Heather and Snow - George MacDonald (best book club books for discussion .txt) 📗

riding slowly in the same direction. It was the progress, however, not the horse that was slow: his frolics, especially when the other horses drew near, kept his rider sufficiently occupied.

Mrs. Gordon quickened her pace, and passed without turning her head or looking at her, but so close, and with so sudden a rush that Kirsty's horse half wheeled, and bounded over the dyke by the roadside. Her rudeness annoyed her son, and he jumped his horse into the field and joined Kirsty, letting his mother ride on, and contenting himself with keeping her in sight. After a few moments' talk, however, he proposed that they should overtake her, and cutting off a great loop of the road, they passed her at speed, and turned and met her. She had by this time got a little over her temper, and was prepared to behave with propriety, which meant-the dignity becoming her.

'What a lovely horse you have, Miss Barclay!' she said, without other greeting. 'How much do you want for him?'

'He is but half-broken,' answered Kirsty, 'or I would offer to change with you. I almost wonder you look at him from the back of your own!'

'He is a beauty-is he not? This is my first trial of him. The laird gave me him only this morning. He is as quiet as a lamb.'

'There, Donal,' said Kirsty to her horse, 'tak example by yer betters! Jist luik hoo he stan's!-The laird has a true eye for a horse, ma'am,' she went on, 'but he always says you gave it him.'

'Always! hm!' said Mrs. Gordon to herself, but she looked kindly at her son.

'How did you learn to ride so well, Kirsty?' she asked.

'I suppose I got it from my father, ma'am! I began with the cows.'

'Ah, how is old David?' returned Mrs. Gordon. 'I have seen him once or twice about the castle of late, but have not spoken to him.'

'He is very well, thank you.-Will you not come up to the Knowe and rest a moment? My mother will be very glad to see you.'

'Not to-day, Kirsty. I haven't been on horseback for years, and am already tired. We shall turn here. Good-morning!'

'Good-morning, ma'am! Good-bye, Mr. Gordon!' said Kirsty cheerfully, as she wheeled her horse to set him straight at a steep grassy brae.


CHAPTER XLII

THE LAIRD AND HIS MOTHER


The laird and his mother sat and looked at Kirsty as her horse tore up the brae.

'She can ride-can't she, mother?' said Francis.

'Well enough for a hoiden,' answered Mrs. Gordon.

'She rides to please her horse now, but she'll have him as quiet as yours before long,' rejoined her son, both a little angry and a little amused at her being called a hoiden who was to him like an angel grown young with aeonian life.

'Yes,' resumed his mother, as if she would be fair, 'she does ride well! If only she were a lady, that I might ask her to ride with me! After all it's none of my business what she is-so long as you don't want to marry her!' She concluded, with an attempt at a laugh.

'But I do want to marry her, mother!' rejoined Francis.

A short year before, his mother would have said what was in her heart, and it would not have been pleasant to hear; but now she was afraid of her son, and was silent. But it added to her torture that she must be silent. To be dethroned in castle Weelset by the daughter of one of her own tenants, for as such she thought of them, was indeed galling. 'The impudent quean!' she said to herself, 'she's ridden on her horse into the heart of the laird!' But for the wholesome consciousness of her own shame, which she felt that her son was always sparing, she would have raged like a fury.

'You that might have had any lady in the land!' she said at length.

'If I might, mother, it would be just as vain to look for her equal.'

'You might at least have shown your mother the respect of choosing a lady to sit in her place! You drive me from the house!'

'Mother,' said Francis, 'I have twice asked Kirsty Barclay to be my wife, and she has twice refused me.'

'You may try her again: she had her reasons! She never meant to let you slip! If you got disgusted with her afterwards, she would always have her refusal of you to throw in your teeth.'

Francis laid his hand on his mother's, and stopped her horse.

'Mother, you compel me!' he said. 'When I came home ill, and, as I thought, dying, you called me bad names, and drove me from the house. Kirsty found me in a hole in the earth, actually dying then, and saved my life.'

'Good heavens, Francis! Are you mad still? How dare you tell such horrible falsehoods of your own mother? You never came near me! You went straight to Corbyknowe!'

'Ask Mrs. Bremner if I speak the truth. She ran out after me, but could not get up with me. You drove me out; and if you do not know it now, you do not need to be told how it is that you have forgotten it.'

She knew what he meant, and was silent.

