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It was a cottage half in ruins, occupied by an old woman whom I dimly recollected having once gone with my father to see—a good many years ago, as it appeared to me now. She was still alive, however, very old, and bedridden. I recollected that from the top of her wooden bed hung a rope for her to pull herself up by when she wanted to turn, for she was very rheumatic, and this rope for some cause or other had filled me with horror. But there was more of the same sort. The cottage had once been a smithy, and the bellows had been left in its place. Now there is nothing particularly frightful about a pair of bellows, however large it may be, and yet the recollection of that huge structure of leather and wood, with the great iron nose projecting from the contracting cheeks of it, at the head of the old woman’s bed, so capable yet so useless, did return upon me with terror in the dusk of that lonely night. It was mingled with a vague suspicion that the old woman was a bit of a witch, and a very doubtful memory that she had been seen on one occasion by some night-farer, when a frightful storm was raging, blowing away at that very bellows as hard as her skinny arms and lean body could work the lever, so that there was almost as great a storm of wind in her little room as there was outside of it. If there was any truth in the story, it is easily accounted for by the fact that the poor old woman had been a little out of her mind for many years,—and no wonder, for she was nearly a hundred, they said. Neither is it any wonder that when Missy stopped almost suddenly, with her fore-feet and her neck stretched forward, and her nose pointed straight for the door of the cottage at a few yards’ distance, I should have felt very queer indeed. Whether my hair stood on end or not I do not know, but I certainly did feel my skin creep all over me. An ancient elder-tree grew at one end of the cottage, and I heard the lonely sigh of a little breeze wander through its branches. The next instant a frightful sound from within the cottage broke the night air into what seemed a universal shriek. Missy gave a plunge, turned round on her hind-legs, and tore from the place. I very nearly lost my seat, but terror made me cling the faster to my only companion, asventre-à-terreshe flew home. It did not take her a minute to reach the stable-door. There she had to stop, for I had shut it when I brought her out. It was mortifying to find myself there instead of under John Adam’s hayloft, the rescuer of Jamie Duff. But I did not think of that for a while. Shaken with terror, and afraid to dismount and be next the ground, I called upon Andrew as well as my fear would permit; but my voice was nearly unmanageable, and I could do little more than howl with it.
In a few minutes, to me a time of awful duration—for who could tell what might be following me up from the hollow?—Andrew appeared half-dressed, and not in the best of tempers, remarking it was an odd thing to go out riding when honest people were in their beds, except, he added, I meant to take to the highway. Thereupon, rendered more communicative by the trial I had gone through, I told him the whole story, what I had intended and how I had been frustrated. He listened, scratched his head, and saying someone ought to see if anything was the matter with the old woman, turned in to put on the rest of his clothes.
“You had better go home to bed, Ranald,” he said.
“Won’t you be frightened, Andrew?” I asked.
“Frightened? What should I be frightened at? It’s all waste to be frightened before you know whether the thing is worth it.”
My courage had been reviving fast in the warm presence of a human being. I was still seated on Missy. To go home having done nothing for Jamie, and therefore nothing for Elsie, after all my grand ideas of rescue and restoration, was too mortifying. I should feel so small when I woke in the morning! And yet suppose the something which gave that fearful cry in the cottage should be out roaming the fields and looking for mel I had courage enough, however, to remain where I was till Andrew came out again, and as I sat still on the mare’s back, my courage gradually rose. Nothing increases terror so much as running away. When he reappeared, I asked him:
“What do you think it could be, Andrew?”
“How should I tell?” returned Andrew. “The old woman has a very queer cock, I know, that always roosts on the top of her bed, and crows like no cock I ever heard crow. Or it might be Wandering Willie—he goes to see her sometimes, and the demented creature might strike up his pipes at any unearthly hour.”
I was not satisfied with either suggestion; but the sound I had heard had already grown so indistinct in my memory, that for anything I could tell it might have been either. The terror which it woke in my mind had rendered me incapable of making any observations or setting down any facts with regard to it. I could only remember that I had heard a frightful noise, but as to what it was like I could scarcely bear the smallest testimony.
I begged Andrew to put the saddle on for me, as I should then have more command of Missy. He went and got it, appearing, I thought, not at all over-anxious about old Betty; and I meantime buckled on an old rusty spur which lay in the stable window, the leathers of it crumbling off in flakes. Thus armed, and mounted with my feet in the stirrups, and therefore a good pull on Missy’s mouth, I found my courage once more equal to the task before me. Andrew and I parted at right angles; he across the field to old Betty’s cottage, and I along the road once more in the direction of John Adam’s farm.
