PHEMY YIELDS PLACE
It was the last week in November when the doctor came himself to take
Phemy home to her father. The day was bright and blue, with a thin
carpet of snow on the ground, beneath which the roads were in good
condition. While she was getting ready, old David went out and talked
to the doctor who would not go in, his wrinkled face full of light, and
his heart glad with the same gladness as Kirsty’s.
Mrs. Barclay and Kirsty busied themselves about Phemy, who was as
playful and teasing as a pet kitten while they dressed her, but Steenie
kept in the darkest corner, watching everything, but offering no
unneeded help. Without once looking or asking for him, never missing
him in fact, Phemy climbed, with David’s aid, into the gig beside the
doctor, at once began talking to him, and never turned her head as they
drove away. The moment he heard the sound of the horse’s hoofs, Steenie
came quietly from the gloom and went out of the back-door, thinking no
eye was upon him. But his sister’s heart was never off him, and her
eyes were oftener on him than he knew.
Of late he had begun again to go to the hill at night, and Kirsty
feared his old trouble might be returning. Glad as she was to serve
Phemy, and the father through the daughter, she was far from regretting
her departure, for now she would have leisure for Steenie and her
books, and now the family would gather itself once more into the
perfect sphere to which drop and ocean alike desires to shape itself!
‘I thoucht ye wud be efter me!’ cried Steenie, as she opened the door
of his burrow, within an hour of his leaving the house.
Now Kirsty had expected to find him full of grief because of Phemy’s
going, especially as the heartless girl, for such Steenie’s sister
could not help thinking her, never said good-bye to her most loving
slave. And she did certainly descry on his countenance traces of
emotion, and in his eyes the lingering trouble as of a storm all but
overblown. There was however in his face the light as of a far sunk
aurora, the outmost rim of whose radiance, doubtfully visible, seemed
to encircle his whole person. He was not lost in any gloom! She sat
down beside him, and waited for him to speak.
Never doubting she would follow him, he had already built up a good
peat-fire on the hearth, and placed for her beside it a low settle
which his father had made for him, and he had himself covered with a
sheepskin of thickest fleece. They sat silent for a while.
‘Wud ye say noo, Kirsty, ’at I was ony use til her?’ he asked at
length.
‘Jist a heap,’ answered Kirsty. ‘I kenna what ever she or I wud hae
dune wantin ye! She nott (_needed_) a heap o’ luikin til!’
‘And ye think mebbe she’ll be some the better, some w’y or ither, for
’t?’
‘Ay, I div think that, Steenie. But to tell the trowth, I’m no sure
she’ll think verra aft aboot what ye did for her!’
‘Ow, na! What for sud she? There’s no need for that! It was for hersel,
no for her think-aboot-it, I tried. I was jist fain to du something
like wash the feet o’ her. Whan I cam in that day--the day efter ye
broucht her hame, ye ken--the luik of her puir, bonny, begrutten facy
jist turnt my hert ower i’ the mids o’ me. I maist think, gien I hadna
been able to du onything for her afore she gaed, I wud hae come hame
here to my ain hoose like a deein sheep, and lain doon. Yon face o’
hers comes back til me noo like the face o’ a lost lammie ’at the
shepherd didna think worth gaein oot to luik for. But gien I had sic a
sair hert for her, the bonny man maun hae had a sairer, and he’ll du
for her what he can--and that maun be muckle--muckle! They ca’ ’im the
gude Shepherd, ye ken!’
He sat silent for some minutes, and Kirsty’s heart was too full to let
her speak. She could only say to herself--‘And folk ca’s him
half-wuttit, div they! Weel, lat them! Gien he be half-wuttit, the
Lord’s made up the ither half wi’ better!’
‘Ay!’ resumed Steenie, ‘the gude shepherd tynes (_loses_) no ane o’
them a’! But I’ll miss her dreidfu’! Eh, but I likit to watch the wan
bit facy grow and grow till ’t was roon’ and rosy again! And, eh, sic
a bonny reid and white as it was! And better yet I likit to see yon
hert-brakin luik o’ the lost ane weirin aye awa and awa till ’t was
clean gane!--And noo she’s back til her father, bricht and licht and
bonny as the lown starry nicht!--Eh, but it maks me happy to think o’
’t!’