'Then Kirsty went to Edinburgh, to sir Haco Macintosh, and with his assistance brought me to my right mind. If it were not for Kirsty, I should be in my grave, or wandering the earth a maniac. Even alive and well as I am, I should not be with you now had she not shown me my duty'

'I thought as much! All this tyranny of yours, all your late insolence to your mother, comes from the power of that low-born woman over you! I declare to you, Francis Gordon, if you marry her, I will leave the house.'

He made her no answer, and they rode the rest of the way in silence. But in that silence things grew clearer to him. Why should he take pains to persuade his mother to a consent which she had no right to withhold? His desire was altogether reasonable: why should its fulfilment depend on the unreason of one who had not strength to order her own behaviour? He had to save her, not to please her, gladly as he would have done both!

When he had helped her from the saddle, he would have remounted and ridden at once to Corbyknowe, but feared leaving her. She shut herself in her room till she could bear her own company no longer, and then went to the drawing-room, where Francis read to her, and played several games of backgammon with her. Soon after dinner she retired, saying her ride had wearied her; and the moment Francis knew she was in bed, he got his horse, and galloped to the Knowe.


CHAPTER XLIII

THE CORONATION


When he arrived, there was no light in the house: all had gone to rest. Unwilling to disturb the father and mother, he rode quietly to the back of the house, where Kirsty's room looked on the garden. He called her softly. In a moment she peeped out, then opened her window.

'Cud ye come doon a minute, Kirsty?' said Francis.

'I'll be wi' ye in less time,' she replied; and he had hardly more than dismounted, when she was by his side.

He told her what had passed between him and his mother since she left them.

'It's a rael bonny nicht!' said Kirsty, 'and we'll jist tak oor time to turn the thing ower-that is, gien ye bena tired, Francie. Come, we'll put the beastie up first.'

She led the horse into the dark stable, took his bridle off, put a halter on him, slackened his girths, and gave him a feed of corn-all in the dark; which things done, she and her lover set out for the Horn.

The whole night seemed thinking of the day that was gone. All doing seemed at an end, yea God himself to be resting and thinking. The peace of it sank into their bosoms, and filled them so, that they walked a long way without speaking. There was no wind, and no light but the starlight. The air was like the clear dark inside some diamonds. The only sound that broke the stillness as they went was the voice of Kirsty, sweet and low-and it was as if the dim starry vault thought, rather than she uttered, the words she quoted:-

'Summer Night, come from God,
On your beauty, I see,
A still wave has flowed
Of Eternity!'


At a certain spot on the ridge of the Horn, Francis stopped.

'This is whaur ye left me this time last year, Kirsty,' he said;'-left me wi' my Maker to mak a man o' me. It was 'maist makin me ower again!'

There was a low stone just visible among the heather; Kirsty seated herself upon it. Francis threw himself among the heather, and lay looking up in her face.

'That mother o' yours is 'maist ower muckle for ye, Francie!' said Kirsty.

'It's no aften, Kirsty, ye tell me what I ken as weel 's yersel!' returned Francis.

'Weel, Francie, ye maun tell me something the night!-Gien it wudna mismuve ye, I wad fain ken hoo ye wan throu that day we pairtit here.'

Without a moment's hesitation, Francis began the tale-giving her to know, however, that in what took place there was much he did not understand so as to tell it again.

When he made an end, Kirsty rose and said,

'Wad ye please to sit upo' that stane, Francie!'

In pure obedience he rose from the heather, and sat upon the stone.

She went behind him, and clasped his head, round the temples, with her shapely, strong, faithful hands.

'I ken ye noo for a man, Francis. Ye hae set yersel to du his wull, and no yer ain: ye're a king; and for want o' a better croon, I croon ye wi my twa ban's.'

Little thought Kirsty how near she came, in word and deed, to the crowning of Dante by Virgil, as recorded toward the close of the Purgatorio.

Then she came round in front of him, he sitting bewildered and taking no part in the solemn ceremony save that of submission, and knelt slowly down before him, laying her head on his knees, and saying,-

'And here's yer kingdom, Francis-my heid and my hert! Du wi' me what ye wull.'

'Come hame wi' me, and help save my mother,' he answered, in a voice choked with emotion.

'I wull,' she said, and would have risen; but he laid his hands on her head, and thus they remained for a time in silence. Then they rose, and went.

They had gone about half-way to the farm before either spoke. Then Kirsty said,-

'Francie, there's ae thing I maun beg o' ye, and but ane-'at ye winna desire me to tak the heid o' yer table. I canna but think it an ungracious thing 'at a young wuman like