It must have been now about eleven o’clock. The clouds had cleared off, and the night had changed from brown and grey to blue sparkling with gold. I could see much better, and fancied I could hear better too. But neither advantage did much for me. I had not ridden far from the stable, before I again found myself very much alone and unprotected, with only the wide, silent fields about me, and the wider and more silent sky over my head. The fear began to return. I fancied something strange creeping along every ditch—something shapeless, but with a terrible cry in it. Next I thought I saw a scarcely visible form—now like a creature on all-fours, now like a man, far off, but coming rapidly towards me across the nearest field. It always vanished, however, before it came close. The worst of it was, that the faster I rode, the more frightened I became; for my speed seemed to draw the terrors the faster after me. Having discovered this, I changed my plan, and when I felt more frightened, drew rein and went slower. This was to throw a sort of defiance to the fear; and certainly as often as I did so it abated. Fear is a worse thing than danger.
I had to pass very nigh the pool to which Turkey and I had gone the night of our adventure with Bogbonny’s bull. That story was now far off in the past, but I did not relish the dull shine of the water in the hollow, notwithstanding. In fact I owed the greater part of the courage I possessed—and it was little enough for my needs—to Missy. I dared not have gone on my own two legs. It was not that I could so easily run away with four instead, but that somehow I was lifted above the ordinary level of fear by being upon her back. I think many men draw their courage out of their horses.
At length I came in sight of the keeper’s farm; and just at that moment the moon peeped from behind a hill, throwing as long shadows as the setting sun, but in the other direction. The shadows were very different too. Somehow they were liker to the light that made them than the sun-shadows are to the sunlight. Both the light and the shadows of the moon were strange and fearful to me. The sunlight and its shadows are all so strong and so real and so friendly, you seem to know all about them; they belong to your house, and they sweep all fear and dismay out of honest people’s hearts. But with the moon and its shadows it is very different indeed. The fact is, the moon is trying to do what she cannot do. She is trying to dispel a great sun-shadow—for the night is just the gathering into one mass of all the shadows of the sun. She is not able for this, for her light is not her own; it is second-hand from the sun himself; and her shadows therefore also are second-hand shadows, pieces cut out of the great sun-shadow, and coloured a little with the moon’s yellowness. If I were writing for grown people I should tell them that those who understand things because they think about them, and ask God to teach them, walk in the sunlight; and others, who take things because other people tell them so, are always walking in the strange moonlight, and are subject to no end of stumbles and terrors, for they hardly know light from darkness. Well, at first, the moon frightened me a little—she looked so knowing, and yet all she said round about me was so strange. But I rode quietly up to the back of the yard where the ricks stood, got off Missy and fastened the bridle to the gate, and walked across to the cart-shed, where the moon was shining upon the ladder leading up to the loft. I climbed the ladder, and after several failures succeeded in finding how the door was fastened. When I opened it, the moonlight got in before me, and poured all at once upon a heap of straw in the farthest corner, where Jamie was lying asleep with a rug over him. I crossed the floor, knelt down by him, and tried to wake him. This was not so easy. He was far too sound asleep to be troubled by the rats; for sleep is an armour—yes, a castle—against many enemies. I got hold of one of his hands, and in lifting it to pull him up found a cord tied to his wrist. I was indignant: they had actually manacled him like a thief! I gave the cord a great tug of anger, pulled out my knife, and cut it; then, hauling Jamie up, got him half-awake at last. He stared with fright first, and then began to cry. As soon as he was awake enough to know me, he stopped crying but not staring, and his eyes seemed to have nothing better than moonlight in them.
“Come along, Jamie,” I said. “I’m come to take you home.”
“I don’t want to go home,” said Jamie. “I want to go to sleep again.”
“That’s very ungrateful of you, Jamie,” I said, full of my own importance, “when I’ve come so far, and all at night too, to set you free.”
“I’m free enough,” said Jamie. “I had a better supper a great deal than I should have had at home. I don’t want to go before the morning.”
And he began to whimper again.
“Do you call this free?” I said, holding up his wrist where the remnant of the cord was hanging.
“Oh!” said Jamie, “that’s only—”
But ere he got farther the moonlight in the loft was darkened. I looked hurriedly towards the door. There stood the strangest figure, with the moon behind it. I thought at first it was the Kelpie come after me, for it was a tall woman. My heart gave a great jump up, but I swallowed it down. I would not disgrace myself before Jamie. It was not the Kelpie, however, but the keeper’s sister, the great, grim, gaunt woman I had seen at the table at supper. I will not attempt to describe her appearance. It was peculiar enough, for she had just got out of bed and thrown an old shawl about her. She was not pleasant to look at. I had myself raised the apparition, for, as Jamie explained to me afterwards, the cord which was tied to his wrist, instead of being meant to keep him a prisoner, was a device of her kindness to keep him from being too frightened. The other end had been tied to her wrist, that if anything happened he might pull her, and then she would come to him.
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“What’s the matter, Jamie Duff?” she said in a gruff voice as she advanced along the stream of moonlight.
I stood up as bravely as I could.
“It’s only me, Miss Adam,” I said.
