Conclusion 290
THE STORY
OF
WANDERING WILLIE.
INTRODUCTION.
_Be the day short or never so long,
At length it ringeth to even-song._
All day he had come across the moors through the falling snow.
Long ago, from some village far beneath him, the church clock had
struck four, and the distant strokes had come faintly up to him,
muffled by the storm. So he knew that sunset was over.
But it made little difference to him on that moorland track, except
that the grey mist caught a darker tint,--that the snow-flakes looked
dimmer as they fell. The great silence around could not grow deeper, or
the road become more desolate and wild.
It was not desolate to him, or strange. His feet had trodden it when
the purple heather was in bloom for oh! so many, many years, also the
snowy mantle it now wore was not strange to him, but familiar and dear
as were the silence and the twilight.
All the country-side knew Wandering Willie. Men who were growing old
remembered that when they were rosy children, he used to go and come
among them even as he did now. Mothers, standing at their cottage doors
watching their little ones at play, often saw Wandering Willie lay his
withered hand upon the golden heads and, smiling, bless them as he
passed. Then they thought of the kind smile and the touch that used
to be laid upon their own heads years ago, and they recalled the same
simple words of blessing.
They had been waiting then for life, with its duties and its
hopes--sleeping as it were, and dreaming in the golden morning-flush,
until the hour struck for work. And to one after another it had come,
and they arose. Busy life began for them, but to Wandering Willie no
changes seemed to come.
He was looking on at life, not sharing it. He had no home he used to
say, smiling gravely, as they asked him the question in the warm corner
of many a happy fireside. No, he was alone in the world. But when they
said 'Poor Willie,' and some kind soft touch was laid pityingly on his
hand, from which the pilgrim-staff had just been laid aside, he smiled
again and said he was well content.
He must be very old they thought. Each winter's snow left its
reflection on his silvering hair, each autumn storm traced deeper
furrows on his face. As every summer came, he bent a little lower
beneath the heat and burden of the day. And in the spring there was
one day--his birthday--which was ever to Willie as a milestone passed
on the homeward road, as a voice of welcome from the Land that was no
longer 'very far away.'
So though it seemed a restless life that he led, it was yet not a sad
one. The wide sky was as his roof--the rough moorland path familiar
to him as household ways. The evening brought its homely welcome--the
morning its friendly words to cheer him on his way.
Not a farm-house, not a cottage in all the country round, but kept the
warm corner of the ingle nook for Wandering Willie.
The children shouted for joy when they saw him coming towards their
house in the gloaming. The house-mother left her spinning-wheel to
welcome him on the threshold. More logs of wood were piled upon the
fire. Eager hands laid his staff aside, and helped to lift the pedlar's
pack from Willie's shoulder. And while he sat down to rest, the little
ones danced out of doors again to watch for Father from the top of the
stile, that he might come home quick to hear what Willie said, and see
what Willie brought.
And then they gathered round, while the pack was opened and all its
treasures spread out.
There was always something wonderful and new that Willie had brought
from the far-distant town. The brightly coloured shawls--surely mother
must have one--they looked so beautiful as Willie held them up; the
knots of cherry ribands for the maiden's hair; the shining scissors and
great horn knives, the little store of books, the tapes and cottons,
and the brown duffle for the children's frocks that had been waited for
so long and so impatiently.
'The mother thought thou wert never coming again, Willie,' the farmer
would say smiling, as the busy housewife shook her head, and held the
stuff up in the waning light and made her easy bargain with Willie.
Soon supper was ready, smoking hot upon the oaken board, and they
called their guest to the most honoured place. But the pack was left
open on the floor that the children might have another look at Willie's
treasures.
He carried greater treasures still--treasures that money could not buy,
but which were requited by the precious gifts of love and good-will.
He brought letters from the absent--kind messages from some that
had been thought forgetful--greetings that were as music to loving
hearts--little tokens of old friendships over which time and distance
had no power. And as they gathered round him to ask questions, and
listened breathlessly to his tidings, the old man sometimes spoke of
joy, sometimes of sorrow, but always of comfort.
So they all loved him. But with the little ones did he chiefly seem at
home. Perhaps he thought that life's journey lay in a circle, and that
as the end to him grew ever nearer and nearer, he was drawing close
to the spot whence the children had so lately started, and he could
breathe more easily in their air, and their language came the most
readily to his lips.
He would tell them stories by the hour--stories that, coming straight
from his own heart, found their way at once to the child-hearts of his
listeners. They loved the simple verses that he often strung together
as he journeyed on alone from place to place, and they called Willie
their own poet. The wise people smiled at the high-sounding name, for
they thought that Willie's verses were all alike--harping only on one
string. The old man said he did not know--it seemed to him as if the
wind brought them to him, and it ever told one story. It may be that
the children were right, and that the rhymes had a rude melody caught
from the great voice of Nature--some faint echo of those solemn chords
that night and day the wind sends up to Heaven, as it sweeps across the
woodland and the moor towards the distant hills.
Therefore, with this music ever sounding in his ears, like distant
church bells, it was not strange that solitude should be to him as a
friend, not as an enemy to be shunned and dreaded. For if there be a
voice in Nature that can speak to its Great Maker, surely God sends
many answers back; and hourly some word of His went home with a new
thrill of gladness to Willie's listening heart.
So do not pity him, though he has fought on all day alone against the
storm.
