THE HORN
The beginning of the winter had been open and warm, and very little
snow had fallen. This was much in Phemy’s favour, and by the new year
she was quite well. But, notwithstanding her heartlessness toward
Steenie, she was no longer quite like her old self. She was quieter and
less foolish; she had had a lesson in folly, and a long ministration of
love, and knew now a trifle about both. It is true she wrote nearly as
much silly poetry, but it was not so silly as before, partly because
her imagination had now something of fact to go upon, and poorest fact
is better than mere fancy. So free was her heart, however, that she
went of herself to see her aunt at the castle, to whom, having beheld
the love between David and his daughter, and begun to feel injured by
the little notice her father took of her, she bewailed his
indifference.
At Mrs. Bremner’s request she had made an appointment to go with her
from the castle on a certain Saturday to visit a distant relative,
living in a lonely cottage on the other side of the Horn--a woman too
old ever to leave her home. When the day arrived, both saw that the
weather gave signs of breaking, but the heavy clouds on the horizon
seemed no worse than had often shown themselves that winter, and as
often passed away. The air was warm, the day bright, the earth dry, and
Phemy and her aunt were in good spirits. They had purposed to return
early to Weelset, but agreed as they went that Phemy, the days being so
short, should take the nearer path to Tiltowie, over the Horn. By this
arrangement, their visit ended, they had no great distance to walk
together, Mrs. Bremner’s way lying along the back of the hill, and
Phemy’s over the nearer shoulder of it.
As they took leave of each other a little later than they had intended,
Mrs. Bremner cast a glance at the gathering clouds, and said,
‘I doobt, lassie, it’s gaein to ding on afore the nicht! I wuss we war
hame the twa o’ ’s! Gien it cam on to snaw and blaw baith, we micht hae
ill winnin there!’
‘Noucht’s to fear, auntie,’ returned Phemy. ‘It’s a heap ower warm to
snaw. It may rain--I wudna won’er, but there’ll be nae snaw--no afore I
win hame, onygait.’
‘Weel, min’, gien there be ae drap o’ weet, ye maun change ilka stic
the minute ye’re i’ the hoose. Ye’re no that stoot yet!’
‘I’ll be sure, auntie!’ answered Phemy, and they parted almost at a
right angle.
Before Phemy got to the top of the hill-shoulder, which she had to
cross by a path no better than a sheep-track, the wind had turned to
the north, and was blowing keen, with gathering strength, from the
regions of everlasting ice, bringing with it a cold terrible to be
faced by such a slight creature as Phemy; and so rapidly did its force
increase that in a few minutes she had to fight for every step she
took; so that, when at length she reached the top, which lay bare to
the continuous torrent of fierce and fiercer rushes, her strength was
already all but exhausted. The wind brought up heavier and heavier
snow-clouds, and darkness with them, but before ever the snow began to
fall, Phemy was in evil case--in worse case, indeed, than she could
know. In a few minutes the tempest had blown all energy out of her, and
she sat down where was not a stone to shelter her. When she rose,
afraid to sit longer, she could no more see the track through the
heather than she could tell without it in which direction to turn. She
began to cry, but the wind did not heed her tears; it seemed determined
to blow her away. And now came the snow, filling the wind faster and
faster, until at length the frightful blasts had in them, perhaps, more
bulk of blinding and dizzying snowflakes than of the air which drove
them. They threatened between them to fix her there in a pillar of
snow. It would have been terrible indeed for Phemy on that waste
hillside, but that the cold and the tempest speedily stupefied her.
Kirsty always enjoyed the winter heartily. For one thing, it roused her
poetic faculty--oh, how different in its outcome from Phemy’s!--far
more than the summer. That very afternoon, leaving Steenie with his
mother, she paid a visit to the weem, and there, in the heart of the
earth, made the following little song, addressed to the sky-soaring
lark:--
What gars ye sing sae, birdie,
As gien ye war lord o’ the lift?