“And who are you?” she returned.
“Ranald Bannerman,” I answered.
“Oh!” she said in a puzzled tone. “What are you doing here at this time of the night?”
“I came to take Jamie home, but he won’t go.”
“You’re a silly boy to think my brother John would do him any harm,” she returned. “You’re comfortable enough, aren’t you, Jamie Duff?”
“Yes, thank you, ma’am, quite comfortable,” said Jamie, who was now wide-awake. “But, please ma’am, Ranald didn’t mean any harm.”
“He’s a housebreaker, though,” she rejoined with a grim chuckle; “and he’d better go home again as fast as he can. If John Adam should come out, I don’t exactly know what might happen. Or perhaps he’d like to stop and keep you company.”
“No, thank you, Miss Adam,” I said. “I will go home.”
“Come along, then, and let me shut the door after you.”
Somewhat nettled with Jamie Duff’s indifference to my well-meant exertions on his behalf, I followed her without even bidding him good night.
“Oh, you’ve got Missy, have you?” she said, spying her where she stood. “Would you like a drink of milk or a piece of oatcake before you go?”
“No, thank you,” I said. “I shall be glad to go to bed.”
“I should think so,” she answered. “Jamie is quite comfortable, I assure you; and I’ll take care he’s in time for school in the morning. There’s no harm inhim, poor thing!”
She undid the bridle for me, helped me to mount in the kindest way, bade me good night, and stood looking after me till I was some distance off. I went home at a good gallop, took off the saddle and bridle and laid them in a cart in the shed, turned Missy loose into the stable, shut the door, and ran across the field to the manse, desiring nothing but bed.
When I came near the house from the back, I saw a figure entering the gate from the front. It was in the full light of the moon, which was now up a good way. Before it had reached the door I had got behind the next corner, and peeping round saw that my first impression was correct: it was the Kelpie. She entered, and closed the door behind her very softly. Afraid of being locked out, a danger which had scarcely occurred to me before, I hastened after her; but finding the door already fast, I called through the keyhole. She gave a cry of alarm, but presently opened the door, looking pale and frightened.
“What are you doing out of doors this time of the night?” she asked, but without quite her usual arrogance, for, although she tried to put it on, her voice trembled too much.
I retorted the question.
“What were you doing out yourself?” I said.
“Looking after you, of course.”
“That’s why you locked the door, I suppose—to keep me out.”
She had no answer ready, but looked as if she would have struck me.
“I shall let your father know of your goings on,” she said, recovering herself a little.
“You need not take the trouble. I shall tell him myself at breakfast to-morrow morning. I have nothing to hide. You had better tell him too.”
I said this not that I did not believe she had been out to look for me, but because I thought she had locked the door to annoy me, and I wanted to take my revenge in rudeness. For doors were seldom locked in the summer nights in that part of the country. She made me no reply, but turned and left me, not even shutting the door. I closed it, and went to bed weary enough.
The next day, at breakfast, I told my father all the previous day’s adventures. Never since he had so kindly rescued me from the misery of wickedness had I concealed anything from him. He, on his part, while he gave us every freedom, expected us to speak frankly concerning our doings. To have been unwilling to let him know any of our proceedings would have simply argued that they were already disapproved of by ourselves, and no second instance of this had yet occurred with me. Hence it came that still as I grew older I seemed to come nearer to my father. He was to us like a wiser and more beautiful self over us,—a more enlightened conscience, as it were, ever lifting us up towards its own higher level.
This was Sunday; but he was not so strict in his ideas concerning the day as most of his parishioners. So long as we were sedate and orderly, and neither talked nor laughed too loud, he seldom interfered with our behaviour, or sought to alter the current of our conversation. I believe he did not, like some people, require or expect us to care about religious things as much as he did: we could not yet know as he did what they really were. But when any of the doings of the week were referred to on the Sunday, he was more strict, I think, than on other days, in bringing them, if they involved the smallest question, to the standard of right, to be judged, and approved or condemned thereby. I believe he thought that to order our ways was our best preparation for receiving higher instruction afterwards. For one thing, we should then, upon failure, feel the burden of it the more, and be the more ready to repent and seek the forgiveness of God, and that best help of his which at length makes a man good within himself.
He listened attentively to my story, seemed puzzled at the cry I had heard from the cottage, said nothing could have gone very wrong, or we should have heard of it, especially as Andrew had been to inquire, laughed over the apparition of Miss Adam, and my failure in rescuing Jamie Duff. He said, however, that I had no right to interefere with constituted authority—that Adam was put there to protect the trees, and if he had got hold of a harmless person, yet Jamie was certainly trespassing, and I ought to have been satisfied with Turkey’s way of looking at the matter.
