HEATHER AND SNOW
BY GEORGE MACDONALD
CONTENTS
I. A RUNAWAY RACE
II. MOTHER AND SON
III. AT THE FOOT OF THE HORN
IV. DOG-STEENIE
V. COLONEL AND SERGEANT
VI. MAN-STEENIE
VII. CORBYKNOWE
VIII. DAVID AND HIS DAUGHTER
IX. AT CASTLE WEELSET
X. DAVID AND FRANCIS
XI. KIRSTY AND PHEMY
XII. THE EARTH-HOUSE
XIII. A VISIT FROM FRANCIS GORDON
XIV. STEENIE’S HOUSE
XV. PHEMY CRAIG
XVI. SHAM LOVE
XVII. A NOVEL ABDUCTION
XVIII. PHEMY’S CHAMPION
XIX. FRANCIS GORDON’S CHAMPION
XX. MUTUAL MINISTRATION
XXI. PHEMY YIELDS PLACE
XXII. THE HORN
XXIII. THE STORM AGAIN
XXIV. HOW KIRSTY FARED
XXV. KIRSTY’S DREAM
XXVI. HOW DAVID FARED
XXVII. HOW MARION FARED
XXVIII. HUSBAND AND WIFE
XXIX. DAVID, MARION, KIRSTY, SNOOTIE, AND WHAT WAS LEFT OF STEENIE
XXX. FROM SNOW TO FIRE
XXXI. KIRSTY SHOWS RESENTMENT
XXXII. IN THE WORKSHOP
XXXIII. A RACE WITH DEATH
XXXIV. BACK FROM THE GRAVE
XXXV. FRANCIS COMES TO HIMSELF
XXXVI. KIRSTY BESTIRS HERSELF
XXXVII. A GREAT GULF
XXXVIII. THE NEIGHBOURS
XXXIX. KIRSTY GIVES ADVICE
XL. MRS. GORDON
XLI. TWO HORSEWOMEN
XLII. THE LAIRD AND HIS MOTHER
XLIII. THE CORONATION
XLIV. KIRSTY’S TOCHER
XLV. KIRSTY’S SONG
CHAPTER I
A RUNAWAY RACE
Upon neighbouring stones, earth-fast, like two islands of an
archipelago, in an ocean of heather, sat a boy and a girl, the girl
knitting, or, as she would have called it, _weaving_ a stocking, and
the boy, his eyes fixed on her face, talking with an animation that
amounted almost to excitement. He had great fluency, and could have
talked just as fast in good English as in the dialect in which he was
now pouring out his ambitions--the broad Saxon of Aberdeen.
He was giving the girl to understand that he meant to be a soldier like
his father, and quite as good a one as he. But so little did he know of
himself or the world, that, with small genuine impulse to action, and
moved chiefly by the anticipated results of it, he saw success already
his, and a grateful country at his feet. His inspiration was so purely
ambition, that, even if, his mood unchanged, he were to achieve much
for his country, she could hardly owe him gratitude.
‘I’ll no hae the warl’ lichtly (_make light of_) _me_!’ he said.
‘Mebbe the warl’ winna tribble itsel aboot ye sae muckle as e’en to
lichtly ye!’ returned his companion quietly.
‘_Ye_ do naething ither!’ retorted the boy, rising, and looking down on
her in displeasure. ‘What for are ye aye girdin at me? A body canna lat
his thouchts gang, but ye’re doon upo them, like doos upo corn!’
‘I wadna be girdin at ye, Francie, but that I care ower muckle aboot ye
to lat ye think I haud the same opingon o’ ye ’at ye hae o’ yersel,’
answered the girl, who went on with her knitting as she spoke.
‘Ye’ll never believe a body!’ he rejoined, and turned half away. ‘I
canna think what gars me keep comin to see ye! Ye haena ae guid word to
gie a body!’
‘It’s nane ye s’ get frae me, the gait ye’re gaein, Francie! Ye think a
heap ower muckle o’ yersel. What ye expec, may some day a’ come true,
but ye hae gien nobody a richt to expec it alang wi’ ye, and I canna
think, gien ye war fair to yersel, ye wad coont yersel ane it was to be
expeckit o’!’