Look at him now, toiling steadily onwards, a dim figure scarcely seen
through the thickening snow-wreaths. At each step he sinks deeper in
the snow, and all around the moor stretches wild and white under the
grey heaven. Here a great broken tree rises against the sky, weird and
gloomy; there a few firs are bending beneath the snowy burden that
grows heavier each minute. And the falling snow swiftly fills up those
solitary foot-prints that alone have ruffled its surface.
It is so silent, so very still. Who would guess that a resting place is
near at hand? Yet so it is. But one more steep bit of road, and it will
be lying almost at his feet.
It is hidden still by yonder rising ground, but that once gained, the
moor sinks suddenly downwards, and nestled in the hollow lies the grey
farm-house, where they are watching for him even now.
It is pleasant to be watched for, especially when the way has been long
and hard.
Already Willie could picture to himself the ruddy gleam of light from
the windows down below.
The snow-storm might blot out the outline of the house, and bury the
familiar path out of sight, but it could not quench that cheery token
of welcome.
A little nearer, and he should see the figures moving about in the red
warmth within, and the great shadows that the firelight threw upon the
ceiling.
And then close to the window-pane the waving outline of many little
heads clustered together. All the children would be on the look-out
to-day, straining their eyes along the darkening path, for the first
sign of his coming. For it was New Year's Eve. The sun would never rise
again on the Old Year. Amid the snow-flakes it was falling quietly
asleep.
All day, as its last sands ran out, Willie had been thinking of the
dying year and silently bidding it farewell. Rather wistfully he saw
the daylight float away from it for ever. To-night it laid down the
burden of its completed hours, and was fading back into the shadowy
past.
But for those children in the farm-house down yonder things were
different. The glad New Year's morning that would rise to-morrow from
beneath the snow-white pall of the Old Year was everything to them. The
pack he carried was heavy with their New Year's gifts. Willie strove
to mend his flagging pace, for he was tired. He had come far, very far,
to-day, that the little ones might not be disappointed.
Child-like, he rejoiced in the feathery snow-flakes that would prevent
their seeing him until he was close at hand, and at the soft white
carpet muffling his approaching footsteps, so that he might take them
by surprise.
It all fell out as Willie had imagined; only the children were too
quick for him after all. The door in the deep porch flew open as he
drew near, the red light streamed out brilliantly, and little feet
danced into the snow.
How many rosy laughing faces there were--how many merry voices! The
children drew him in amongst them, the young ones were close to him,
and the elders, just as happy, stood behind.
All claimed to have seen Willie soonest. Roger was the first to grasp
his hand, and bid him welcome--Lois said so--but then Lois gave every
disputed point in Cousin Roger's favour now. Besides, Roger was so old
and his legs were so long.
'We were all watching, Willie. We thought you would never come. We are
so glad you have got safe over the moors in the snow.'
'And we all welcome you, old friend,' said Lois, the tall, graceful
maiden, holding both his hands. 'We have so much to tell you, and Roger
and I----'
She did not finish, but Roger put his hand proudly on her shoulder, and
their two faces told the rest. So it was a very joyous meeting.
And on that evening Wandering Willie told them the story of his life.
He had never told that story before, and no one will hear it from
Willie's lips again.
It came about in this way.
There were none but the young ones left with him. Most of them were
gathered round the fire at Willie's feet. The youngest, little Cecily,
had climbed upon his knee. Long ago--at least what seemed long ago to
her--she had climbed up into his heart. She put her arm round his neck,
and had been telling him 'secrets' in soft half-whispers. A little
way off Roger and Lois sat in the window, and talked together in low
voices--most likely they had 'secrets' too. The old man often looked
towards them. It may be that something in Roger's attitude, or in the
downcast face of Lois, brought back a dim picture to him through the
far off years. He smiled, but he sighed too, as he smoothed little
Cecily's fair hair. She had got his big silver watch in both her hands,
and was listening to its ticking and to what Willie said about it.
The children on the hearth were forming wishes for the coming year.
'And I wish,' said one, gravely and clearly, 'that I was big, and very
useful.'
The others were quiet for a moment, and then they laughed, and their
laughter rang musically through the old kitchen.
Willie smiled at the little speaker, and went on with what he was
saying to Cecily.
'And you see, Cecily, how the busy hands keep on and on, always doing
their work. Look how quickly the long one gets on. It goes round ever
so many times faster than the short one, and yet that is doing its work
too all the time--doing its very best. But you could not expect the
short hand to do as much, or in the world the little short legs to be
quite as useful as the long ones.'
'The long ones like yours;' and Cecily held out a short bare leg of her
own and looked at it.
'Yes, the long ones like mine;' said Willie. 'They have made many
journeys, little Cecily.'
'Willie,' she asked, opening her eyes, 'how many times has the long
hand gone round since you was a little boy?'
He shook his head gravely. The days of his years were past Willie's
counting.
'Will you tell us all about it?' said the little maiden who had wished
to be very useful.
Then all the others jumped up and echoed the petition. 'Tell us your
story. Because it is New Year's Eve, Willie. Because it is the last day
of the Old Year.'
Lois came and sat down beside him and begged too, and Roger leant over
her chair.
'Do tell us about your life, dear old friend. We have so often wished
to know.'
Willie still shook his head, but somehow the chord of memory had been
touched to-night, and it was vibrating still. Perhaps because, as the
children said, it was the last day of the Old Year.
He looked out of the window at the coming darkness, and then back upon
the young listening faces in the firelight.
And he told them his story. It was a very simple one.