Heather and Snow by George MacDonald (best inspirational books .txt) 📕

her.

'He promised to merry ye?' she said.

'I didna say that; I said he was gaein to promise the nicht. And noo he'll be gane, and never a word said!'

'He promised, did he, 'at he would promise the nicht?-Eh, Francie! Francie! ye're no yer father's son!-He promised to promise to merry ye! Eh, ye puir gowk o' a bonny lassie!'

'Gien I met him the nicht-ay, it cam to that.'

All Kirsty's inborn motherhood awoke. She turned to her, and, clasping the silly thing in her arms, cried out-

'Puir wee dauty! Gien he hae a hert ony bigger nor Tod Lowrie's (the fox's) ain, he'll come to ye to the Knowe, and say what he has to say!'

'He winna ken whaur I am!' answered Phemy with an agonized burst of dry sobbing.

'Will he no? I s' see to that-and this verra nicht!' exclaimed Kirsty. 'I'll gie him ilka chance o' doin the richt thing!'

'But he'll be angert at me!'

'What for? Did he tell ye no to tell?'

'Ay did he.'

'Waur and waur!' cried Kirsty indignantly. 'He wad hae ye a' in his grup! He tellt ye, nae doobt, 'at ye was the bonniest lassie 'at ever was seen, and bepraised ye 'at yer ain minnie wouldna hae kenned ye! Jist tell me, Phemy, dinna ye think a hantle mair o' yersel sin' he took ye in han'?'

She would have Phemy see that she had gathered from him no figs or grapes, only thorns and thistles. Phemy made no reply: had she not every right to think well of herself? He had never said anything to her on that subject which she was not quite ready to believe.

Kirsty seemed to divine what was passing in her thought.

'A man,' she said, ''at disna tell ye the trowth aboot himsel 's no likly to tell ye the trowth aboot your sel! Did he tell ye hoo mony lassies he had said the same thing til afore ever he cam to you? It maitered little sae lang as they war lasses as hertless and toom-heidit as himsel, and ower weel used to sic havers; but a lassie like you, 'at never afore hearkent to siclike, she taks them a' for trowth, and the leein sough o' him gars her trow there was never on earth sic a won'erfu cratur as her! What pleesur there can be i' leein 's mair nor I can faddom! Ye're jist a gey bonnie lassie, siclike as mony anither; but gien ye war a' glorious within, like the queen o' Sheba, or whaever she may happen to hae been, there wad be naething to be prood o' i' that, seem ye didna contrive yersel. No ae stane, to bigg yersel, hae
ye putten upo' the tap o' anither!'

Phemy was nowise capable of understanding such statement and deduction. If she was lovely, as Frank told her, and as she saw in the glass, why should she not be pleased with herself? If Kirsty had been made like her, she would have been just as vain as she!

All her life the doll never saw the beauty of the woman. Beside Phemy, Kirsty walked like an Olympian goddess beside the naiad of a brook. And Kirsty was a goddess, for she was what she had to be, and never thought about it.

Phemy sank down in the heather, declaring she could go no farther, and looked so white and so pitiful that Kirsty's heart filled afresh with compassion. Like the mother she was, she took the poor girl yet again in her arms, and, carrying her quite easily now that she did not struggle, walked with her straight into her mother's kitchen.

Mrs. Barclay sat darning the stocking which would have been Kirsty's affair had she not been stalking Phemy. She took it out of her mother's hands, and laid the girl in her lap.

'There's a new bairnie til ye, mother! Ye maun daut her a wee, she's unco tired!' she said, and seating herself on a stool, went on with the darning of the stocking.

Mistress Barclay looked down on Phemy with such a face of loving benignity that the poor miserable girl threw her arms round her neck, and laid her head on her bosom. Instinctively the mother began to hush and soothe her, and in a moment more was singing a lullaby to her. Phemy fell fast asleep. Then Kirsty told what she had done, and while she spoke, the mother sat silent brooding, and hushing, and thinking.


CHAPTER XVIII

PHEMY'S CHAMPION


When she had told all, Kirsty rose, and laying aside the stocking, said,

'I maun awa to Weelset, mother. I promised the bairn I would lat Francie ken whaur she was, and gie him the chance o' sayin his say til her.'

'Verra weel, lassie! ye ken what ye're aboot, and I s' no interfere wi' ye. But, eh, ye'll be tired afore ye win to yer bed!'

'I'll no tramp it, mother; I'll tak the gray mear.'

'She's gey and fresh, lassie; ye maun be on yer guaird.'

'A' the better!' returned Kirsty. 'To hear ye, mother, a body wud think I cudna ride!'

'Forbid it, bairn! Yer father says, man or wuman, there's no ane i' the countryside like ye upo' beast-back.'

'They tak to me, the craturs! It was themsels learnt me to ride!' answered Kirsty, as she took a riding whip from the wall, and went out of the kitchen.