‘I tauld ye sae, Kirsty! Ye never lay ony weicht upo what a body says!’
‘That depen’s upo the body. Did ye never hear maister Craig p’int oot
the differ atween believin a body and believin _in_ a body, Francie?’
‘No--and I dinna care.’
‘I wudna like ye to gang awa thinking I misdoobtit yer word, Francie! I
believe onything ye tell me, as far as _I_ think ye ken, but maybe no
sae far as _ye_ think ye ken. I believe ye, but I confess I dinna
believe _in_ ye--yet. What hae ye ever dune to gie a body ony richt to
believe in ye? Ye’re a guid rider, and a guid shot for a laddie, and ye
rin middlin fest--I canna say like a deer, for I reckon I cud lick ye
mysel at rinnin! But, efter and a’,--’
‘Wha’s braggin noo, Kirsty?’ cried the boy, with a touch of not
ill-humoured triumph.
‘Me,’ answered Kirsty; ‘--and I’ll do what I brag o’!’ she added,
throwing her stocking on the patch of green sward about the stone, and
starting to her feet with a laugh. ‘Is ’t to be uphill or alang?’
They were near the foot of a hill to whose top went the heather, but
along whose base, between the heather and the bogland below, lay an
irregular belt of moss and grass, pretty clear of stones. The boy did
not seem eager to accept the challenge.
‘There’s nae guid in lickin a lassie!’ he said with a shrug.
‘There micht be guid in tryin to du ’t though--especially gien ye war
lickit at it!’ returned the girl.
‘What guid _can_ there be in a body bein lickit at onything?’
‘The guid o’ haein a body’s pride ta’en doon a wee.’
‘I’m no sae sure o’ the guid o’ that! It wud only haud ye ohn tried
(_from trying_) again.’
‘Jist there’s what yer pride dis to ye, Francie! Ye maun aye be first,
or ye’ll no try! Ye’ll never du naething for fear o’ no bein able to
gang on believin ye cud du ’t better nor ony ither body! Ye dinna want
to fin’ oot ’at ye’re naebody in particlar. It’s a sair pity ye wunna
hae yer pride ta’en doon. Ye wud be a hantle better wantin aboot three
pairts o’ ’t.--Come, I’m ready for ye! Never min’ ’at I’m a lassie:
naebody ’ill ken!’
‘Ye hae nae sheen (_shoes_)!’ objected the boy.
‘Ye can put aff yer ain!’
‘My feet’s no sae hard as yours!’
‘Weel, I’ll put on mine. They’re here, sic as they are. Ye see I want
them gangin throuw the heather wi’ Steenie; that’s some sair upo the
feet. Straucht up hill throuw the heather, and I’ll put my sheen on!’
‘I’m no sae guid uphill.’
‘See there noo, Francie! Ye tak yersel for unco courteous, and
honourable, and generous, and k-nichtly, and a’ that--oh, I ken a’
aboot it--and it’s a’ verra weel sae far as it gangs; but what the
better are ye for ’t, whan, a’ the time ye’re despisin a body ’cause
she’s but a quean; ye maun hae ilka advantage o’ her, or ye winna gie
her a chance o’ lickin ye!--Here! I’ll put on my sheen, and rin ye
alang the laich grun’! My sheen’s twice the weicht o’ yours, and they
dinna fit me!’
The boy did not dare go on refusing: he feared what Kirsty would say
next. But he relished nothing at all in the challenge. It was not fit
for a man to run races with a girl: there were no laurels, nothing but
laughter to be won by victory over her! and in his heart he was not at
all sure of beating Kirsty: she had always beaten him when they were
children. Since then they had been at the parish school together, but
there public opinion kept the boys and girls to their own special
sports. Now Kirsty had left school, and Francis was going to the
grammar-school at the county-town. They were both about fifteen. All
the sense was on the side of the girl, and she had been doing her best
to make the boy practical like herself--hitherto without much success,
although he was by no means a bad sort of fellow. He had not yet passed
the stage--some appear never to pass it in this world--in which an
admirer feels himself in the same category with his hero. Many are
content with themselves because they side with those whose ways they do
not endeavour to follow. Such are most who call themselves Christians.