I saw that my father was right, and a little further reflection convinced me that, although my conduct had a root in my regard for Jamie Duff, it had a deeper root in my regard for his sister, and one yet deeper in my regard for myself—for had I not longed to show off in her eyes? I suspect almost all silly actions have their root in selfishness, whether it take the form of vanity, of conceit, of greed, or of ambition.
While I was telling my tale, Mrs. Mitchell kept coming into the room oftener, and lingering longer, than usual. I did not think of this till afterwards. I said nothing about her, for I saw no occasion; but I do not doubt she was afraid I would, and wished to be at hand to defend herself. She was a little more friendly to me in church that day: she always sat beside little Davie.
When we came out, I saw Andrew, and hurried after him to hear how he had sped the night before. He told me he had found all perfectly quiet at the cottage, except the old woman’s cough, which was troublesome, and gave proof that she was alive, and probably as well as usual. He suggested now that the noise was all a fancy of mine—at which I was duly indignant, and desired to know if it was also Missy’s fancy that made her go off like a mad creature. He then returned to his former idea of the cock, and as this did not insult my dignity, I let it pass, leaning however myself to the notion of Wandering Willie’s pipes.
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On the following Wednesday we had a half holiday, and before dinner I went to find Turkey at the farm. He met me in the yard, and took me into the barn.
“I want to speak to you, Ranald,” he said.
I remember so well how the barn looked that day. The upper half of one of the doors had a hole in it, and a long pencil of sunlight streamed in, and fell like a pool of glory upon a heap of yellow straw. So golden grew the straw beneath it, that the spot looked as if it were the source of the shine, and sent the slanting ray up and out of the hole in the door. We sat down beside it, I wondering why Turkey looked so serious and important, for it was not his wont.
“Ranald,” said Turkey, “I can’t bear that the master should have bad people about him.”
“What do you mean, Turkey?” I rejoined.
“I mean the Kelpie.”
“She’s a nasty thing, I know,” I answered. “But my father considers her a faithful servant.”
“That’s just where it is. She is not faithful. I’ve suspected her for a long time. She’s so rough and ill-tempered that she looks honest; but I shall be able to show her up yet. You wouldn’t call it honest to cheat the poor, would you?”
“I should think not. But what do you mean?”
“There must have been something to put old Eppie in such an ill-temper on Saturday, don’t you think?”
“I suppose she had had a sting from the Kelpie’s tongue.”
“No, Ranald, that’s not it. I had heard whispers going about; and last Saturday, after we came home from John Adam’s, and after I had told Elsie about Jamie, I ran up the street to old Eppie. You would have got nothing out of her, for she would not have liked to tell you; but she told me all about it.”
“What a creature you are, Turkey! Everybody tells you everything.”
“No, Ranald; I don’t think I am such a gossip as that. But when you have a chance, you ought to set right whatever you can. Right’s the only thing, Ranald.”
“But aren’t you afraid they’ll call you a meddler, Turkey? Not thatIthink so, for I’m sure if you do anythingagainstanybody, it’sforsome other body.”
“That would be no justification if I wasn’t in the right,” said Turkey. “But if I am, I’m willing to bear any blame that comes of it. And I wouldn’t meddle for anybody that could take care of himself. But neither old Eppie nor your father can do that: the one’s too poor, and the other too good.”
“Iwaswondering what you meant by saying my father couldn’t take care of himself.”
“He’s too good; he’s too good, Ranald. He believes in everybody.Iwouldn’t have kept that Kelpie inmyhouse half the time.”
“Did you ever say anything to Kirsty about her?”
“I did once; but she told me to mind my own business. Kirsty snubs me because I laugh at her stories. But Kirsty is as good as gold, and I wouldn’t mind if she boxed my ears—as indeed she’s done—many’s the time.”
“But what’s the Kelpie been doing to old Eppie?”
“First of all, Eppie has been playing her a trick.”
“Then she mustn’t complain.”
“Eppie’s was a lawful trick, though. The old women have been laying their old heads together—but to begin at the beginning: there has been for some time a growing conviction amongst the poor folk that the Kelpie never gives them an honest handful of meal when they go their rounds. But this was very hard to prove, and although they all suspected it, few of them were absolutely certain about it. So they resolved that some of them should go with empty bags. Every one of those found a full handful at the bottom. Still they were not satisfied. They said she was the one to take care what she was about. Thereupon old Eppie resolved to go with something at the bottom of her bag to look like a good quantity of meal already gathered. The moment the door was closed behind her—that was last Saturday—she peeped into the bag. Not one grain of meal was to be discovered. That was why she passed you muttering to herself and looking so angry. Now it will never do that the manse, of all places, should be the one where the poor people are cheated of their dues. But we roust have yet better proof than this before we can say anything.”
“Well, what do you mean to do, Turkey?” I asked. “Why does she do it, do you suppose? It’s not for the sake of saving my father’s meal, I should think.”
“No, she does something with it, and, I suppose, flatters herself she is not stealing—only saving it off the poor, and so making a right to it for herself. I can’t help thinking that her being out that same night had something to do with it. Did you ever know her go to see old Betty?”