On breid ye’re an unco sma’ lairdie,
But in hicht ye’ve a kingly gift!
A’ ye hae to coont yersel rich in,
’S a wee mawn o’ glory-motes!
The whilk to the throne ye’re aye hitchin
Wi’ a lang tow o’ sapphire notes!
Ay, yer sang’s the sang o’ an angel
For a sinfu’ thrapple no meet,
Like the pipes til a heavenly braingel
Whaur they dance their herts intil their feet!
But though ye canna behaud, birdie,
Ye needna gar a’thing wheesht!
I’m noucht but a hirplin herdie,
But I hae a sang i’ my breist!
Len’ me yer throat to sing throuw,
Len’ me yer wings to gang hie,
And I’ll sing ye a sang a laverock to cow,
And for bliss to gar him dee!
Long before she had finished writing it, the world was dark outside.
She had heard but little heeded the roaring of the wind over her: when
at length she put her head up out of the earth, it seized her by the
hair as if it would drag it off. It took her more than an hour to get
home.
In the meantime Steenie had been growing restless. Coming wind often
affected him so. He had been out with his father, who expected a storm,
to see that all was snug about byres and stables, and feed the few
sheep in an outhouse; now he had come in, and was wandering about the
house, when his mother prevailed on him to sit down by the fireside
with her. The clouds had gathered thick, and the afternoon was very
dark, but all was as yet still. He called his dog, and Snootie lay down
at his feet, ready for what might come. Steenie sat on a stool, with
his head on his mother’s knee, and for a while seemed lost in thought.
Then, without moving or looking up, he said, as if thinking aloud,--
‘It maun be fine fun up there amang thae cloods afore the flauks begin
to spread!’
‘What mean ye by that, Steenie, my man?’ asked his mother.
‘They maun be packit sae close, sae unco close i’ their muckle pocks,
like the feathers in a feather-bed! and syne, whan they lat them a’ oot
thegither, like haudin the bed i’ their twa han’s by the boddom
corners, they maun be smorin thick till they begin to spread!’
‘And wha think ye shaks oot the muckle pocks, Steenie?’
‘I dinna ken. I hae aften thoucht aboot it. I dinna think it’s likly to
be the angels. It’s mair like wark for the bairnies up yoner at the
muckle ferm at hame, whaur ilk ane, to the littlest littlin, kens what
he’s aboot, and no ane o’ them’s like some o’ ’s doon here, ’at gangs
a’ day in a dream, and canna get oorsels waukent oot o’ ’t. I wud be
surer but that I hae thoucht whiles I saw the muckle angels themsels
gaein aboot, throu and throu the ondingin flauchter o’ the snaw--no
mony o’ them, ye ken, but jist whiles ane and whiles anither, throu
amo’ the cauld feathers, gaein aye straught wi’ their heids up, walkin
comfortable, as gien they war at hame in’t. I’m thinkin at sic a time
they’ll be efter helpin some puir body ’at the snaw’s like to be ower
muckle for. Eh me! gien I cud but get rid o’ my feet, and win up to
see!’
‘What for yer feet, Steenie? What ails ye aye at yer feet? Feet’s gey
usefu’ kin o’ thing’s to craturs, whether gien them in fours or twas!’
‘Ay, but mine’s sic a weicht! It’s them ’at’s aye haudin me doon! I wad
hae been up and awa lang syne gien it hadna been for them!’
‘And what wud hae been comin o’ hiz wantin ye, Steenie?’
‘Ye wad be duin sae weel wantin me, ’at ye wud be aye wantin to be up
and efter me! A body’s feet’s nae doobt usefu to haud a body steady,
and ohn gane blawin aboot, but eh, they’re unco cummarsum! But syne
they’re unco guid tu to haud a body ohn thoucht owre muckle o’ himsel!
They’re fine heumblin things, a body’s feet! But, eh, it’ll be fine
wantin them!’
