Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood Part 26

"Not yet. We can't get out. We're upon your right hand, in a peat-stack."

"Oh! I know the peat-stack. I'll be with you in a moment."

He did not however find it so easily as he had expected, the peats being covered with snow. My father gave up trying to free himself and took to laughing instead at the ridiculous situation in which we were about to be discovered. He kept directing Turkey, however, who at length after some disappearances which made us very anxious about the lantern, caught sight of the stack, and walked straight towards it.

Now first we saw that he was not alone, but accompanied by the silent Andrew.

"Where are you, sir?" asked Turkey, throwing the light of the lantern over the ruin.

"Buried in the peats," answered my father, laughing. "Come and get us out."

Turkey strode up to the heap, and turning the light down into it said,

"I didn't know it had been raining peats, sir."

"The peats didn't fall quite so far as the snow, Turkey, or they would have made a worse job of it," answered my father.

Meantime Andrew and Turkey were both busy; and in a few moments we stood upon our feet, stiff with cold and cramped with confinement, but merry enough at heart.

"What brought you out to look for us?" asked my father.

"I heard Missy whinnying at the stable-door," said Andrew. "When I saw she was alone, I knew something had happened, and waked Turkey. We only stopped to run to the manse for a drop of whisky to bring with us, and set out at once."

"What o'clock is it now?" asked my father.

"About one o'clock," answered Andrew.

"One o'clock!" thought I. "What a time we should have had to wait!"

"Have you been long in finding us?"

"Only about an hour."

"Then the little mare must have had great trouble in getting home. You say the other was not with her?"

"No, sir. She's not made her appearance."

"Then if we don't find her, she will be dead before morning. But what shall we do with you, Ra.n.a.ld? Turkey had better go home with you first."

"Please let me go too," I said.

"Are you able to walk?"

"Quite--or at least I shall be, after my legs come to themselves a bit."

Turkey produced a bottle of milk which he had brought for me, and Andrew produced the little flask of whisky which Kirsty had sent; and my father having taken a little of the latter, while I emptied my bottle, we set out to look for young Missy.

"Where are we?" asked my father.

Turkey told him.

"How comes it that n.o.body heard our shouting, then?"

"You know, sir," answered Turkey, "the old man is as deaf as a post, and I dare say his people were all fast asleep."

The snow was falling only in a few large flakes now, which sank through the air like the moultings of some lovely bird of heaven. The moon had come out again, and the white world lay around us in lovely light. A good deal of snow had fallen while we lay in the peats, but we could yet trace the track of the two horses. We followed it a long way through the little valley into which we had dropped from the side of the road. We came to more places than one where they had been floundering together in a snow-wreath, but at length reached the spot where one had parted from the other. When we had traced one of the tracks to the road, we concluded it was Missy's, and returned to the other. But we had not followed it very far before we came upon the poor mare lying upon her back in a deep runnel, in which the snow was very soft. She had put her forefeet in it as she galloped heedlessly along, and tumbled right over. The snow had yielded enough to let the banks get a hold of her, and she lay helpless. Turkey and Andrew, however, had had the foresight to bring spades with them and a rope, and they set to work at once, my father taking a turn now and then, and I holding the lantern, which was all but useless now in the moonlight. It took more than an hour to get the poor thing on her legs again, but when she was up, it was all they could do to hold her. She was so wild with cold, and with delight at feeling her legs under her once more, that she would have broken loose again, and galloped off as recklessly as ever. They set me on her back, and with my father on one side and Turkey on the other, and Andrew at her head, I rode home in great comfort. It was another good hour before we arrived, and right glad were we to see through the curtains of the parlour the glow of the great fire which Kirsty had kept up for us. She burst out crying when we made our appearance.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

A Solitary Chapter

During all that winter I attended the evening school and a.s.sisted the master. I confess, however, it was not by any means so much for the master as to be near Elsie Duff, of whom I now thought many times an hour. Her sweet face grew more and more dear to me. When I pointed out an error in her work, or suggested a better mode of working, it would flush like the heart of a white rose, and eagerly she would set herself to rectification or improvement, her whole manner a dumb apology for what could be a fault in no eyes but her own. It was this sweetness that gained upon me: at length her face was almost a part of my consciousness. I suppose my condition was what people would call being in love with her; but I never thought of that; I only thought of her. Nor did I ever dream of saying a word to her on the subject. I wished nothing other than as it was. To think about her all day, so gently that it never disturbed Euclid or Livy; to see her at night, and get near her now and then, sitting on the same form with her as I explained something to her on the slate or in her book; to hear her voice, and look into her tender eyes, was all that I desired. It never occurred to me that things could not go on so; that a change must come; that as life cannot linger in the bud, but is compelled by the suns.h.i.+ne and air into the flower, so life would go on and on, and things would change, and the time blossom into something else, and my love find itself set out-of-doors in the midst of strange plants and a new order of things.

When school was over, I walked home with her--not alone, for Turkey was always on the other side. I had not a suspicion that Turkey's admiration of Elsie could ever come into collision with mine. We joined in praising her, but my admiration ever found more words than Turkey's, and I thought my love to her was greater than his.

We seldom went into her grandmother's cottage, for she did not make us welcome. After we had taken her home we generally repaired to Turkey's mother, with whom we were sure of a kind reception. She was a patient diligent woman, who looked as if she had nearly done with life, and had only to gather up the crumbs of it. I have often wondered since, what was her deepest thought--whether she was content to be unhappy, or whether she lived in hope of some blessedness beyond. It is marvellous with how little happiness some people can get through the world. Surely they are inwardly sustained with something even better than joy.

"Did you ever hear my mother sing?" asked Turkey, as we sat together over her little fire, on one of these occasions.

"No. I should like very much," I answered.

The room was lighted only by a little oil-lamp, for there was no flame to the fire of peats and dried oak-bark.

"She sings such queer ballads as you never heard," said Turkey. "Give us one, mother; do."

She yielded, and, in a low chanting voice, sang something like this:--

Up cam' the waves o' the tide wi' a whush, And back gaed the pebbles wi' a whurr, Whan the king's ae son cam' walking i' the hush, To hear the sea murmur and murr.

The half mune was risin' the waves abune, An' a glimmer o' cauld weet licht Cam' ower the water straucht frae the mune, Like a path across the nicht.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

What's that, an' that, far oot i' the grey Atwixt the mune and the land?

It's the bonny sea-maidens at their play-- Haud awa', king's son, frae the strand.

Ae rock stud up wi' a shadow at its foot: The king's son stepped behind: The merry sea-maidens cam' gambolling oot, Combin' their hair i' the wind.

O merry their laugh when they felt the land Under their light cool feet!

Each laid her comb on the yellow sand, And the gladsome dance grew fleet.

But the fairest she laid her comb by itsel'

On the rock where the king's son lay.

He stole about, and the carven sh.e.l.l He hid in his bosom away.

And he watched the dance till the clouds did gloom, And the wind blew an angry tune: One after one she caught up her comb, To the sea went dancin' doon.