“No, she doesn’t like her. I know that.”
“I’m not so sure. She pretends perhaps. But we’ll have a try. I think I can outwit her. She’s fair game, you know.”
“How? What? Do tell me, Turkey,” I cried, right eagerly.
“Not to-day. I will tell you by and by.”
He got up and went about his work.
As I returned to the house I met my father.
“Well, Ranald, what are you about?” he said, in his usual gentle tone.
“Nothing in particular, father,” I answered.
“Well, I’m going to see an old man—John Jamieson—I don’t think you know him: he has not been able to come to church for a long time. They tell me he is dying. Would you like to go with me?”
“Yes, father. But won’t you take Missy?”
“Not if you will walk with me. It’s only about three miles.”
“Very well, father. I should like to go with you.”
My father talked about various things on the way. I remember in particular some remarks he made about reading Virgil, for I had just begun the Æneid. For one thing, he told me I must scan every line until I could make it sound like poetry, else I should neither enjoy it properly, nor be fair to the author. Then he repeated some lines from Milton, saying them first just as if they were prose, and after that the same lines as they ought to be sounded, making me mark the difference. Next he did the same with a few of the opening lines of Virgil’s great poem, and made me feel the difference there.
“The sound is the shape of it, you know, Ranald,” he said, “for a poem is all for the ear and not for the eye. The eye sees only the sense of it; the ear sees the shape of it. To judge poetry without heeding the sound of it, is nearly as bad as to judge a rose by smelling it with your eyes shut. The sound, besides being a beautiful thing in itself, has a sense in it which helps the other out. A psalm tune, if it’s the right one, helps you to see how beautiful the psalm is. Every poem carries its own tune in its own heart, and to read it aloud is the only way to bring out its tune.”
I liked Virgil ever so much better after this, and always tried to get at the tune of it, and of every other poem I read.
“The right way of anything,” said my father, “may be called the tune of it. We have to find out the tune of our own lives. Some people don’t seem ever to find it out, and so their lives are a broken and uncomfortable thing to them—full of ups and downs and disappointments, and never going as it was meant to go.”
“But what is the right tune of a body’s life, father?”
“The will of God, my boy.”
“But how is a person to know that, father?”
“By trying to do what he knows of it already. Everybody has a different kind of tune in his life, and no one can find out another’s tune for him, though hemayhelp him to find it for himself.”
“But aren’t we to read the Bible, father?”
“Yes, if it’s in order to obey it. To read the Bible thinking to please God by the mere reading of it, is to think like a heathen.”
“And aren’t we to say our prayers, father?”
“We are to ask God for what we want. If we don’t want a thing, we are only acting like pagans to speak as if we did, and call it prayer, and think we are pleasing him.”
I was silent. My father resumed.
“I fancy the old man we are going to see found out the tune ofhislife long ago.”
“Is he a very wise man then, father?”
“That depends on what you mean bywise.Ishould call him a wise man, for to find out that tune is the truest wisdom. But he’s not a learned man at all. I doubt if he ever read a book but the Bible, except perhaps the Pilgrim’s Progress. I believe he has always been very fond of that.Youlike that—don’t you, Ranald?”
“I’ve read it a good many times, father. But I was a little tired of it before I got through it last time.”
“But you did read it through—did you—the last time, I mean?”
“Oh yes, father. I never like to leave the loose end of a thing hanging about.”
“That’s right, my boy; that’s right. Well, I think you’d better not open the book again for a long time—say twenty years at least. It’s a great deal too good a book to let yourself get tired of. By that time I trust you will be able to understand it a great deal better than you can at present.”
I felt a little sorry that I was not to look at the Pilgrim’s Progress for twenty years; but I am very glad of it now.
“We must not spoil good books by reading them too much,” my father added. “It is often better to think about them than to read them; and it is best never to do either when we are tired of them. We should get tired of the sunlight itself, beautiful as it is, if God did not send it away every night. We’re not even fit to have moonlight always. The moon is buried in the darkness every month. And because we can bear nothing for any length of time together, we are sent to sleep every night, that we may begin fresh again in the morning.”
“I see, father, I see,” I answered.
We talked on until we came in sight of John Jamieson’s cottage.
What a poor little place it was to look at—built of clay, which had hardened in the sun till it was just one brick! But it was a better place to live in than it looked, for no wind could come through the walls, although there was plenty of wind about. Three little windows looked eastward to the rising sun, and one to the south: it had no more. It stood on the side of a heathy hill, which rose up steep behind it, and bending round sheltered it from the north. A low wall of loose stones enclosed a small garden, reclaimed from the hill, where grew some greens and cabbages and potatoes, with a flower here and there between. In summer it was pleasant enough, for the warm sun makes any place pleasant. But in winter it must have been a cold dreary place indeed. There was no other house within sight of it. A little brook went cantering down the hill close to the end of the cottage, singing merrily.
