A GREAT GULF
It was now midsummer, and Francis Gordon was well, though thin and
looking rather delicate. Kirsty and he had walked together to the top
of the Horn, and there sat, in the heart of old memories. The sun was
clouded above; the boggy basin lay dark below, with its rim of heathery
hills not yet in bloom, and its bottom of peaty marsh, green and black,
with here and there a shining spot; the growing crops of the far-off
farms on the other side but little affected the general impression the
view gave of a waste world; yet the wide expanse of heaven and earth
lifted the heart of Kirsty with an indescribable sense of presence,
purpose, promise. For was it not the country on which, fresh from God,
she first opened the eyes of this life, the visible region in which all
her efforts had gone forth, in which all the food of her growth had
been gathered, in which all her joys had come to her, in which all her
loves had had their scope, the place whence by and by she would go away
to find her brother with the bonny man!
Francis saw without heeding. His heart was not uplifted. His earthly
future, a future of his own imagining, drew him.
‘This winna du ony langer, Kirsty!’ he said at length. ‘The accusin
angel ’ill be upo’ me again or I ken! I maunna be idle ’cause I’m happy
ance mair--thanks to you, Kirsty! Little did I think ever to raise my
heid again! But noo I maun be at my wark! I’m fit eneuch!’
‘I’m richt glaid to hear’t!’ answered Kirsty. ‘I was jist thinkin lang
for a word o’ the sort frae ye, Francie. I didna want to be the first
to speyk o’ ’t.’
‘And I was just thinkin lang to hear ye speyk o’ ’t!’ returned Francis.
‘I wantit to du ’t as the thing ye wad hae o’ me!’
‘Even than, Francie, ye wudna, it seems, hae been doin ’t to please me,
and that pleases me weel! I wud be nane pleast to think ye duin ’t for
me! It wud gie me a sair hert, Francie!’
‘What for that, Kirsty?’
‘’Cause it wud shaw ye no a man yet! A man’s a man ’at dis what’s
richt, what’s pleasin to the verra hert o’ richt. Ye’ll please me best
by no wantin to please me; and ye’ll please God best by duin what he’s
putten intil yer hert as the richt thing, and the bonny thing, and the
true thing, though ye suld dee i’ the duin o’ ’t.--Tell me what ye’re
thinkin o’ duin.’
‘What but gaeing efter this new commission they hae promised me?
There’s aye a guid chance o’ fechtin upo’ the borders--the frontiers,
as they ca’ them!’
Kirsty sat silent. She had been thinking much of what Francis ought to
do, and had changed her mind on the point since the time when she
talked about him with sir Haco.
‘Isna that what ye wud hae me du, Kirsty?’ he said, when he found she
continued silent. ‘A body’s no a fule for wantin guid advice!’
‘No, that’s true eneuch!--What for wad ye want to gang fechtin?’
‘To shaw the warl’ I’m nane o’ what my mither ca’d me.’
‘And shawn that, hoo muckle the better man wud ye be for ’t? Min’ ye
it’s ae thing to be, and anither to shaw. _Be_ ye maun; _shaw_ ye
needna.’
‘I dinna ken; I micht be growin better a’ the time!’
‘And ye micht be growin waur.--What the better wud ony neebour be for
ye gane fechtin? Wudna it be a’ for yersel? Is there naething gien
intil yer han’ to du--naething nearer hame nor that? Surely o’ twa
things, ane near and ane far, the near comes first!’
‘I dinna ken. I thoucht ye wantit me to gang!’
‘Ay, raither nor bide at hame duin naething; but michtna there be
something better to du?’
‘I dinna ken. I thoucht to please ye, Kirsty, but it seems naething
wull!’
‘Ay; that’s whaur the mischief lies: ye thoucht to please _me_!’
‘I did think to please you, Kirsty! I thoucht, ance dune weel afore the
warl as my father did, I micht hae the face to come hame to you, and
say--“Kirsty, wull ye hae me?”’
‘Aye the same auld Francie!’ said Kirsty, with a deep sigh.
‘Weel?’
‘I tell ye, Francie, i’ the name o’ God, I’ll never hae ye on nae sic
terms!--Suppose I was to merry somebody whan ye was awa pruvin to
yersel, and a’ the lave ’at never misdoobted ye, ’at ye was a brave
man--what wud ye du whan ye cam hame?’
‘Naething o’ mortal guid! Tak to the drink, maybe.’
‘Ye tell me that! and ye think, wi’ my een open to ken ’at ye say true,
I wud merry ye?--a man like you! Eh, Francie, Francie! ye’re no worth
my takin, and ye’re no like to be worth the takin o’ ony honest
wuman!--Can ye possibly imegine a wuman merryin a man ’at she kenned
wud drive her to coontless petitions to be hauden ohn despisit him? Ye
mak my hert unco sair, Francie! I hae dune my best wi’ ye, and the en’
o’ ’t is, ’at ye’re no worth naething!’
