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THE BEAST-BOY.
One morning they found, on reaching the manse, that the minister was
very unwell, and that in consequence Miss Machar could not attend to
Ginevra; they turned, therefore, to walk home again. Now the manse,
upon another root of Glashgar, was nearer than Glashruach to Nicie's
home, and many a time as she went and came, did she lift longing
eyes to the ridge that hid it from her view. This morning, Ginevra
observed that, every other moment, Nicie was looking up the side of
the mountain, as if she saw something unusual upon it -- occasionally,
indeed, when the winding of the road turned their backs to it,
stopping and turning round to gaze.
"What is the matter with you, Nicie?" she asked. "What are you
looking at up there?"
"I'm won'erin' what my mother'll be deein'," answered Nicie: "she's
up there."
"Up there!" exclaimed Ginny, and, turning, stared at the mountain
too, expecting to perceive Nicie's mother somewhere upon the face of
it.
"Na, na, missie! ye canna see her," said the girl; "she's no in
sicht. She's ower ayont there. Only gien we war up whaur ye see
yon twa three sheep again' the lift (sky), we cud see the bit hoosie
whaur her an' my father bides."
"How I should like to see your father and mother, Nicie!" exclaimed
Ginevra.
"Weel, I'm sure they wad be richt glaid to see yersel', missie, ony
time 'at ye likit to gang an' see them."
"Why shouldn't we go now, Nicie? It's not a dangerous place, is
it?"
"No, missie. Glashgar's as quaiet an' weel-behaved a hill as ony in
a' the cweentry," answered Nicie, laughing. "She's some puir, like
the lave o' 's, an' hasna muckle to spare, but the sheep get a feow
nibbles upon her, here an' there; an' my mither manages to keep a
coo, an' get plenty o' milk frae her tee."
"Come, then, Nicie. We have plenty of time. Nobody wants either
you or me, and we shall get home before any one misses us."
Nicie was glad enough to consent; they turned at once to the hill,
and began climbing. But Nicie did not know this part of it nearly
so well as that which lay between Glashruach and the cottage, and
after they had climbed some distance, often stopping and turning to
look down on the valley below, the prospect of which, with its
streams and river, kept still widening and changing as they
ascended, they arrived at a place where the path grew very doubtful,
and she could not tell in which of two directions they ought to go.
"I'll take this way, and you take that, Nicie," said Ginevra, "and
if I find there is no path my way, I will come back to yours; and if
you find there is no path your way, you will come back to mine."
It was a childish proposal, and one to which Nicie should not have
consented, but she was little more than a child herself. Advancing
a short distance in doubt, and the path re-appearing quite plainly,
she sat down, expecting her little mistress to return directly. No
thought of anxiety crossed her mind: how should one, in broad
sunlight, on a mountain-side, in the first of summer, and with the
long day before them? So, there sitting in peace, Nicie fell into a
maidenly reverie, and so there Nicie sat for a long time, half
dreaming in the great light, without once really thinking about
anything. All at once she came to herself: some latent fear had
exploded in her heart: yes! what could have become of her little
mistress? She jumped to her feet, and shouted "Missie! Missie
Galbraith! Ginny!" but no answer came back. The mountain was as
still as at midnight. She ran to the spot where they had parted,
and along the other path: it was plainer than that where she had
been so idly forgetting herself. She hurried on, wildly calling as
she ran.
In the mean time Ginevra, having found the path indubitable, and
imagining it led straight to the door of Nicie's mother's cottage,
and that Nicie would be after her in a moment, thinking also to have
a bit of fun with her, set off dancing and running so fast, that by
the time Nicie came to herself, she was a good mile from her. What
a delight it was to be thus alone upon the grand mountain! with the
earth banished so far below, and the great rocky heap climbing and
leading and climbing up and up towards the sky!
Ginny was not in the way of thinking much about God. Little had been
taught her concerning him, and nothing almost that was pleasant to
meditate upon -- nothing that she could hide in her heart, and be
dreadfully glad about when she lay alone in her little bed,
listening to the sound of the burn that ran under her window. But
there was in her soul a large wilderness ready for the voice that
should come crying to prepare the way of the king.
The path was after all a mere sheep-track, and led her at length
into a lonely hollow in the hill-side, with a swampy peat-bog at the
bottom of it. She stopped. The place looked unpleasant, reminding
her of how she always felt when she came unexpectedly upon Angus Mac
Pholp. She would go no further alone; she would wait till Nicie
overtook her. It must have been just in such places that the people
possessed with devils -- only Miss Machar always made her read the
word, demons -- ran about! As she thought thus, a lone-hearted bird
uttered a single, wailing cry, strange to her ear. The cry remained
solitary, unanswered, and then first suddenly she felt that there
was nobody there but herself, and the feeling had in it a pang of
uneasiness. But she was a brave child; nothing frightened her much
except her father; she turned and went slowly back to the edge of
the hollow: Nicie must by this time be visible.