“It is a long way to the sea, but by its very nature the water will find it at last,” said my father, pointing to the stream as we crossed it by the single stone that was its bridge.
He had to bend his head low to enter the cottage. An old woman, the sick man’s wife, rose from the side of the chimney to greet us. My father asked how John was.
“Wearing away,” was her answer. “But he’ll be glad to see you.”
We turned in the direction in which her eyes guided us. The first thing I saw was a small withered-looking head, and the next a withered-looking hand, large and bony. The old man lay in a bed closed in with boards, so that very little light fell upon him; but his hair glistened silvery through the gloom. My father drew a chair beside him. John looked up, and seeing who it was, feebly held out his hand. My father took it and stroked it, and said:
“Well, John, my man, you’ve had a hard life of it.”
“No harder than I could bear,” said John.
“It’s a grand thing to be able to say that,” said my father.
“Oh sir! for that matter, I would go through it all again, if it washiswill, and willingly. I have no will but his, sir.”
“Well, John, I wish we could all say the same. When a man comes to that, the Lord lets him have what he wants. What do you want now, John?”
“To depart and be with the Lord. It wouldn’t be true, sir, to say that I wasn’t weary. It seems to me, if it’s the Lord’s will, I’ve had enough of this life. Even if death be a long sleep, as some people say, till the judgment, I think I would rather sleep, for I’m very weary. Only there’s the old woman there! I don’t like leaving her.”
“But you can trust God for her too, can’t you?”
“It would be a poor thing if I couldn’t, sir.”
“Were you ever hungry, John—dreadfully hungry, I mean?”
“Never longer than I could bear,” he answered. “When you think it’s the will of God, hunger doesn’t get much hold of you, sir.”
“You must excuse me, John, for asking so many questions. You know God better than I do, and I want my young man here to know how strong the will of God makes a man, old or young. He needn’t care about anything else, need he?”
“There’s nothing else to care about, sir. If only the will of God be done, everything’s all right, you know. I do believe, sir, God cares more for me than my old woman herself does, and she’s been as good a wife to me as ever was. Young gentleman, you know who says that God numbers the very hairs of our heads? There’s not many of mine left to number,” he added with a faint smile, “but there’s plenty of yours. You mind the will of God, and he’ll look after you. That’s the way he divides the business of life.”
I saw now that my father’s talk as we came, had been with a view to prepare me for what John Jamieson would say. I cannot pretend, however, to have understood the old man at the time, but his words have often come back to me since, and helped me through trials pretty severe, although, like the old man, I have never found any of them too hard to bear.
“Have you no child to come and help your wife to wait upon you?” my father asked.
“I have had ten, sir, but only three are left alive. There’ll be plenty to welcome me home when I go. One of the three’s in Canada, and can’t come. Another’s in Australia, and he can’t come. But Maggie’s not far off, and she’s got leave from her mistress to come for a week—only we don’t want her to come till I’m nearer my end. I should like her to see the last of her old father, for I shall be young again by the next time she sees me, please God, sir. He’s all in all—isn’t he, sir?”
“True, John. If we have God, we have all things; for all things are his and we are his. But we mustn’t weary you too much. Thank you for your good advice.”
“I beg your pardon, sir; I had no intention of speaking like that. I never could give advice in all my life. I always found it was as much as I could do to take the good advice that was given to me. I should like to be prayed for in the church next Sunday, sir, if you please.”
“But can’t you pray for yourself, John?”
“Yes, sir; but I would like to have some spiritual gift because my friends asked it for me. Let them pray for more faith for me. I want more and more of that. The more you have, the more you want. Don’t you, sir? And I mightn’t ask enough for myself, now I’m so old and so tired. I sleep a great deal, sir.”
“Then don’t you think God will take care to give you enough, even if you shouldn’t ask for enough?” said my father.
“No doubt of that. But you see I am able to think of it now, and so I must put things in a train for the time when I shan’t be able to think of it.”
Something like this was what John said; and although I could not understand it then, my father spoke to me several times about it afterwards, and I came to see how the old man wanted to provide against the evil time by starting prayers heavenward beforehand, as it were.
My father prayed by his bedside, pulled a parcel or two from his pocket for his wife, and then we walked home together in silence. My father was not the man to heap words upon words and so smother the thought that lay in them. He had taken me for the sake of the lesson I might receive, and he left it to strike root in my mind, which he judged more likely if it remained undisturbed.