‘For the life o’ me, Kirsty, I dinna ken what ye’re drivin at, or what
ye wud hae o’ me! I canna but think ye’re usin me as ye wudna like to
be used yersel!’
‘’Deed I wud not like it gien I was o’ your breed, Francie! Man, did ye
never ance i’ yer life think what ye _hed_ to du--what was gien ye to
du--what it was yer duty to du?’
‘No sae aften, doobtless, as I oucht. But I’m ready to hear ye tell me
my duty; I’m no past reasonin wi’!’
‘Did ye never hear ’at ye’re to lo’e yer neebour as yersel?’
‘I’m duin that wi’ a’ my hert, Kirsty--and that ye ken as weel as I du
mysel!’
‘Ye mean me, Francie! And ye ca’ that lo’in me, to wull me merry a man
’at’s no a man ava! But it’s nae me ’at’s yer neebour, Francie!’
‘Wha _is_ my neebour, Kirsty?’
‘The queston’s been speirt afore--and answert.’
‘And what’s the answer til’t?’
‘’At yer neebour’s jist whaever lies neist ye i’ need o’ yer help. Gien
ye read the tale o’ the guid Sameritan wi’ ony sort o’ gumption, that’s
what ye’ll read intil ’t and noucht else. The man or wuman ye can help,
ye hae to be neebour til.’
‘I want to help you.’
‘Ye canna help me. I’m in no need o’ yer help. And the queston’s no
whar’s the man I _micht_ help, but whaur’s the man I _maun_ help. I
wantit to be _your_ neebour, but I cudna win at ye for the thieves; ye
_wad_ stick to them, and they wudna lat me du naething.’
‘What thieves, i’ the name o’ common sense, Kirsty?’
‘Love o’ yer ain gait, and love o’ makin a show, and want o’ care for
what’s richt. Aih, Francie, I doobt something a heap waur ’ll hae to
come upo’ ye! A’ my labour’s lost, and I dearly grudge it--no the
labour, but the loss o’ ’t! I grudge that sair.’
‘Kirsty, i’ the name o’ God, wha _is_ my neebour?’
‘Yer ain mither.’
‘My ain mither!--_her_ oot o’ a’ the warl’?--I never cam upo’ spark o’
rizzon intil her!’
‘Michtna she be that ane oot o’ a’ the warl’, ye never shawed spark o’
rizzon til?’
‘There’s nae place in her for reason to gang til!’
‘Ye never tried her wi’ ’t! Ye wud arguy wi’ her mair nor plenty, but
did ye ever shaw her rizzon i’ yer behaviour?’
‘Weel ye _are_ turnin agen me--you ’at’s saved my life frae her! Didna
I tell you hoo, whan I wan hame at last and gaed til her, for she was
aye guid to me when I wasna weel, she fell oot upo’ me like a verra
deevil, ragin and ca’in me ill names, ’at I jist ran frae the hoose--and
ye ken whaur ye faun’ me! Gien it hadna been for you, I wud hae
been deid: I was waur nor deid a’ready! What w’y _can_ I be neebour to
_her_! It wud be naething but cat and dog atween’s frae mornin to
nicht!’
‘Ae body canna be cat and dog baith! And the dog’s as ill’s the
cat--whiles waur!’
‘Ony dog wud yowl gien ye threw a kettle o’ bilin watter ower him!’
‘Did she that til ye?’
‘She mintit at it. I ran frae her. She hed the toddy-kettle in her
han’, and she splasht it in her ain face tryin to fling’t at me.’
‘Maybe she didna ken ye!’
‘She kenned me weel eneuch. She ca’d me by my ain as weel ’s ither
names.’
‘Ye’re jist croonin my arguyment, Francie! Yer mither’s jist perishin
o’ drink! She drinks and drinks, and, by what I hear, cares for noucht
else. A’s upo’ the ro’d to ruin in her and aboot her. She hasna the
brains noo, gien ever she hed them, to guide hersel. Is Satan to grip
her ’cause ye winna be neebour til her and haud him aff o’ her? I ken
ye’re a guid son sae far as lat her du as she likes and tak ’maist a’
the siller, but that’s what greases the exle o’ the cairt the deevil’s
gotten her intil! I ken weel she hesna been muckle o’ a mither til ye,
but ye’re her son whan a’s said. And there can be naething ye’re
callt upon to du, sae lang as she’s i’ the grup o’ the enemy, but rugg
her oot o’ ’t. Gien ye dinna that, ye’ll never be oot o’ ’s grup
yersel. Ye come oot thegither, or ye bide thegither.’
