CHAPTER XXIII
THE STORM AGAIN
Kirsty woke suddenly out of a deep, dreamless sleep. A white face was
bending over her--Steenie's--whiter than ever Kirsty had seen it. He
was panting, and his eyes were huge. She started up.
'Come; come!' was all he was able to say.
'What's the metter, Steenie?' she gasped. For a quarter of a minute he
stood panting, unable to speak.
'I'm no thinkin onything's gane wrong,' he faltered at length with an
effort, recovering breath and speech a little. 'The bonny man--'
He burst into tears and turned his head away. A vision of the white,
lovely, motionless thing, whose hand had fallen from his like a lump of
lead, lying alone at the top of the Horn, with the dog on her feet, had
overwhelmed him suddenly.
Kirsty was sore distressed. She dreaded the worst when she saw him thus
lose the self-restraint hitherto so remarkable in him. She leaned from
her bed, threw her arms round him, and drew him to her, kneeled, laid
his head on her bosom, and wept as she had never known him weep.
'I'll tak care o' ye, Steenie, my man!' she murmured. 'Fear ye
naething.'
It is amazing how much, in the strength of its own divinity, love will
dare promise!
'Ay, Kirsty, I ken ye wull, but it's no me!' said Steenie.
Thereupon he gave a brief, lucid account of what had occurred in the
night.
'And noo 'at I hae telt ye,' he added, 'it luiks a' sae strange 'at
maybe I hae been but dreamin, efter a'! But it maun be true, for that
maun hae been what the angels cam cryin upo' me for. I'm thinkin they
wud hae broucht me straucht til her themsels--they maistly gang aboot
in twas, as whan they gaed and waukent the bonny man--gien it hadna
been 'at the guid collie was aiqual to that!'
Kirsty told him to go and rouse the kitchen fire, and she would be with
him in a minute. She sprang out of bed, and dressed as fast as she
could, thinking what she had best take with her. 'The puir lassie,' she
said to herself, 'may be growin warm, and sleepin deith awa; and by the
time we win there she'll be needin something, like the lassie 'at the
Lord liftit!' But in her heart she had little hope: it would be a sad
day for the schoolmaster.
She went to her father and mother's room, found them awake, and told
them Steenie's tale.
'It's time we war up, wuman!' said David.
'Ay,' returned his wife, 'but Kirsty canna bide for 's. Ye maun be aff,
lassie! Tak a wee whusky wi' ye; but min' it's no that safe wi' frozen
fowk. Het milk's the best thing. Tak a drappie o' that wi' ye. I s' be
efter ye wi' mair. And dinna forget a piece to uphaud ye as ye gang;
it'll be ill fechtin the win'. Dinna lat Steenie gang back wi' ye; he
canna be fit. Sen' him to me, and I'll persuaud him.--Dauvid, man,
ye'll hae to saiddle and ride; the doctor maun gang wi' ye straught to
Steenie's hoose.'
'Lat me up,' said David, making a motion to free himself of the
bedclothes.
Kirsty went, and got some milk to make it hot. But when she reached the
kitchen, Steenie was not there, and the fire, which he had tried to
wake up, was all but black. The house-door was open, and the snow
drifting in. Steenie was gone into the storm again! She hurriedly
poured the milk into a small bottle, and thrust it into her bosom to
grow warm as she went. Then she lighted a lantern, chiefly that Steenie
might catch sight of it, and set out.
She started running, certain, she thought, to overtake him. The wind
was up again, but it was almost behind her, and the night was not
absolutely dark, for the moon was somewhere. She was far stronger than
Steenie, and could walk faster, but, keen as was her outlook on all
sides, for the snow was not falling too thick to let her see a little
way through it, she was at length near the top of the Horn without
having caught a glimpse of him. Had he dropped on the way? Had she in
her haste left him after all in the house? She might have passed him;
that was easy to do. One thing she was sure of--he could not have got
to his house before her!
As she drew near the door she heard a short howl, and knew it for
Snootie's. Perhaps Phemy had revived! But no! it was a desolate,
forsaken cry! The next moment came a glad bark: was it the footstep of
Kirsty it greeted, or the soul of Phemy?
With steady hand, and heart prepared, she opened the door and went in.
The dog came bounding to her: either he counted himself relieved, or
could bear it no longer. He cringed at her feet; he leaped upon her; he
saw in her his saviour from the terrible silence and cold and
motionlessness. Then he stood still before her, looking up to her, and
wagging his tail, but his face said plainly: _It is there_!
Kirsty hesitated a moment; a weary sense of uselessness had overtaken
her, and she shrank from encountering the unchanging and unchangeable;
but she cast off the oppression, and followed the dog to the bedside.
He jumped up, and lay down where his master had placed him, as if to
say he knew his duty, had been lying there all the time, and had only
got up the moment she came. It was the one warm spot in all the woollen
pile; the feet beneath it were cold as the snow outside, and the lovely
form lay motionless as a thing that would never move again. Kirsty
lifted the blanket: there was Phemy's face, blind with the white death!
It did not look at her, did not recognise her: Phemy was there and not
there! Phemy was far away! Phemy could not move from where she lay!
Hopeless, Kirsty yet tried her best to wake her from her snow-sleep,
shrinking from nothing, except for the despair of it. But long ere she
gave up the useless task, she was thinking far more about Steenie than
Phemy.
He did not come! 'He must be safe with his mother!' she kept saying in
her heart; but she could not reassure herself. The forsaken fire, the
open door haunted her. She would succeed for a moment or two in
quieting her fears, calling them foolish; the next they would rush upon
her like a cataract, and almost overwhelm her. While she was busy with
the dead, he might be slowly sinking into the sleep from which she
could not wake Phemy!
She laid the cold snow-captive straight, and left her to sleep on.
Then, calling the dog, she left the hut, in the hope of meeting her
mother, and learning that Steenie was at home.
Now and then, while at her sad task, she had been reminded of the wind
by its hollow roaring all about the hill, but not until she opened the
door had she any notion how the snow was falling; neither until she
left the hollow for the bare hill-side did she realize how the wind was
raging. Then indeed the world looked dangerous! If Steenie was out, if
her mother had started, they were lost! She would have gone back into
the hut with the dead, but that she might get home in time to prevent
her mother from setting out, or might meet her on the way. At the same
time the tempest between her and her home looked but a little less
terrible to her than a sea breaking on a rocky shore.