If men admired themselves only for what they did, their conceit would
be greatly moderated.
Kirsty put on her heavy tacketed (_hob-nailed_) shoes--much too large
for her, having been made for her brother--stood up erect, and putting
her elbows back, said,
‘I’ll gie ye the start o’ me up to yon stane wi’ the heather growin oot
o’ the tap o’ ’t.’
‘Na, na; I’ll hae nane o’ that!’ answered Francis. ‘Fairplay to a’!’
‘Ye’d better tak it!’
‘Aff wi’ ye, or I winna rin at a’!’ cried the boy,--and away they went.
Kirsty contrived that he should yet have a little the start of her--how
much from generosity, and how much from determination that there should
be nothing doubtful in the result, I cannot say--and for a good many
yards he kept it. But if the boy, who ran well, had looked back, he
might have seen that the girl was not doing her best--that she was in
fact restraining her speed. Presently she quickened her pace, and was
rapidly lessening the distance between them, when, becoming aware of
her approach, the boy quickened his, and for a time there was no change
in their relative position. Then again she quickened her pace--with an
ease which made her seem capable of going on to accelerate it
indefinitely--and was rapidly overtaking him. But as she drew near, she
saw he panted, not a little distressed; whereupon she assumed a greater
speed still, and passed him swiftly--nor once looked round or slackened
her pace until, having left him far behind, she put a shoulder of the
hill between them.
The moment she passed him, the boy flung himself on the ground and lay.
The girl had felt certain he would do so, and fancied she heard him
flop among the heather, but could not be sure, for, although not even
yet at her speed, her blood was making tunes in her head, and the wind
was blowing in and out of her ears with a pleasant but deafening
accompaniment. When she knew he could see her no longer, she stopped
likewise and threw herself down while she was determining whether she
should leave him quite, or walk back at her leisure, and let him see
how little she felt the run. She came to the conclusion that it would
be kinder to allow him to get over his discomfiture in private. She
rose, therefore, and went straight up the hill.
About half-way to the summit, she climbed a rock as if she were a goat,
and looked all round her. Then she uttered a shrill, peculiar cry, and
listened. No answer came. Getting down as easily as she had got up, she
walked along the side of the hill, making her way nearly parallel with
their late racecourse, passing considerably above the spot where her
defeated rival yet lay, and descending at length a little hollow not
far from where she and Francis had been sitting.
In this hollow, which was covered with short, sweet grass, stood a very
small hut, built of turf from the peat-moss below, and roofed with sods
on which the heather still stuck, if, indeed, some of it was not still
growing. So much was it, therefore, of the colour of the ground about
it, that it scarcely caught the eye. Its walls and its roof were so
thick that, small as it looked, it was much smaller inside; while
outside it could not have measured more than ten feet in length, eight
in width, and seven in height. Kirsty and her brother Steenie, not
without help from Francis Gordon, had built it for themselves two years
before. Their father knew nothing of the scheme until one day, proud of
their success, Steenie would have him see their handiwork; when he was
so much pleased with it that he made them a door, on which he put a
lock:--
‘For though this be na the kin’ o’ place to draw crook-fingered
gentry,’ he said, ‘some gangrel body micht creep in and mak his bed
intil ’t, and that lock ’ill be eneuch to haud him oot, I’m thinkin!’
He also cut for them a hole through the wall, and fitted it with a
window that opened and shut, which was more than could be said of every
window at the farmhouse.
Into this nest Kirsty went, and in it remained quiet until it began to
grow dark. She had hoped to find her brother waiting for her, but,
although disappointed, chose to continue there until Francis Gordon
should be well on his way to the castle, and then she crept out, and
ran to recover her stocking.
When she got home, she found Steenie engrossed in a young horse their
father had just bought. She would fain have mounted him at once, for
she would ride any kind of animal able to carry her; but, as he had
never yet been backed, her father would not permit her.