HUSBAND AND WIFE
Two hours or so earlier, David, perceiving some Assuagement in the
storm, and his host having offered to go at once to the doctor and the
schoolmaster, had taken his mare, and mounted to go home. He met with
no impediment now except the depth of the snow, which made it so hard
for the mare to get along that, full of anxiety about his children, he
found the distance a weary one to traverse.
When at length he reached the Knowe, no one was there to welcome him.
He saw, however, by the fire and the food, that Marion was not long
gone. He put up the gray, clothed her and fed her, drank some milk,
caught up a _quarter_ of cakes, and started for the hill.
The snow was not falling so thickly now, but it had already almost
obliterated the footprints of his wife. Still he could distinguish them
in places, and with some difficulty succeeded in following their track
until it was clear which route she had taken. They indicated the
easier, though longer way--not that by the earth-house, and the father
and daughter passed without seeing each other. When Kirsty got to the
farm, her father was following her mother up the hill.
When David reached the Hillfauld, the name he always gave Steenie’s
house, he found the door open, and walked in. His wife did not hear
him, for his iron-shod shoes were balled with snow. She was standing
over the body of Phemy, looking down on the white sleep with a solemn,
motherly, tearless face. She turned as he drew near, and the pair, like
the lovers they were, fell each in the other’s arms. Marion was the
first to speak.
‘Eh Dauvid! God be praised I hae yersel!’
‘Is the puir thing gane?’ asked her husband in an awe-hushed tone,
looking down on the maid that was not dead but sleeping.
‘I doobt there’s no doobt aboot that,’ answered Marion. ‘Steenie, I was
jist thinkin, wud be sair disappintit to learn ’at there was. Eh, the
faith o’ that laddie! H’aven to him’s sic a rale place, and sic a
hantle better nor this warl’, ’at he wad not only fain be there himsel,
but wad hae Phemy there--ay, gien it war ever sae lang afore himsel! Ye
see he kens naething aboot sin and the saicrifeece, and he disna
un’erstan ’at Phemy was aye a gey wull kin’ o’ a lassie!’
‘Maybe the bonny man, as Steenie ca’s him,’ returned David, ‘may hae as
muckle compassion for the puir thing i’ the hert o’ ’im as Steenie
himsel!’
‘Ow ay! Whatfor no! But what can the bonny man himsel du, a’ bein
sattlet?’
‘Dinna leemit the Almichty, wuman--and that i’ the verra moment whan
he’s been to hiz--I wunna say mair gracious nor ord’nar, for that cudna
be--but whan he’s latten us see a bit plainer nor common that he _is_
gracious! The Lord o’ mercy ’ill manage to luik efter the lammie he
made, ae w’y or ither, there as here. Ye daurna say he didna du his
best for her here, and wull he no du his best for her there as weel?’
‘Doobtless, Dauvid! But ye fricht me! It souns jist rank
papistry--naither mair nor less! What _can_ he du? He canna dee again
for ane ’at wudna turn til ’im i’ this life! The thing’s no to be
thoucht!’
‘Hoo ken ye that, wuman? Ye hae jist thoucht it yersel! Gien I was you,
I wudna daur to say what he cudna du! I’ the meantime, what he maks me
able to houp, I’m no gaein to fling frae me!’
David was a true man: he could not believe a thing with one half of his
mind, and care nothing about it with the other. He, like his Steenie,
believed in the bonny man about in the world, not in the mere image of
him standing in the precious shrine of the New Testament.
After a brief silence--
‘Whaur’s Kirsty and Steenie?’ he said.
‘The Lord kens; I dinna.’
‘They’ll be safe eneuch.’
‘It’s no likly.’
‘It’s sartin,’ said David.
And therewith, by the side of the dead, he imparted to his wife the
thoughts that drove misery from his heart as he sat on his mare in the
storm with the reins on her neck, nor knew whither she went.
‘Ay, ay,’ returned his wife after a pause, ‘ye’re unco richt, Dauvid,
as aye ye are! And I’m jist conscience-stricken to think ’at a’ my life
lang I hae been ready to murn ower the sorrow i’ _my_ hert, never
thinkin o’ the glaidness i’ God’s! What call hed I to greit ower
Steenie, whan God maun hae been aye sair pleased wi’ him! What sense is
there in lamentation sae lang’s God’s eident settin richt a’! His
hert’s the safity o’ oors. And eh, glaid sure he maun be, wi sic a lot
o’ his bairns at hame aboot him!’
‘Ay,’ returned David with a sigh, thinking of his old comrade and the
son he had left behind him, ‘but there’s the prodigal anes!’
‘Thank God, we hae nae prodigal!’
‘Aye, thank him!’ rejoined David; ‘but _he_ has prodigals that trouble
him sair, and we maun see til’t ’at we binna thankless auld prodigals
oorsels!’
Again followed a brief silence.
‘Eh, but isna it strange?’ said Marion. ‘Here’s you and me stanin
murnin ower anither man’s bairn, and naewise kennin what’s come o’ oor
ain twa!--Dauvid, what can hae come o’ Steenie and Kirsty?’
‘The wull o’ God’s what’s come o’ them; and God haud me i’ the grace o’
wussin naething ither nor that same!’
‘Haud to that, Dauvid, and haud me till’t: we kenna what’s comin!’
‘The wull o’ God’s comin,’ insisted David. ‘But eh,’ he added, ‘I’m
concernt for puir Maister Craig!’
‘Weel, lat’s awa hame and see whether the twa bena there afore ’s!--Eh,
but the sicht o’ the bonny corp maun hae gien Steenie a sair hert! I
wudna won’er gien he never wan ower ’t i’ this life!’
‘But what’ll we du aboot it or we gang? It’s the storm may come on
again waur nor ever, and mak it impossible to beery her for a month!’
‘We cudna carry her hame atween’s, Dauvid--think ye?’
‘Na, na; it’s no as gien it was hersel! And cauld’s a fine
keeper--better nor a’ the embalmin o’ the Egyptians! Only I’m fain to
haud Steenie ohn seen her again!’
‘Weel, lat’s hap her i’ the bonny white snaw!’ said Marion. ‘She’ll
keep there as lang as the snaw keeps, and naething ’ill disturb her
till the time comes to lay her awa!’
‘That’s weel thoucht o’!’ answered David. ‘Eh, wuman, but it’s a bonny
beerial compared wi’ sic as I hae aften gien comrade and foe alike!’
They went out and chose a spot close by the house where the snow lay
deep. There they made a hollow, and pressed the bottom of it down hard.
Then they carried out and laid in it the death-frozen dove, and heaped
upon her a firm, white, marble-like tomb of heavenly new-fallen snow.
Without re-entering it, they closed the door of Steenie’s refuge, and
leaving the two deserted houses side by side, made what slow haste they
could, with anxious hearts, to their home. The snow was falling softly,
for the wind was still asleep.