CHAPTER XXXI
A Winter's Ride
In this winter, the stormiest I can recollect, occurred the chief
adventure of my boyhood--indeed, the event most worthy to be called an
adventure I have ever encountered.
There had been a tremendous fall of snow, which a furious wind,
lasting two days and the night between, had drifted into great mounds,
so that the shape of the country was much altered with new heights and
hollows. Even those who were best acquainted with them could only
guess at the direction of some of the roads, and it was the easiest
thing in the world to lose the right track, even in broad daylight. As
soon as the storm was over, however, and the frost was found likely to
continue, they had begun to cut passages through some of the deeper
wreaths, as they called the snow-mounds; while over the tops of
others, and along the general line of the more frequented roads,
footpaths were soon trodden. It was many days, however, before
vehicles could pass, and coach-communication be resumed between the
towns. All the short day, the sun, though low, was brilliant, and the
whole country shone with dazzling whiteness; but after sunset, which
took place between three and four o'clock, anything more dreary can
hardly be imagined, especially when the keenest of winds rushed in
gusts from the north-east, and lifting the snow-powder from untrodden
shadows, blew it, like so many stings, in the face of the freezing
traveller.
Early one afternoon, just as I came home from school, which in winter
was always over at three o'clock, my father received a message that a
certain laird, or _squire_ as he would be called in England--whose
house lay three or four miles off amongst the hills, was at the point
of death, and very anxious to see him: a groom on horseback had
brought the message. The old man had led a life of indifferent repute,
and that probably made him the more anxious to see my father, who
proceeded at once to get ready for the uninviting journey.
Since my brother Tom's departure, I had become yet more of a companion
to my father; and now when I saw him preparing to set out, I begged to
be allowed to go with him. His little black mare had a daughter, not
unused to the saddle. She was almost twice her mother's size, and none
the less clumsy that she was chiefly employed upon the farm. Still she
had a touch of the roadster in her, and if not capable of elegant
motion, could get over the ground well enough, with a sort of speedy
slouch, while, as was of far more consequence on an expedition like
the present, she was of great strength, and could go through the
wreaths, Andrew said, like a red-hot iron. My father hesitated, looked
out at the sky, and hesitated still.
"I hardly know what to say, Ranald. If I were sure of the weather--but
I am very doubtful. However, if it should break up, we can stay there
all night. Yes.--Here, Allister; run and tell Andrew to saddle both
the mares, and bring them down directly.--Make haste with your dinner,
Ranald."
Delighted at the prospect, I did make haste; the meal was soon over,
and Kirsty expended her utmost care in clothing me for the journey,
which would certainly be a much longer one in regard of time than of
space. In half an hour we were all mounted and on our way--the groom,
who had so lately traversed the road, a few yards in front.
I have already said, perhaps more than once, that my father took
comparatively little notice of us as children, beyond teaching us of a
Sunday, and sometimes of a week-evening in winter, generally after we
were in bed. He rarely fondled us, or did anything to supply in that
manner the loss of our mother. I believe his thoughts were tenderness
itself towards us, but they did not show themselves in ordinary shape:
some connecting link was absent. It seems to me now sometimes, that
perhaps he was wisely retentive of his feelings, and waited a better
time to let them flow. For, ever as we grew older, we drew nearer to
my father, or, more properly, my father drew us nearer to him,
dropping, by degrees, that reticence which, perhaps, too many parents
of character keep up until their children are full grown; and by this
time he would converse with me most freely. I presume he had found, or
believed he had found me trustworthy, and incapable of repeating
unwisely any remarks he made. But much as he hated certain kinds of
gossip, he believed that indifference to your neighbour and his
affairs was worse. He said everything depended on the spirit in which
men spoke of each other; that much of what was called gossip was only
a natural love of biography, and, if kindly, was better than
blameless; that the greater part of it was objectionable, simply
because it was not loving, only curious; while a portion was amongst
the wickedest things on earth, because it had for its object to
believe and make others believe the worst. I mention these opinions of
my father, lest anyone should misjudge the fact of his talking to me
as he did.
Our horses made very slow progress. It was almost nowhere possible to
trot, and we had to plod on, step by step. This made it more easy to
converse.
"The country looks dreary, doesn't it, Ranald?" he said.
"Just like as if everything was dead, father," I replied.
"If the sun were to cease shining altogether, what do you think would
happen?"
[Illustration]
I thought a bit, but was not prepared to answer, when my father spoke
again.
"What makes the seeds grow, Ranald--the oats, and the wheat, and the
barley?"