When we came to the farm on our way home, we looked in to see Kirsty, but found the key in the door, indicating that she had gone out. As we left the yard, we saw a strange-looking woman, to all appearance a beggar, approaching. She had a wallet over her shoulder, and walked stooping with her eyes on the ground, nor lifted them to greet us—behaviour which rarely showed itself in our parish. My father took no notice, but I could not help turning to look after the woman. To my surprise she stood looking after us, but the moment I turned, she turned also and walked on. When I looked again she had vanished. Of course she must have gone into the farm-yard. Not liking the look of her, and remembering that Kirsty was out, I asked my father whether I had not better see if any of the men were about the stable. He approved, and I ran back to the house. The door was still locked. I called Turkey, and heard his voice in reply from one of the farthest of the cow-houses. When I had reached it and told him my story, he asked if my father knew I had come back. When he heard that he did know, he threw down his pitchfork, and hastened with me. We searched every house about the place, but could find no sign whatever of the woman.
“Are you sure it wasn’t all a fancy of your own, Ranald?” said Turkey.
“Quite sure. Ask my father. She passed as near us as you are to me now.”
Turkey hurried away to search the hayloft once more, but without success; and at last I heard my father calling me.
I ran to him, and told him there was no woman to be seen.
“That’s odd,” he said. “She must have passed straight through the yard and got out at the other side before you went in. While you were looking for her, she was plodding away out of sight. Come along, and let us have our tea.”
I could not feel quite satisfied about it, but, as there was no other explanation, I persuaded myself that my father was right.
The next Saturday evening I was in the nursery with my brothers. It was growing dusk, when I heard a knocking. Mrs. Mitchell did not seem to hear it, so I went and opened the door. There was the same beggar woman. Rather frightened, I called aloud, and Mrs. Mitchell came. When she saw it was a beggar, she went back and reappeared with a wooden basin filled with meal, from which she took a handful as she came in apparent preparation for dropping it, in the customary way, into the woman’s bag. The woman never spoke, but closed the mouth of her wallet, and turned away. Curiosity gave me courage to follow her. She walked with long strides in the direction of the farm, and I kept at a little distance behind her. She made for the yard. She should not escape me this time. As soon as she entered it, I ran as fast as I could, and just caught sight of her back as she went into one of the cow-houses. I darted after her. She turned round upon me—fiercely, I thought, but judge my surprise when she held out the open mouth of the bag towards me, and said—
“Not one grain, Ranald! Put in your hand and feel.”
It was Turkey.
I stared in amazement, unable for a time to get rid of the apparition and see the reality. Turkey burst out laughing at my perplexed countenance.
“Why didn’t you tell me before, Turkey?” I asked, able at length to join in the laugh.
“Because then you would have had to tell your father, and I did not want him to be troubled about it, at least before we had got things clear. I alwaysdidwonder how he could keep such a creature about him.”
“He doesn’t know her as we do, Turkey.”
“No. She never gives him the chance. But now, Ranald, couldn’t you manage to find out whether she makes any store of the meal she pretends to give away?”
A thought struck me.
“I heard Davie the other day asking her why she had two meal-tubs: perhaps that has something to do with it.”
“You must find out. Don’t ask Davie.”
For the first time it occurred to me that the Kelpie had upon that night of terror been out on business of her own, and had not been looking for me at all.
“Then she was down at old Betty’s cottage,” said Turkey, when I communicated the suspicion, “and Wandering Willie was there too, and Andrew was right about the pipes. Willie hasn’t been once to the house ever since he took Davie, but she has gone to meet him at Betty’s. Depend on it, Ranald, he’s her brother, or nephew, or something, as I used to say. I do believe she gives him the meal to take home to her family somewhere. Did you ever hear anything about her friends?”
“I never heard her speak of any.”
“Then I don’t believe they’re respectable. I don’t, Ranald. But it will be a great trouble to the minister to have to turn her away. I wonder if we couldn’t contrive to make her go of herself. I wish we could scare her out of the country. It’s not nice either for a woman like that to have to do with such innocents as Allister and Davie.”
“She’s very fond of Davie.”
“So she is. That’s the only good thing I know of her. But hold your tongue, Ranald, till we find out more.”
Acting on the hint Davie had given me, I soon discovered the second meal-tub. It was small, and carefully stowed away. It was now nearly full, and every day I watched in the hope that when she emptied it, I should be able to find out what she did with the meal. But Turkey’s suggestion about frightening her away kept working in my brain.
I began a series of persecutions of the Kelpie on my own account. I was doubtful whether Turkey would approve of them, so I did not tell him for some time; but I was ambitious of showing him that I could do something without him. I doubt whether it is worth while to relate the silly tricks I played her—my father made me sorry enough for them afterwards. My only excuse for them is, that I hoped by them to drive the Kelpie away.