In her haste and anxiety, however, Nicie had struck into another
sheep-track, and was now higher up the hill; so that Ginny could see
no living thing nearer than in the valley below: far down there -- and
it was some comfort, in the desolation that now began to invade
her -- she saw upon the road, so distant that it seemed motionless, a
cart with a man in it, drawn by a white horse. Never in her life
before had she felt that she was alone. She had often felt lonely,
but she had always known where to find the bodily presence of
somebody. Now she might cry and scream the whole day, and nobody
answer! Her heart swelled into her throat, then sank away, leaving
a wide hollow. It was so eerie! But Nicie would soon come, and
then all would be well.
She sat down on a stone, where she could see the path she had come a
long way back. But "never and never" did any Nicie appear. At last
she began to cry. This process with Ginny was a very slow one, and
never brought her much relief. The tears would mount into her eyes,
and remain there, little pools of Baca, a long time before the
crying went any further. But with time the pools would grow deeper,
and swell larger, and at last, when they had become two huge little
lakes, the larger from the slowness of their gathering, two mighty
tears would tumble over the edges of their embankments, and roll
down her white mournful cheeks. This time many more followed, and
her eyes were fast becoming fountains, when all at once a verse she
had heard the Sunday before at church seemed to come of itself into
her head: "Call upon me in the time of trouble and I will answer
thee." It must mean that she was to ask God to help her: was that
the same as saying prayers? But she wasn't good, and he wouldn't
hear anybody that wasn't good. Then, if he was only the God of the
good people, what was to become of the rest when they were lost on
mountains? She had better try; it could not do much harm. Even if
he would not hear her, he would not surely be angry with her for
calling upon him when she was in such trouble. So thinking, she
began to pray to what dim distorted reflection of God there was in
her mind. They alone pray to the real God, the maker of the heart
that prays, who know his son Jesus. If our prayers were heard only
in accordance with the idea of God to which we seem to ourselves to
pray, how miserably would our infinite wants be met! But every
honest cry, even if sent into the deaf ear of an idol, passes on to
the ears of the unknown God, the heart of the unknown Father.
"O God, help me home again," cried Ginevra, and stood up in her
great loneliness to return.
The same instant she spied, seated upon a stone, a little way off,
but close to her path, the beast-boy. There could be no mistake.
He was just as she had heard him described by the children at the
gamekeeper's cottage. That was his hair sticking all out from his
head, though the sun in it made it look like a crown of gold or a
shining mist. Those were his bare arms, and that was dreadful
indeed! Bare legs and feet she was used to; but bare arms! Worst
of all, making it absolutely certain he was the beast-boy, he was
playing upon a curious kind of whistling thing, making dreadfully
sweet music to entice her nearer that he might catch her and tear
her to pieces! Was this the answer God sent to the prayer she had
offered in her sore need -- the beast-boy? She asked him for
protection and deliverance, and here was the beast-boy! She asked
him to help her home, and there, right in the middle of her path,
sat the beast-boy, waiting for her! Well, it was just like what
they said about him on Sundays in the churches, and in the books
Miss Machar made her read! But the horrid creature's music should
not have any power over her! She would rather run down to the black
water, glooming in those holes, and be drowned, than the beast-boy
should have her to eat!
Most girls would have screamed, but such was not Ginny's natural
mode of meeting a difficulty. With fear, she was far more likely to
choke than to cry out. So she sat down again and stared at him.
Perhaps he would go away when he found he could not entice her. He
did not move, but kept playing on his curious instrument. Perhaps,
by returning into the hollow, she could make a circuit, and so pass
him, lower down the hill. She rose at once and ran.
Now Gibbie had seen her long before she saw him, but, from
experience, was afraid of frightening her. He had therefore drawn
gradually near, and sat as if unaware of her presence. Treating her
as he would a bird with which he wanted to make better acquaintance,
he would have her get accustomed to the look of him before he made
advances. But when he saw her run in the direction of the swamp,
knowing what a dangerous place it was, he was terrified, sprung to
his feet, and darted off to get between her and the danger. She
heard him coming like the wind at her back, and, whether from
bewilderment, or that she did intend throwing herself into the water
to escape him, instead of pursuing her former design, she made
straight for the swamp. But was the beast-boy ubiquitous? As she
approached the place, there he was, on the edge of a great hole half
full of water, as if he had been sitting there for an hour! Was he
going to drown her in that hole? She turned again, and ran towards
the descent of the mountain. But there Gibbie feared a certain
precipitous spot; and, besides, there was no path in that direction.
