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

she must be ready to save their lives! they must not perish on her hands. So she prepared for the possible future, not by brooding on it, but by doing the work of the present. She cooked and cooked, until there was nothing more to be done in that way, and then, having thus cleared the way for it, sat down and cried. There was a time for tears: the Bible said there was! and when Marion's hands fell into her lap, their hour-and not till then, was come. To go out after Kirsty would have been the bare foolishness of suicide, would have been to abandon her husband and children against the hour of their coming need: one of the hardest demands on the obedience of faith is-to do nothing; it is often so much easier to do foolishly!

But she did not weep long. A moment more and she was up and at work again, hanging a great kettle of water on the crook, and blowing up the fire, that she might have hot bottles to lay in every bed. Then she assailed the peat-stack in spite of the wind, making to it journey after journey, until she had heaped a great pile of peats in the corner nearest the hearth.

The morning wore on; the storm continued raging; no news came from the white world; mankind had vanished in the whirling snow. It was well the men had gone home, she thought: there would only have been the more in danger, the more to be fearful about, for all would have been abroad in the drift, hopelessly looking for one another! But oh Steenie, Steenie! and her ain Kirsty!

About half-past ten o'clock the wind began to abate its violence, and speedily sank to a calm, wherewith the snow lost its main terror. She looked out; it was falling in straight, silent lines, flickering slowly down, but very thick. She could find her way now! Hideous fears assailed her, but she banished them imperiously: they should not sap the energy whose every jot would be wanted! She caught up the bottle of hot milk she had kept ready, wrapped it in flannel, tied it, with a loaf of bread, in a shawl about her waist, made up the fire, closed the door, and set out for Steenie's house on the Horn.


CHAPTER XXVIII

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 disapp'intit 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, gie 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 hand me i' the grace o' wussin naething ither nor that same!'

'Haud to that, Dauvid, and hand 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 hand 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.


CHAPTER XXIX

DAVID, MARION, KIRSTY, SNOOTIE, AND WHAT WAS LEFT OF STEENIE


Kirsty saw their shadows darken the wall, and turning from her work at the dresser, ran to the door to meet them.

'God be thankit!' cried David.

Marion gave her daughter one loving look, and entering cast a fearful, questioning glance around the kitchen.

'Whaur's Steenie?' she said.

'He's wi' Phemy, I'm thinkin,' faltered Kirsty.

'Lassie, are ye dementit?' her mother almost screamed. 'We're this minute come frae there!'

'He is wi' Phemy, mother. The Lord canna surely hae pairtit them, gangin in maist haudin hans!'

'Kirsty, I haud ye accoontable for my Steenie!' cried Marion, sinking on a chair, and covering her face with her hands.

'It's the wull o' God 'at's accoontable for him, wuman!' answered David, sitting down beside her, and laying hold of her arm.

She burst into terrible weeping.

'He maun be sair at hame wi' the bonny man!' said Kirsty.

'Lassie,' said David, 'you and me and yer mither, we hae naething left but be better bairns, and gang the fester to the bonny man!-Whaur's what's left o' the laddie, Kirsty?'

'Lyin i' my hoose, as he ca'd it. Mine was i' the yerd, his i' the air, he said. He was awa afore I wan to the kitchen. He had jist killt himsel savin at Phemy, rinnin and fechtin on, upo' the barest chance o' savin her life; and sae whan he set off again to gang til her, no bidin for me, he was that forfouchten 'at he hed a bluid-brak in 's breist, and was jist able, and nae mair, to creep intil the weem oot o' the snaw. He didna like the place, and yet had a kin' o'