"The rain, father," I said, with half-knowledge.
"Well, if there were no sun, the vapours would not rise to make
clouds. What rain there was already in the sky would come down in
snow or lumps of ice. The earth would grow colder and colder, and
harder and harder, until at last it went sweeping through the air, one
frozen mass, as hard as stone, without a green leaf or a living
creature upon it."
"How dreadful to think of, father!" I said. "That would be frightful."
"Yes, my boy. It is the sun that is the life of the world. Not only
does he make the rain rise to fall on the seeds in the earth, but even
that would be useless, if he did not make them warm as well--and do
something else to them besides which we cannot understand. Farther
down into the earth than any of the rays of light can reach, he sends
other rays we cannot see, which go searching about in it, like long
fingers; and wherever they find and touch a seed, the life that is in
that seed begins to talk to itself, as it were, and straightway begins
to grow. Out of the dark earth he thus brings all the lovely green
things of the spring, and clothes the world with beauty, and sets the
waters running, and the birds singing, and the lambs bleating, and the
children gathering daisies and butter-cups, and the gladness
overflowing in all hearts--very different from what we see now--isn't
it, Ranald?"
"Yes, father; a body can hardly believe, to look at it now, that the
world will ever be like that again."
"But, for as cold and wretched as it looks, the sun has not forsaken
it. He has only drawn away from it a little, for good reasons, one of
which is that we may learn that we cannot do without him. If he were
to go, not one breath more could one of us draw. Horses and men, we
should drop down frozen lumps, as hard as stones. Who is the sun's
father, Ranald?"
"He hasn't got a father," I replied, hoping for some answer as to a
riddle.
"Yes, he has, Ranald: I can prove that. You remember whom the apostle
James calls the Father of Lights?"
"Oh yes, of course, father. But doesn't that mean another kind of
lights?"
"Yes. But they couldn't be called lights if they were not like the
sun. All kinds of lights must come from the Father of Lights. Now the
Father of the sun must be like the sun, and, indeed of all material
things, the sun is likest to God. We pray to God to shine upon us and
give us light. If God did not shine into our hearts, they would be
dead lumps of cold. We shouldn't care for anything whatever."
"Then, father, God never stops shining upon us. He wouldn't be like
the sun if he did. For even in winter the sun shines enough to keep us
alive."
"True, my boy. I am very glad you understand me. In all my experience
I have never yet known a man in whose heart I could not find proofs of
the shining of the great Sun. It might be a very feeble wintry shine,
but still he was there. For a human heart though, it is very dreadful
to have a cold, white winter like this inside it, instead of a summer
of colour and warmth and light. There's the poor old man we are going
to see. They talk of the winter of age: that's all very well, but the
heart is not made for winter. A man may have the snow on his roof, and
merry children about his hearth; he may have grey hairs on his head,
and the very gladness of summer in his bosom. But this old man, I am
afraid, feels wintry cold within."
"Then why doesn't the Father of Lights shine more on him and make him
warmer?"
"The sun is shining as much on the earth in the winter as in the
summer: why is the earth no warmer?"
"Because," I answered, calling up what little astronomy I knew, "that
part of it is turned away from the sun."
"Just so. Then if a man turns himself away from the Father of
Lights--the great Sun--how can he be warmed?"
"But the earth can't help it, father."
"But the man can, Ranald. He feels the cold, and he knows he can turn
to the light. Even this poor old man knows it now. God is shining on
him--a wintry way--or he would not feel the cold at all; he would be
only a lump of ice, a part of the very winter itself. The good of what
warmth God gives him is, that he feels cold. If he were all cold, he
couldn't feel cold."
"Does he want to turn to the Sun, then, father?"
"I do not know. I only know that he is miserable because he has not
turned to the Sun."
"What will you say to him, father?"
"I cannot tell, my boy. It depends on what I find him thinking. Of all
things, my boy, keep your face to the Sun. You can't shine of
yourself, you can't be good of yourself, but God has made you able to
turn to the Sun whence all goodness and all shining comes. God's
children may be very naughty, but they must be able to turn towards
him. The Father of Lights is the Father of every weakest little baby
of a good thought in us, as well as of the highest devotion of
martyrdom. If you turn your face to the Sun, my boy, your soul will,
when you come to die, feel like an autumn, with the golden fruits of
the earth hanging in rich clusters ready to be gathered--not like a
winter. You may feel ever so worn, but you will not feel withered. You
will die in peace, hoping for the spring--and such a spring!"
Thus talking, in the course of two hours or so we arrived at the
dwelling of the old laird.