So Ginevra had not run far before again she saw him right in her
way. She threw herself on the ground in despair, and hid her face.
After thus hunting her as a cat might a mouse, or a lion a man,
what could she look for but that he would pounce upon her, and tear
her to pieces? Fearfully expectant of the horrible grasp, she lay
breathless. But nothing came. Still she lay, and still nothing
came. Could it be that she was dreaming? In dreams generally the
hideous thing never arrived. But she dared not look up. She lay
and lay, weary and still, with the terror slowly ebbing away out of
her. At length to her ears came a strange sweet voice of
singing -- such a sound as she had never heard before. It seemed to
come from far away: what if it should be an angel God was sending,
in answer after all to her prayer, to deliver her from the
beast-boy! He would of course want some time to come, and certainly
no harm had happened to her yet. The sound grew and grew, and came
nearer and nearer. But although it was song, she could distinguish
no vowel-melody in it, nothing but a tone-melody, a crooning, as it
were, ever upon one vowel in a minor key. It came quite near at
length, and yet even then had something of the far away sound left
in it. It was like the wind of a summer night inside a great church
bell in a deserted tower. It came close, and ceased suddenly, as
if, like a lark, the angel ceased to sing the moment he lighted.
She opened her eyes and looked up. Over her stood the beast-boy,
gazing down upon her! Could it really be the beast-boy? If so,
then he was fascinating her, to devour her the more easily, as she
had read of snakes doing to birds; but she could not believe it.
Still -- she could not take her eyes off him -- that was certain. But
no marvel! From under a great crown of reddish gold, looked out two
eyes of heaven's own blue, and through the eyes looked out something
that dwells behind the sky and every blue thing. What if the angel,
to try her, had taken to himself the form of the beast-boy? No
beast-boy could sing like what she had heard, or look like what she
now saw! She lay motionless, flat on the ground, her face turned
sideways upon her hands, and her eyes fixed on the heavenly vision.
Then a curious feeling began to wake in her of having seen him
before -- somewhere, ever so long ago -- and that sight of him as well
as this had to do with misery -- with something that made a stain that
would not come out. Yes -- it was the very face, only larger, and
still sweeter, of the little naked child whom Angus had so cruelly
lashed! That was ages ago, but she had not forgotten, and never
could forget either the child's back, or the lovely innocent white
face that he turned round upon her. If it was indeed he, perhaps he
would remember her. In any case, she was now certain he would not
hurt her.
While she looked at him thus, Gibbie's face grew grave: seldom was
his grave when fronting the face of a fellow-creature, but now he
too was remembering, and trying to recollect; as through a dream of
sickness and pain he saw a face like the one before him, yet not the
same.
Ginevra recollected first, and a sweet slow diffident smile crept
like a dawn up from the depth of her under-world to the sky of her
face, but settled in her eyes, and made two stars of them. Then
rose the very sun himself in Gibbie's, and flashed a full response
of daylight -- a smile that no woman, girl, or matron, could mistrust.
From brow to chin his face was radiant. The sun of this world had
made his nest in his hair, but the smile below it seemed to dim the
aureole he wore. Timidly yet trustingly Ginevra took one hand from
under her cheek, and stretched it up to him. He clasped it gently.
She moved, and he helped her to rise.
"I've lost Nicie," she said.
Gibbie nodded, but did not look concerned,
"Nicie is my maid," said Ginevra.
Gibbie nodded several times. He knew who Nicie was rather better
than her mistress.
"I left her away back there, a long, long time ago, and she has
never come to me," she said.
Gibbie gave a shrill loud whistle that startled her. In a few
seconds, from somewhere unseen, a dog came bounding to him over
stones and heather. How he spoke to the dog, or what he told him to
do, she had not an idea; but the next instant Oscar was rushing
along the path she had come, and was presently out of sight. So
full of life was Gibbie, so quick and decided was his every motion,
so full of expression his every glance and smile, that she had not
yet begun to wonder he had not spoken; indeed she was hardly yet
aware of the fact. She knew him now for a mortal, but, just as it
had been with Donal and his mother, he continued to affect her as a
creature of some higher world, come down on a mission of good-will
to men. At the same time she had, oddly enough, a feeling as if the
beast-boy were still somewhere not far off, held aloof only by the
presence of the angel who had assumed his shape.
Gibbie took her hand, and led her towards the path she had left; she
yielded without a movement of question. But he did not lead her far
in that direction; he turned to the left up the mountain. It grew
wilder as they ascended. But the air was so thin and invigorating,
the changes so curious and interesting, as now they skirted the edge
of a precipitous rock, now scrambled up the steepest of paths by the
help of the heather that nearly closed over it, and the reaction of
relief from the terror she had suffered so exciting, that she never
for a moment felt tired. Then they went down the side of a little
burn -- a torrent when the snow was dissolving, and even now a good
stream, whose dance and song delighted her: it was the same, as she
learned afterwards, to whose song under her window she listened
every night in bed, trying in vain to make out the melted tune.