There was a closet in the hall, the floor of which was directly over the Kelpie’s bed, with no ceiling between. With a gimlet I bored a hole in the floor, through which I passed a piece of string. I had already got a bit of black cloth, and sewed and stuffed it into something of the shape of a rat. Watching an opportunity, I tied this to the end of the string by the head, and hid it under her bolster. When she was going to bed, I went into the closet, and, laying my mouth to the floor, began squeaking like a rat, and scratching with my nails. Knowing by the exclamation she made that I had attracted her attention, I tugged at the string; this lifted the bolster a little, and of course out came my rat. I heard her scream, and open her door. I pulled the rat up tight to the ceiling. Then the door of the nursery, where we slept only in the winter, opened and shut, and I concluded she had gone to bed there to avoid the rat. I could hardly sleep for pleasure at my success.
As she waited on us at breakfast next morning, she told my father that she had seen in her bed the biggest rat she ever saw in her life, and had not had a wink of sleep in consequence.
“Well,” said my father, “that comes of not liking cats. You should get a pussy to take care of you.”
She grumbled something and retired.
She removed her quarters to the nursery. But there it was yet easier for me to plague her. Having observed in which bed she lay, I passed the string with the rat at the end of it over the middle of a bar that ran across just above her head, then took the string along the top of the other bed, and through a little hole in the door. As soon as I judged her safe in bed, I dropped the rat with a plump. It must have fallen on or very near her face. I heard her give a loud cry, but before she could reach the door, I had fastened the string to a nail and got out of the way.
It was not so easy in those days to get a light, for the earliest form of lucifer match was only just making its appearance in that part of the country, and was very dear: she had to go to the kitchen, where the fire never went out summer or winter. Afraid lest on her return she should search the bed, find my harmless animal suspended by the neck, and descend upon me with all the wrath generated of needless terror, I crept into the room, got down my rat, pulled away the string, and escaped. The next morning she said nothing about the rat, but went to a neighbour’s and brought home a fine cat. I laughed in my sleeve, thinking how little her cat could protect her from my rat.
Once more, however, she changed her quarters, and went into a sort of inferior spare room in the upper part of the house, which suited my operations still better, for from my own bed I could now manage to drop and pull up the rat, drawing it away beyond the danger of discovery. The next night she took the cat into the room with her, and for that one I judged it prudent to leave her alone, but the next, having secured Kirsty’s cat, I turned him into the room after she was in bed: the result was a frightful explosion of feline wrath.
I now thought I might boast of my successes to Turkey, but he was not pleased.
“She is sure to find you out, Ranald,” he said, “and then whatever else we do will be a failure. Leave her alone till we have her quite.”
I do not care to linger over this part of my story. I am a little ashamed of it.
We found at length that her private reservoir was quite full of meal. I kept close watch still, and finding one night that she was not in the house, discovered also that the meal-tub was now empty. I ran to Turkey, and together we hurried to Betty’s cottage.
It was a cloudy night with glimpses of moonlight. When we reached the place, we heard voices talking, and were satisfied that both the Kelpie and Wandering Willie were there.
“We must wait till she comes out,” said Turkey. “We must be able to say we saw her.”
There was a great stone standing out of the ground not far from the door, just opposite the elder-tree, and the path lay between them.
“You get behind that tree—no, you are the smaller object—you get behind that stone, and I’ll get behind the tree,” said Turkey; “and when the Kelpie comes out, you make a noise like a beast, and rush at her on all-fours.”
“I’m good at a pig, Turkey,” I said. “Will a pig do?”
“Yes, well enough.”
“But what if she should know me, and catch me, Turkey?”
“She will start away from you to my side; I shall rush out like a mad dog, and then she’ll run for it.”
We waited a long time—a very long time, it seemed to me. It was well it was summer. We talked a little across, and that helped to beguile the weary time; but at last I said in a whisper:
“Let’s go home, Turkey, and lock the doors, and keep her out.”
“You go home then, Ranald, and I’ll wait. I don’t mind if it be till to-morrow morning. It is not enough to be sure ourselves; we must be able to make other people sure.”
“I’ll wait as long as you do, Turkey; only I’m very sleepy, and she might come out when I was asleep.”
“Oh, I shall keep you awake!” replied Turkey; and we settled down again for a while.
At the long last the latch of the door was lifted. I was just falling asleep, but the sound brought me wide awake at once. I peeped from behind my shelter. It was the Kelpie, with an empty bag—a pillow-case, I believe—in her hand. Behind her came Wandering Willie, but did not follow her from the door. The moment was favourable, for the moon was under a thick cloud. Just as she reached the stone, I rushed out on hands and knees, grunting and squeaking like a very wild pig indeed. As Turkey had foretold, she darted aside, and I retreated behind my stone. The same instant Turkey rushed at her with such canine fury, that the imitation startled even me, who had expected it. You would have thought the animal was ready to tear a whole army to pieces, with such a complication of fierce growls and barks and squeals did he dart on the unfortunate culprit. She took to her heels at once, not daring to make for the cottage, because the enemy was behind her. But I had hardly ensconced myself behind the stone, repressing my laughter with all my might, when I was seized from behind by Wandering Willie, who had no fear either of pig or dog. He began pommelling me.