‘Sae it maks me!’ responded Kirsty, feeling, as she regarded him, like
a glorified mother beholding her child walking in the truth.
‘And noo,’ continued Steenie, ‘I’m richt glaid she’s gane, and my min’
’ll be mair at ease gien I tell ye what for:--I maun aye tell you
a’thing ’at ’ll bide tellin, Kirsty, ye ken!--Weel, a week or twa ago,
I began to be troubled as I never was troubled afore. I canna weel say
what was the cause o’ ’t, or the kin’ o’ thing it was, but something
had come that I didna want to come, and couldna keep awa. Maybe ye’ll
ken what it was like whan I tell ye ’at I was aye think-thinkin aboot
Phemy. Noo, afore she cam, I was maist aye thinkin aboot the bonny man;
and it wasna that there was ony sic necessity for thinkin aboot Phemy,
for by that time she was oot o’ her meesery, whatever that was, or
whatever had the wyte (_blame_) o’ ’t. I’ the time afore her, whan my
min’ wud grow a bit quaiet, and the pooers o’ darkness wud draw
themsels awa a bit, aye wud come the face o’ the bonny man intil the
toom place, and fill me fresh up wi’ the houp o’ seein him or lang; but
noo, at ilka moment, up wud come, no the face o’ the bonny man, but the
face o’ Phemy; and I didna like that, and I cudna help it. And a
scraichin fear grippit me, ’at I was turnin fause to the bonny man. It
wisna that I thoucht he wud be vext wi’ me, but that I cudna bide
onything to come atween me and him. I teuk mysel weel ower the heckles,
but I cudna mak oot ’at I cud a’thegither help it. Ye see, somehoo, no
bein made a’thegither like ither fowk, I cudna think aboot twa things
at ance, and I bude to think aboot the ane that cam o’ ’tsel like. But,
as I say, it troubled me. Weel, the day, my hert was sair at her gangin
awa, for I had been lang used to seein her ilka hoor, maist ilka
minute; and the ae wuss i’ my hert at the time was to du something
worth duin for her, and syne dee and hae dune wi’ ’t--and there, I
doobt, I clean forgot the bonny man! Whan she got intil the doctor’s
gig and awa they drave, my hert grew cauld; I was like ane deid and
beginnin to rot i’ the grave. But that minute I h’ard, or it was jist
as gien I h’ard--I dinna mean wi’ my lugs, but i’ my hert, ye ken--a
v’ice cry, “Steenie! Steenie!” and I cried lood oot, “Comin, Lord!” but
I kent weel eneuch the v’ice was inside o’ me, and no i’ my heid, but
i’ my hert--and nane the less i’ me for that! Sae awa at ance I cam to
my closet here, and sat doon, and hearkent i’ the how o’ my hert. Never
a word cam, but I grew quaiet--eh, sae quaiet and content like, wi’oot
onything to mak me sae, but maybe ’at he was thinkin aboot me! And I’m
quaiet yet. And as sune ’s it’s dark, I s’ gang oot and see whether the
bonny man be onywhaur aboot. There’s naething atween him and me noo;
for, the moment I begin to think, it’s him ’at comes to be thoucht
aboot, and no Phemy ony mair!’
‘Steenie,’ said Kirsty, ‘it was the bonny man sent Phemy til ye--to gie
ye something to du for him, luikin efter ane o’ his silly lambs.’
‘Ay,’ returned Steenie; ‘I ken she wasna wiselike, sic as you and my
mither. She needit a heap o’ luikin efter, as ye said.’
‘And wi’ haein to luik efter her, he kenned that the thouchts that
troubled ye wudna sae weel win in, and wud learn to bide oot. Jist luik
at ye noo! See hoo ye hae learnt to luik efter yersel! Ye saw it cudna
be agreeable to her to hae ye aboot her no that weel washed, and wi’
claes ye didna keep tidy and clean! Sin’ ever ye tuik to luikin efter
Phemy, I hae had little trouble luikin efter you!’
‘I see’t, Kirsty, I see’t! I never thoucht o’ the thing afore! I micht
du a heap to mak mysel mair like ither fowk! I s’ no forget, noo ’at I
hae gotten a grip o’ the thing. Ye’ll see, Kirsty!’