Ever after she knew this, it seemed, as she listened, to come
straight from the mountain to her window, with news of the stars and
the heather and the sheep. They crossed the burn and climbed the
opposite bank. Then Gibbie pointed, and there was the cottage, and
there was Nicie coming up the path to it, with Oscar bounding before
her! The dog was merry, but Nicie was weeping bitterly. They were
a good way off, with another larger burn between; but Gibbie
whistled, and Oscar came flying to him. Nicie looked up, gave a
cry, and like a sheep to her lost lamb came running.
"Oh, missie!" she said, breathless, as she reached the opposite bank
of the burn, and her tone had more than a touch of sorrowful
reproach in it, "what garred ye rin awa'?"
"There was a road, Nicie, and I thought you would come after me."
"I was a muckle geese, missie; but eh! I'm glaid I hae gotten ye.
Come awa' an' see my mother."
"Yes, Nicie. We'll tell her all about it. You see I haven't got a
mother to tell, so I will tell yours."
From that hour Nicie's mother was a mother to Ginny as well.
"Anither o' 's lambs to feed!" she said to herself.
If a woman be a mother she may have plenty of children.
Never before had Ginny spent such a happy day, drunk such milk as
Crummie's, or eaten such cakes as Janet's. She saw no more of
Gibbie: the moment she was safe, he and Oscar were off again to the
sheep, for Robert was busy cutting peats that day, and Gibbie was in
sole charge. Eager to know about him, Ginevra gathered all that
Janet could tell of his story, and in return told the little she had
seen of it, which was the one dreadful point.
"Is he a good boy, Mistress Grant?" she asked.
"The best boy ever I kenned -- better nor my ain Donal, an' he was the
best afore him," answered Janet.
Ginny gave a little sigh, and wished she were good.
"Whan saw ye Donal?" asked Janet of Nicie.
"No this lang time -- no sin' I was here last," answered Nicie, who
did not now get home so often as the rest.
"I was thinkin'," returned her mother, "ye sud 'maist see him noo
frae the back o' the muckle hoose; for he was tellin' me he was wi'
the nowt' i' the new meadow upo' the Lorrie bank, 'at missie's papa
boucht frae Jeames Glass."
"Ow, is he there?" said Nicie. "I'll maybe get sicht, gien I dinna
get word o' him. He cam ance to the kitchen-door to see me, but
Mistress Mac Farlane wadna lat him in. She wad hae nae loons comin'
aboot the place she said. I said 'at hoo he was my brither. She
said, says she, that was naething to her, an' she wad hae no
brithers. My sister micht come whiles, she said, gien she camna
ower aften; but lasses had naething to dee wi' brithers. Wha was to
tell wha was or wha wasna my brither? I tellt her 'at a' my
brithers was weel kenned for douce laads; an' she tellt me to haud
my tongue, an' no speyk up; an' I cud hae jist gien her a guid cloot
o' the lug -- I was that angert wi' her."
"She'll be soary for't some day," said Janet, with a quiet smile;
"an' what a body's sure to be soary for, ye may as weel forgie them
at ance."
"Hoo ken ye, mither, she'll be soary for't?" asked Nicie, not very
willing to forgive Mistress Mac Farlane.
"'Cause the Maister says 'at we'll hae to pey the uttermost fardin'.
There's naebody 'ill be latten aff. We maun dee oor neiper richt."
"But michtna the Maister himsel' forgie her?" suggested Nicie, a
little puzzled.
"Lassie," said her mother solemnly, "ye dinna surely think 'at the
Lord's forgifness is to lat fowk aff ohn repentit? That wad be a
strange fawvour to grant them! He winna hurt mair nor he can help;
but the grue (horror) maun mak w'y for the grace. I'm sure it was
sae whan I gied you yer whups, lass. I'll no say aboot some o' the
first o' ye, for at that time I didna ken sae weel what I was aboot,
an' was mair angert whiles nor there was ony occasion for -- tuik my
beam to dang their motes. I hae been sair tribled aboot it, mony's
the time."
"Eh, mither!" said Nicie, shocked at the idea of her reproaching
herself about anything concerning her children, "I'm weel sure
there's no ane o' them wad think, no to say say, sic a thing."
"I daursay ye're richt there, lass. I think whiles a woman's bairns
are like the God they cam frae -- aye ready to forgie her onything."
Ginevra went home with a good many things to think about.
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