Gordon sat speechless.
‘It’s _im_possible!’ he said at length.
‘Francie,’ rejoined Kirsty, very quietly and solemnly, ‘ye’re yer
mother’s keeper; ye’re her neist neebour: are ye gauin to du yer duty
by her, or are ye not?’
‘I canna; I daurna; I’m a cooard afore her.’
‘Gien ye lat her gang on to disgrace yer father, no to say yersel--and
that by means o’ what’s yours and no hers, I’ll say mysel ’at ye’re a
cooard.’
‘Come hame wi’ me and tak my pairt, and I’ll promise ye to du my best.’
‘Ye maun tak yer ain pairt; and ye maun tak her pairt tu against
hersel.’
‘It’s no to be thoucht o’, Kirsty!’
‘Ye winna?’
‘I canna my lane. I winna try ’t. It wud be waur nor useless.’
Kirsty rose, turning her face homeward. Gordon sprang to his feet. She
was already three yards from him.
‘Kirsty! Kirsty!’ he cried, going after her.
She went straight for home, never showing by turn of head, by
hesitation of step, or by change of carriage, that she heard his voice
or his feet behind her.
When they had thus gone two or three hundred yards, he quickened his
pace, and laid his hand on her arm.
She stopped and faced him. He dropped his hand, grew yet whiter, and
said not a word. She walked on again. Like one in a dream he followed,
his head hanging, his eyes on the heather. She went on faster. He was
falling behind her, but did not know it. Down and down the hill he
followed, and only at the earth-house lifted his head: she was nearly
over the opposite brae! He had let her go! He might yet have overtaken
her, but he knew that he had lost her.
He had no home, no refuge! Then first, not when alone in the
beleaguered city, he knew desolation. He had never knocked at the door
of heaven, and earth had closed hers! An angel who needed no flaming
sword to make her awful, held the gate of his lost paradise against
him. None but she could open to him, and he knew that, like God
himself, Kirsty was inexorable. Left alone with that last terrible look
from the eyes of the one being he loved, he threw himself in despair on
the ground. True love is an awful thing, not to the untrue only, but
sometimes to the growing-true, for to everything that can be burned it
is a consuming fire. Never more, it seemed, would those eyes look in at
his soul’s window without that sad, indignant repudiation in them! He
rose, and crept into the earth-house.
Kirsty lost herself in prayer as she went. ‘Lord, I hae dune a’ I can!’
she said. ‘Until thou hast dune something by thysel, I can do naething
mair. He’s i’ thy han’s still, I praise thee, though he’s oot o’ mine!
Lord, gien I hae dune him ony ill, forgie me; a puir human body canna
ken aye the best! Dinna lat him suffer for my ignorance, whether I be
to blame for ’t or no. I will try to do whatever thou makest plain to
me.’
By the time she reached home she was calm. Her mother saw and respected
her solemn mood, gave her a mother’s look, and said nothing: she knew
that Kirsty, lost in her own thoughts, was in good company.
What was passing in the soul of Francis Gordon, I can only indicate, I
cannot show. The most mysterious of all vital movements, a generation,
a transition, was there--how initiated, God only knows. Francis knew
neither whence it came nor whither it went. He was being re-born from
above. The change was in himself; the birth was that of his will. It
was his own highest action, therefore all God’s. He was passing from
death into life, and knew it no more than the babe knows that he is
being born. The change was into a new state of being, of the very
existence of which most men are incredulous, for it is beyond
preconception, capable only of being experienced. Thorough as is the
change, the man knows himself the same man, and yet would rather cease
to be, than return to what he was. The unknown germ in him, the root of
his being, yea, his very being itself, the holy thing which is his
intrinsic substance, hitherto unknown to his consciousness, has begun
to declare itself, and the worm is passing into the butterfly, the
creeping thing into the Psyche. It is a change in which God is the
potent presence, but which the man must _will_, or remain the gaoler
who prisons in loathsomeness his own God-born self, and chokes the
fountain of his own liberty.
Francis knew nothing of all this; he only felt he must knock at the
door behind which Kirsty lived. Kirsty could not open the door to him,
but there was one who could, and Francis could knock! ‘God help me!’ he
cried, as he lay on his face to live, where once he had lain on his
face to die. For the rising again is the sepulchre. The world itself is
one vast sepulchre for the heavenly resurrection. We are all busy
within the walls of our tomb burying our dead, that the corruptible may
perish, and the incorruptible go free. Francis Gordon came out of that
earth-house a risen man: his will was born. He climbed again to the
spot where Kirsty and he had sat together, and there, with the vast
clear heaven over his head, threw himself once more on his face, and
lifted up his heart to the heart whence he came.