‘That’s my ain Steenie!’ answered Kirsty. ‘Maybe the bonny man cudna be
aye comin to ye himsel, haein ither fowk a heap to luik til, and sae
sent Phemy to lat ye ken what he would hae o’ ye. Noo ’at ye hae begun,
ye’ll be growin mair and mair like ither fowk.’
‘Eh, but ye fleg me! I may grow ower like ither fowk! I maun awa oot,
Kirsty! I’m growin fleyt.’
‘What for, Steenie?’ cried Kirsty, not a little frightened herself, and
laying her hand on his arm. She feared his old trouble was returning in
force.
‘’Cause ither fowk never sees the bonny man, they tell me,’ he replied.
‘That’s their ain wyte,’ answered Kirsty. ‘They micht a’ see him gien
they wud--or at least hear him say they sud see him or lang.’
‘Eh, but I’m no sure ’at ever I did see him, Kirsty!’
‘That winna haud ye ohn seein him whan the hoor comes. And the like’s
true o’ the lave.’
‘Ay, for I canna du wantin him--and sae nouther can they!’
‘Naebody can. A’ maun hae seen him, or be gaein to see him.’
‘I hae as guid as seen him, Kirsty! He was there! He helpit me whan the
ill folk cam to pu’ at me!--Ye div think though, Kirsty, ’at I’m b’un’
to see him some day?’
‘I’m thinkin the hoor’s been aye set for that same!’ answered Kirsty.
‘Kirsty,’ returned Steenie, not quite satisfied with her reply, ‘I’ll
gang clean oot the wuts I hae, gien ye tell me I’m never to see him
face to face!’
‘Steenie,’ rejoined Kirsty solemnly, ‘I wud gang oot o’ my wuts mysel
gien I didna believe that! I believe ’t wi’ a’ my heart, my bonny man.’
‘Weel, and that’s a’ richt! But ye maunna ca’ me yer bonny man, Kirsty;
for there’s but ae bonny man, and we’re a’ brithers and sisters. He
said it himsel!’
‘That’s verra true, Steenie; but whiles ye’re sae like him I canna help
ca’in ye by his name.’
‘Dinna du ’t again, Kirsty. I canna bide it. I’m no bonny! No but I wud
sair like to be bonny--bonny like him, Kirsty!--Did ye ever hear tell
’at he had a father? I h’ard a man ance say ’at he hed. Sic a bonny man
as that father maun be! Jist think o’ his haein a son like _him_!--
Dauvid Barclay maun be richt sair disappintit wi’ sic a son as me--and
him sic a man himsel! What for is’t, Kirsty?’
‘That’ll be ane o’ the secrets the bonny man’s gaein to tell his ain
fowk whan he gets them hame wi’ him!’
‘His ain fowk, Kirsty?’
‘Ay, siclike’s you and me. Whan we gang hame, he’ll tell ’s a’ aboot a
heap o’ things we wad fain ken.’
‘His ain fowk! His ain fowk!’ Steenie went on for a while murmuring to
himself at intervals. At last he said,
‘What maks them his ain fowk, Kirsty?’
‘What maks me your fowk, Steenie?’ she rejoined.
‘That’s easy to tell! It’s ’cause we hae the same father and mither; I
hae aye kenned that!’ answered Steenie with a laugh.
She had been trying to puzzle him, he thought, but had failed!
‘Weel, the bonny man and you and me, we hae a’ the same father: that’s
what maks us his ain fowk!--Ye see noo?’
‘Ay, I see! I see!’ responded Steenie, and again was silent.
Kirsty thought he had plenty now to meditate upon.
‘Are ye comin hame wi’ me,’ she asked, ‘or are ye gaein to bide,
Steenie?’
‘I’ll gang hame wi’ ye, gien ye like, but I wud raither bide the
nicht,’ he answered. ‘I’ll hae jist this ae nicht mair oot upo’ the
hill, and syne the morn I’ll come hame to the hoose, and see gien I can
help my mither, or maybe my father. That’s what the bonny man wud like
best, I’m sure.’
Kirsty went home with a glad heart: surely Steenie was now in a fair
way of becoming, as he phrased it, ‘like ither fowk’! ‘But the Lord’s
gowk’s better nor the warl’s prophet!’ she said to herself.