‘Whaur on earth gat ye sic notions aboot yer feet? Guid kens there’s
naething amiss wi’ yer feet! Nouther o’ ye hes ony rizzon to be ashamit
o’ yer feet. The fac is, _your_ feet’s by ordinar sma’, Steenie, and can
add but unco little to yer weicht!’
‘It’s a’ ’at ye ken, mother!’ answered Steenie with a smile. ‘But,
’deed, I got my information aboot the feet o’ fowk frae naegate i’ this
warl’! The bonny man himsel sent word aboot them. He tellt the minister
’at tellt me, ance I was at the kirk wi’ you, mother--lang, lang
syne--twa or three hun’er years, I’m thinkin’. The bonny man tellt his
ain fowk first that he was gaein awa in order that they michtna be able
to do wantin him, and bude to stir themselves and come up efter him.
And syne he slippit aff his feet, and gaed awa up intil the air whaur
the snaw comes frae. And ever sin syne he comes and gangs as he likes.
And efter that he telled the minister to tell hiz ’at we was to lay
aside the weicht that sae easy besets us, and rin. Noo by _rin_ he maun
hae meaned _rin up_, for a body’s no to rin frae the deevil but resist
him; and what is’t that hauds onybody frae rinnin up the air but his
feet? There!--But he’s promised to help me aff wi’ my feet some day:
think o’ that!--Eh, gien I cud but get my feet aff! Eh, gien they wad
but stick i’ my shune, and gang wi’ them whan I pu’ them aff! They’re
naething efter a’, ye ken, but the shune o’ my sowl!’
A gust of wind drove against the house, and sank as suddenly.
‘That’ll be ane o’ them!’ said Steenie, rising hastily. ‘He’ll be
wantin me! It’s no that aften they want onything o’ me ayont the fair
words a’ God’s craturs luik for frae ane anither, but whiles they do
want me, and I’m thinkin they want me the nicht. I maun be gaein!’
‘Hoots, laddie!’ returned his mother, ‘what can they be wantin, thae
gran’ offishers, o’ siclike as you? Sit ye doon, and bide till they cry
ye plain. I wud fain hae ye safe i’ the hoose the nicht!’
‘It’s a’ his hoose, mother! A’ theroot’s therein to him. He’s in’s ain
hoose a’ the time, and I’m jist as safe atween his wa’s as atween
yours. Didna naebody ever tell ye that, mother? Weel, I ken it to be
true! And for wantin sic like as me, gien God never has need o’ a
midge, what for dis he mak sic a lot o’ them?’
‘’Deed it’s true eneuch ye say!’ returned his mother. ‘But I div won’er
ye’re no fleyt!’
‘Fleyt!’ rejoined Steenie; ‘what for wud I be fleyt? What is there to
be fleyt at? I never was fleyt at face o’ man or wuman--na, nor o’
beast naither!--I was ance, and never but that ance, fleyt at the face
o’ a bairn!’
‘And what for that, Steenie?
‘He was rinnin efter his wee sister to lick her, and his face was the
face o’ a deevil. He nearhan’ garred me hate him, and that wud hae been
a terrible sin. But, eh, puir laddie, he hed a richt fearsome wife to
the mither o’ him! I’m thinkin the bonny man maun hae a heap o’ tribble
wi’ siclike, be they bairns or mithers!’
‘Eh, but ye’re i’ the richt there, laddie!--Noo hearken to me: ye
maunna gang the nicht!’ said his mother anxiously. ‘Gien yer father and
Kirsty wad but come in to persuaud ye! I’m clean lost wi’oot them!’
‘For the puir idiot hasna the sense to ken what’s wantit o’ him!’
supplemented Steenie, with a laugh almost merry.
‘Daur ye,’ cried his mother indignantly, ‘mint at sic a word and my
bairn thegither? He’s my bonny man!’
‘Na, mother, na! _He’s_ the bonny man at wha’s feet I sall ae day sit,
clothed and i’ my richt min’. He _is_ the bonny man!’
