
<p>
“Turkey,” I said.
</p>
<p>
He looked round with a slow mechanical motion, as if with a conscious
effort of the will. His face was so white, and wore such a look of loss,
that it almost terrified me like the presence of something awful. I stood
speechless. He looked at me for a moment, and then came slowly up to me,
and laid his hand on my shoulder.
</p>
<p>
“Ranald,” he said, “we were to have been married next year.”
</p>
<p>
Before the grief of the man, mighty in its silence, my whole being was
humbled. I knew my love was not so great as his. It grew in my eyes a pale
and feeble thing; and I felt worthless in the presence of her dead, whom
alive I had loved with peaceful gladness. Elsie belonged to Turkey, and he
had lost her, and his heart was breaking. I threw my arms round him, and
wept for him, not for myself. It was thus I ceased to be a boy.
</p>
<p>
Here, therefore, my story ends. Before I returned to the university,
Turkey had enlisted and left the place.
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img alt="331.jpg (98K)" src="images/331.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
</div>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<p>
My father’s half-prophecy concerning him is now fulfilled. He is a
general. I will not tell his name. For some reason or other he had taken
his mother’s, and by that he is well known. I have never seen him, or
heard from him, since he left my father’s service; but I am confident that
if ever we meet, it will be as old and true friends.
</p>
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