The mare looked round when she entered the stable, and whinnied. Kirsty petted and stroked her, gave her two or three handfuls of oats, and while she was eating strapped a cloth on her back: there was no side-saddle about the farm. Kirsty could ride well enough sideways on a man's, but she liked the way her father had taught her far better. Utterly fearless, she had, in his training from childhood until he could do no more for her, grown a horsewoman such as few.

The moment the mare had finished her oats she bridled her, led her out, and sprang on her back; where sitting as on a pillion, she rode quietly out of the farm-close. The moment she was beyond the gate, she leaned back, and, throwing her right foot over the mare's crest, rode like an Amazon, at ease, and with mastery. The same moment the mare was away, up hill and down dale, almost at racing speed. Had the coming moon been above the horizon, the Amazon farm-girl would have been worth meeting! So perfectly did she yield her lithe, strong body to every motion of the mare, abrupt or undulant, that neither ever felt a jar, and their movements seemed the outcome of a vital force common to the two. Kirsty never thought whether she was riding well or ill, gracefully or otherwise, but the mare knew that all was right between them. Kirsty never touched the bridle except to moderate the mare's pace when she was too much excited to heed what she said to her.

Doubtless, to many eyes, she would have looked better in a riding habit, but she would have felt like an eagle in a nightgown. She wore a full winsey petticoat, which she managed perfectly, and stockings of the same colour.

On her head she had nothing but the silk net at that time and in that quarter much worn by young unmarried women. In the rush of the gallop it slipped, and its content escaped: she put the net in her pocket, and cast a knot upon her long hair as if it had been a rope. This she did without even slackening her speed, transferring from her hand to her teeth the whip she carried. It was one colonel Gordon had given her father in remembrance of a little adventure they had together, in which a lash from it in the dark night was mistaken for a sword-cut, and did them no small service.

By the time they reached the castle, the moon was above the horizon. Kirsty brought the mare to a walk, and resuming her pillion-seat, remanded her hair to its cage, and readjusted her skirt; then, setting herself as in a side-saddle, she rode gently up to the castle-door.

A manservant, happening to see her from the hall-window, saved her having to ring the bell, and greeted her respectfully, for everybody knew Corbyknowe's Kirsty. She said she wanted to see Mr. Gordon, and suggested that perhaps he would be kind enough to speak to her at the door. The man went to find his master, and in a minute or two brought the message that Mr. Gordon would be with her presently. Kirsty drew her mare back into the shadow which, the moon being yet low, a great rock on the crest of a neighbouring hill cast upon the approach, and waited.

It was three minutes before Francis came sauntering bare-headed round the corner of the house, his hands in his pockets, and a cigar in his mouth. He gave a glance round, not seeing his visitor at once, and then with a nod, came toward her, still smoking. His nonchalance, I believe, was forced and meant to cover uneasiness. For all that had passed to make him forget Kirsty, he yet remembered her uncomfortably, and at the present moment could not help regarding her as an angelic bete noir , of whom he was more afraid than of any other human being. He approached her in a sort of sidling stroll, as if he had no actual business with her, but thought of just asking whether she would sell her horse. He did not speak, and Kirsty sat motionless until he was near enough for a low-voiced conference.

'What are ye aboot wi' Phemy Craig, Francie?' she began, without a word of greeting.

Kirsty was one of the few who practically deny time; with whom what was, is; what is, will be. She spoke to the tall handsome man in the same tone and with the same forms as when they were boy and girl together.

He had meant their conversation to be at arm's length, so to say, but his intention broke down at once, and he answered her in the same style.

'I ken naething aboot her. What for sud I?' he answered.

'I ken ye dinna ken whaur she is, for I div,' returned Kirsty. 'Ye answer a queston I never speired! What are ye aboot wi' Phemy, I challenge ye again! Puir lassie, she has nae brither to say the word!'

'That's a' verra weel; but ye see, Kirsty,' he began-then stopped, and having stared at her a moment in silence, exclaimed, 'Lord, what a splendid woman you've grown!'-He had probably been drinking with his mother.

Kirsty sat speechless, motionless, changeless as a soldier on guard. Gordon had to resume and finish his sentence.

'As I was going to say, you can't take the place of a brother to her, Kirsty, else I should know how to answer you!-It's awkward when a lady takes you to task,' he added with a drawl.

'Dinna trouble yer heid aboot that, Francie: hert ye hae little to trouble aboot onything!' rejoined Kirsty. Then changing to English as he had done, she went on: 'I claim no consideration on that score.'

Francis Gordon felt very uncomfortable. It was deuced hard to be bullied by a woman!

He stood silent, because he had nothing to say.

'Do you mean to marry my Phemy?' asked Kirsty.

'Really, Miss Barclay,' Francis began, but