A VISIT FROM FRANCIS GORDON
The summer following Gordon’s first session at college, castle Weelset
and Corbyknowe saw nothing of him. No one missed him much, and but for
his father’s sake no one would have thought much about him. Kirsty, as
one who had told him the truth concerning himself, thought of him
oftener than anyone except her father.
The summer after, he paid a short visit to castle Weelset, and went one
day to Corbyknowe, where he left a favourable impression upon all,
which impression Kirsty had been the readier to receive because of the
respect she felt for him as a student. The old imperiousness which made
him so unlike his father had retired into the background; his smile,
though not so sweet, came oftener; and his carriage was full of
courtesy. But something was gone which his old friends would gladly
have seen still. His behaviour in the old time was not so pleasant, but
he had been as one of the family. Often disagreeable, he was yet
loving. Now, he laid himself out to make himself acceptable as a
superior. Freed so long from his mother’s lowering influences, what was
of his father in him might by this time have come more to the surface
but for certain ladies in Edinburgh, connections of the family, who,
influenced by his good looks and pleasant manners, and possibly by his
position in the Gordon country, sought his favour by deeds of flattery,
and succeeded in spoiling him not a little.
Steenie happening to be about the house when he came, Francis behaved
to him so kindly that the gentle creature, overcome with grateful
delight, begged him to go and see a house he and Kirsty were building.
In some families the games of the children mainly consist in the
construction of dwellings, of this kind or that--castle, or ship, or
cave, or nest in the treetop--according to the material attainable. It
is an outcome of the aboriginal necessity for shelter, this instinct of
burrowing: Welbeck Abbey is the development of a _weem_ or _Picts’
house_. Steenie had very early shown it, probably from a vague
consciousness of weakness, and Kirsty came heartily to his aid in
following it, with the reaction of waking in herself a luxurious idea
of sheltered safety. Northern children cherish in their imaginations
the sense of protection more, I fancy, than others. This is partly
owing to the severity of their climate, the snow and wind, the rain and
sleet, the hail and darkness they encounter. I doubt whether an English
child can ever have such a sense of protection as a Scots bairn in bed
on a winter night, his mother in the nursery, and the wind howling like
a pack of wolves about the house.
Francis consented to go with Steenie to see his house, and Kirsty
naturally accompanied them. By this time she had gathered the little
that was known, and there is very little known yet, concerning _Picts’
houses_, and as they went it occurred to her that it would be pleasant
to the laird to be shown a thing on his own property of which he had
never heard, and which, in the eyes of some, would add to its value.
She took the way, therefore, that led past the weem.
She had so well cleared out its entrance, that it was now comparatively
easy of access, else I doubt if the young laird would have risked the
spoiling of his admirably fitting clothes to satisfy the mild curiosity
he felt regarding Kirsty’s discovery. As it was, he pulled off his coat
before entering, despite her assurance that he ‘needna fear blaudin
onything.’
She went in before him to light her candle and he followed. As she
showed him the curious place, she gave him the results of her reading
about such constructions, telling him who had written concerning them,
and what they had written. ‘There’s mair o’ them, I gether,’ she said,
‘and mair remarkable anes, in oor ain coonty nor in ony ither in
Scotlan’. I hae mysel seen nane but this.’ Then she told him how
Steenie had led the way to its discovery. By the time she ended, Gordon
was really interested--chiefly, no doubt, in finding himself possessor
of a thing which many men, learned and unlearned, would think worth
coming to see.
‘Did you find this in it?’ he asked, seating himself on her little
throne of turf.
‘Na; I put that there mysel,’ answered Kirsty. ‘There was naething
intil the place, jist naething ava! There was naething ye cud hae
pickit aff o’ the flure. Gien it hadna been oot o’ the gait o’ the
win’, ye wud hae thoucht it had sweepit it clean. Ye cud hae tellt by
naething intil’t what ever it was meant for, hoose or byre or barn,
kirk or kirkyard. It had been jist a hidy-hole in troubled times, whan
the cuintry wud be swarmin wi’ stravaguin marauders!’
‘What made ye the seat for, Kirsty?’ asked Gordon, calling her by her
name for the first time, and falling into the mother tongue with a
flash of his old manner.
‘I come here whiles,’ she answered, ‘to be my lane and read a bit. It’s
sae quaiet. Eternity seems itsel to come and hide in ’t whiles. I’m
tempit whiles to bide a’ nicht.’
‘Isna ’t awfu’ cauld?’
‘Na, no aften that. It’s fine and warm i’ the winter. And I can licht a
fire whan I like.--But ye hae na yer coat on, Francie! I oucht na to
hae latten ye bide sae lang!’
He shivered, rose, and made his way out. Steenie stood in the sunlight
waiting for them.
‘Why, Steenie,’ said Gordon, ‘you brought me to see your house: why
didn’t you come in with me?’
‘Na, na! I’m feart for my feet: this is no _my_ hoose!’ answered
Steenie. ‘I’m biggin ane. Kirsty’s helpin me: I cudna big a hoose
wantin Kirsty! That’s what I wud hae ye see, no this ane. This is
Kirsty’s hoose. It was Kirsty wantit ye to see this ane.--Na, it’s no
mine,’ he added reflectively. ‘I ken I maun come til ’t some day, but I
s’ bide oot o’ ’t as lang’s I can. I like the hill a heap better.’
‘What _does_ he mean?’ asked Francis, turning to Kirsty.
‘Ow, he has a heap o’ notions o’ ’s ain!’ answered Kirsty, who did not
care, especially in his presence, to talk about her brother save to
those who loved him.
When Francis turned again, he saw Steenie a good way up the hill.
‘Where does he want to take me, Kirsty? Is it far?’ he asked.
‘Ay, it’s a gey bitty; it’s nearhan’ at the tap o’ the Horn, a wee
ayont it.’
‘Then I think I shall not go,’ returned Francis. ‘I will come another
day.’
‘Steenie! Steenie!’ cried Kirsty, ‘he’ll no gang the day. He maun gang
hame. He says he’ll come anither time. Haud ye awa on to yer hoose; I
s’ be wi’ ye by and by.’
Steenie went up the hill, and Kirsty and Francis walked toward
Corbyknowe.
‘Has no young man appeared yet to put Steenie’s nose out of joint,
Kirsty?’ asked Gordon.
Kirsty thought the question rude, but answered, with quiet dignity, ‘No
ane. I never had muckle opinion o’ _yoong_ men, and dinna care aboot
their company.--But what are ye thinkin o’ duin yersel--I mean, whan
ye’re throu wi’ the college?’ she continued. ‘Ye’ll surely be comin
hame to tak things intil yer ain han’? My father says whiles he’s some
feart they’re no bein made the maist o’.’
‘The property must look after itself, Kirsty. I will be a soldier like
my father. If it could do without him when he was in India, it may just
as well do without me. As long as my mother lives, she shall do what
she likes with it.’
Thus talking, and growing more friendly as they went, they walked
slowly back to the house. There Francis mounted his horse and rode
away, and for more than two years they saw nothing of him.