‘Thank the Lord,’ continued his mother, still harping on the outrage of
such as called her child an idiot, ‘’at ye’re no an orphan--’at
there’s three o’ ’s to tak yer part!’
‘Naebody can be an orphan,’ said Steenie, ‘sae lang’s God’s nae deid.’
‘Lord, and they ca’ ye an idiot, div they!’ exclaimed Marion Barclay.
‘--Weel, be ye or no, ye’re ane o’ the babes in wha’s mooth he
perfecteth praise!’
‘He’ll du that some day, maybe!’ answered Steenie.
‘But! eh, Steenie,’ pursued his mother, ‘ye winna gang the nicht!’
‘Mother,’ he answered, ‘ye dinna ken, nor yet do I, what to mak o’
me--what wits I hae, and what wits I haena; but this ye’ll alloo, that,
for onything ye ken, the bonny man may be cryin upon me to gang efter
some puir little yowie o’ his, oot her lane i’ the storm the nicht!’
With these words he walked gently from the kitchen, his dog following
him.
A terrible blast rushed right into the fire when he opened the door.
But he shut it behind him easily, and his mother comforted herself that
she had known him out in worse weather. Kirsty entered a moment after,
and when her father came in from the loft he called his workshop, they
had their tea, and sat round the fire after it, peacefully talking, a
little troubled, but nowise uneasy that their Steenie, the darling of
them all, was away on the Horn: he knew every foot of its sides better
than the collie who, a moment ago asleep before the fire, was now
following at his master’s heel.
The wind, which had fallen immediately after the second gust as after
the first, now began to blow with gathering force, and it took Steenie
much longer than usual to make his way over height and hollow from his
father’s house to his own. But he was in no hurry, not knowing where he
was wanted. I do not think he met any angels as he went, but it was a
pleasure to think they might be about somewhere, for they were sorry
for his heavy feet, and always greeted him kindly. Not that they ever
spoke to him, he said, but they always made a friendly gesture--nodding
a stately head, waving a strong hand, or sending him a waft of cool air
as they went by, a waft that would come to him through the fiercest
hurricane as well as through the stillest calm.
Before, strong-toiling against the wind, man and dog reached their
refuge among the rocks, the snow had begun to fall, and the night
seemed solid with blackness. The very flakes might have been black as
the snow of hell for any gleam they gave. But they arrived at last, and
Steenie, making Snootie go in before him, entered the low door with
bent head, and closed it behind them. The dog lay down weary, but
Steenie set about lighting the peats ready piled between the great
stones of the hearth. The wind howled over the waste hill in
multitudinous whirls, and swept like a level cataract over the ghastly
bog at its foot, but scarce a puff blew against the door of their
burrow.
When his fire was well alight, Steenie seated himself by it on the
sheepskin settle, and fell into a reverie. How long he had sat thus he
did not know, when suddenly the wind fell, and with the lull master and
dog started together to their feet: was it indeed a cry they had heard,
or but a moan between wind and mountain? The dog flew to the door with
a whine, and began to sniff and scratch at the crack of the threshold;
Steenie, thinking it was still dark, went to get a lantern Kirsty had
provided him with, but which he had never yet had occasion to use. The
dog ran back to him, and began jumping upon him, indicating thus in the
dark recess where he found him that he wanted him to open the door. A
moment more and they were in the open universe, in a night all of snow,
lighted by the wide swooning gleam of a hidden moon, whose radiance,
almost absorbed, came filtering through miles of snow-cloud to reach
the world. Nothing but snow was to be seen in heaven or earth, but for
the present no more was falling. Steenie set the lighted lantern by the
door, and followed Snootie, who went sniffing and snuffing about.
Steenie always regarded inferior animals, and especially dogs, as a
lower sort of angels, with ways of their own, into which it would be
time to inquire by and by, when either they could talk or he could bark
intelligently and intelligibly--in which it used to annoy him that he
had not yet succeeded. It was in part his intense desire to enter into
the thoughts of his dog, that used to make him imitate him the most of
the day. I think he put his body as nearly into the shape of the dog’s
as he could, in order thus to aid his mind in feeling as the dog was
feeling.
As the dog seemed to have no scent of anything, Steenie, after
considering for a moment what he must do, began to walk in a spiral,
beginning from the door, with the house for the centre. He had thus got
out of the little valley on to the open hill, and the wind had begun to
threaten reawaking, when Snootie, who was a little way to one side of
him, stopped short, and began scratching like a fury in the snow.
Steenie ran to him, and dropped on his knees to help him: he had
already got a part of something clear! It was the arm of a woman. So
deep was the snow over her, that the cry he and the dog had heard,
could not surely have been uttered by her! He was gently clearing the
snow from the head, and the snow-like features were vaguely emerging,
when the wind gave a wild howl, the night grew dark again, and in
bellowing blackness the death-silent snow was upon them. But in a
moment or two more, with Snootie’s vigorous aid, he had drawn the body
of a slight, delicately formed woman out of it’s cold, white mould.
Somehow, with difficulty, he got it on his back, the only way he could
carry it, and staggered away with it toward his house. Thus laden, he
might never have found it, near as it was, for he was not very strong,
and the ground was very rough as well as a little deep in snow, but
they had left such a recent track that the guidance of the dog was
sure. The wise creature did not, however, follow the long track, but
led pretty straight across the spiral for the hut.
The body grew heavy on poor Steenie’s back, and the cold of it came
through to his spine. It was so cold that it must be a dead thing, he
thought. His breathing grew very short, compelling him, several times,
to stop and rest. His legs became insensible under him, and his feet
got heavier and heavier in the snow-filled, entangling, impeding
heather.
What if it were Phemy! he thought as he struggled on. Then he would
have the beautiful thing all to himself! But this was a dead thing, he
feared--only a thing, and no woman at all! Of course it couldn’t be
Phemy! She was at home, asleep in her father’s house! He had always
shrunk from death; even a dead mouse he could not touch without a
shudder; but this was a woman, and might come alive! It belonged to the
bonny man, anyhow, and he would stay out with it all night rather than
have it lie there alone in the snow! He would not be afraid of her: he
was nearly dead himself, and the dead were not afraid of the dead! She
had only put off her shoes! But she might be alive, and he must get her
into the house! He would like to put off his feet, but most people
would rather keep them on, and he must try to keep hers on for her!
With fast failing energy he reached the door, staggered in, dropped his
burden gently on his own soft heather-bed, and fell exhausted. He lay
but a moment, came to himself, rose, and looked at the lovely thing he
had laboured to redeem from ‘cold obstruction.’ It lay just as it had
fallen from his back, its face uppermost: it _was_ Phemy!
For a moment his blood seemed to stand still; then all the divine
senses of the half-witted returned to him. There was no time to be
sorrowful over her: he must save the life that might yet be in that
frozen form! He had nothing in the house except warmth, but warmth more
than aught else was what the cold thing needed! With trembling hands he
took off her half-thawed clothes, laid her in the thick blankets of his
bed, and covered her with every woollen thing in the hut. Then he made
up a large fire, in the hope that some of its heat might find her.
She showed no sign of life. Her eyes were fast shut: those who die of
cold only sleep into a deeper sleep. Not a trace of suffering was to be
seen on her countenance. Death alone, pure, calm, cold, and sweet, was
there. But Steenie had never seen Death, and there was room for him to
doubt and hope. He laid one fold of a blanket over the lovely white
face, as he had seen a mother do with a sleeping infant, called his
dog, made him lie down on her feet, and told him to watch; then turned
away, and went to the door. As he passed the fire, he coughed and grew
faint, but recovering himself, picked up his fallen stick, and set out
for Corbyknowe and Kirsty. Once more the wind had ceased, but the snow
was yet falling.