Upon neighbouring stones, earth-fast, like two islands of an archipelago, in an ocean of heather, sat a boy and a girl, the girl knitting, or, as she would have called it, weaving a stocking, and the boy, his eyes fixed1 on her face, talking with an animation2 that amounted almost to excitement. He had great fluency3, and could have talked just as fast in good English as in the dialect in which he was now pouring out his ambitions—the broad Saxon of Aberdeen.
He was giving the girl to understand that he meant to be a soldier like his father, and quite as good a one as he. But so little did he know of himself or the world, that, with small genuine impulse to action, and moved chiefly by the anticipated results of it, he saw success already his, and a grateful country at his feet. His inspiration was so purely4 ambition, that, even if, his mood unchanged, he were to achieve much for his country, she could hardly owe him gratitude5.
‘I’ll no hae the warl’ lichtly (make light of) me!’ he said.
‘Mebbe the warl’ winna tribble itsel aboot ye sae muckle as e’en to lichtly ye!’ returned his companion quietly.
‘Ye do naething ither!’ retorted the boy, rising, and looking down on her in displeasure. ‘What for are ye aye girdin at me? A body canna lat his thouchts gang, but ye’re doon upo them, like doos upo corn!’
‘I wadna be girdin at ye, Francie, but that I care ower muckle aboot ye to lat ye think I haud the same opingon o’ ye ’at ye hae o’ yersel,’ answered the girl, who went on with her knitting as she spoke6.
‘Ye’ll never believe a body!’ he rejoined, and turned half away. ‘I canna think what gars me keep comin to see ye! Ye haena ae guid word to gie a body!’
‘It’s nane ye s’ get frae me, the gait ye’re gaein, Francie! Ye think a heap ower muckle o’ yersel. What ye expec, may some day a’ come true, but ye hae gien nobody a richt to expec it alang wi’ ye, and I canna think, gien ye war fair to yersel, ye wad coont yersel ane it was to be expeckit o’!’
‘I tauld ye sae, Kirsty! Ye never lay ony weicht upo what a body says!’
‘That depen’s upo the body. Did ye never hear maister Craig p’int oot the differ atween believin a body and believin in a body, Francie?’
‘No—and I dinna care.’
‘I wudna like ye to gang awa thinking I misdoobtit yer word, Francie! I believe onything ye tell me, as far as I think ye ken7, but maybe no sae far as ye think ye ken. I believe ye, but I confess I dinna believe in ye—yet. What hae ye ever dune8 to gie a body ony richt to believe in ye? Ye’re a guid rider, and a guid shot for a laddie, and ye rin middlin fest—I canna say like a deer, for I reckon I cud lick ye mysel at rinnin! But, efter and a’,—’
‘Wha’s braggin noo, Kirsty?’ cried the boy, with a touch of not ill-humoured triumph.
‘Me,’ answered Kirsty; ‘—and I’ll do what I brag9 o’!’ she added, throwing her stocking on the patch of green sward about the stone, and starting to her feet with a laugh. ‘Is ’t to be uphill or alang?’
They were near the foot of a hill to whose top went the heather, but along whose base, between the heather and the bogland below, lay an irregular belt of moss10 and grass, pretty clear of stones. The boy did not seem eager to accept the challenge.
‘There micht be guid in tryin to du ’t though—especially gien ye war lickit at it!’ returned the girl.
‘What guid can there be in a body bein lickit at onything?’
‘The guid o’ haein a body’s pride ta’en doon a wee.’
‘I’m no sae sure o’ the guid o’ that! It wud only haud ye ohn tried (_from trying_) again.’
‘Jist there’s what yer pride dis to ye, Francie! Ye maun aye be first, or ye’ll no try! Ye’ll never du naething for fear o’ no bein able to gang on believin ye cud du ’t better nor ony ither body! Ye dinna want to fin’ oot ’at ye’re naebody in particlar. It’s a sair pity ye wunna hae yer pride ta’en doon. Ye wud be a hantle better wantin aboot three pairts o’ ’t.—Come, I’m ready for ye! Never min’ ’at I’m a lassie: naebody ’ill ken!’
‘Ye hae nae sheen (_shoes_)!’ objected the boy.
‘Ye can put aff yer ain!’
‘My feet’s no sae hard as yours!’
‘Weel, I’ll put on mine. They’re here, sic as they are. Ye see I want them gangin throuw the heather wi’ Steenie; that’s some sair upo the feet. Straucht up hill throuw the heather, and I’ll put my sheen on!’
‘I’m no sae guid uphill.’
‘See there noo, Francie! Ye tak yersel for unco courteous12, and honourable13, and generous, and k-nichtly, and a’ that—oh, I ken a’ aboot it—and it’s a’ verra weel sae far as it gangs; but what the better are ye for ’t, whan, a’ the time ye’re despisin a body ’cause she’s but a quean; ye maun hae ilka advantage o’ her, or ye winna gie her a chance o’ lickin ye!—Here! I’ll put on my sheen, and rin ye alang the laich grun’! My sheen’s twice the weicht o’ yours, and they dinna fit me!’
The boy did not dare go on refusing: he feared what Kirsty would say next. But he relished14 nothing at all in the challenge. It was not fit for a man to run races with a girl: there were no laurels15, nothing but laughter to be won by victory over her! and in his heart he was not at all sure of beating Kirsty: she had always beaten him when they were children. Since then they had been at the parish school together, but there public opinion kept the boys and girls to their own special sports. Now Kirsty had left school, and Francis was going to the grammar-school at the county-town. They were both about fifteen. All the sense was on the side of the girl, and she had been doing her best to make the boy practical like herself—hitherto without much success, although he was by no means a bad sort of fellow. He had not yet passed the stage—some appear never to pass it in this world—in which an admirer feels himself in the same category with his hero. Many are content with themselves because they side with those whose ways they do not endeavour to follow. Such are most who call themselves Christians16. If men admired themselves only for what they did, their conceit17 would be greatly moderated.
Kirsty put on her heavy tacketed (_hob-nailed_) shoes—much too large for her, having been made for her brother—stood up erect18, and putting her elbows back, said,
‘I’ll gie ye the start o’ me up to yon stane wi’ the heather growin oot o’ the tap o’ ’t.’
‘Na, na; I’ll hae nane o’ that!’ answered Francis. ‘Fairplay to a’!’
‘Ye’d better tak it!’
‘Aff wi’ ye, or I winna rin at a’!’ cried the boy,—and away they went.
Kirsty contrived19 that he should yet have a little the start of her—how much from generosity20, and how much from determination that there should be nothing doubtful in the result, I cannot say—and for a good many yards he kept it. But if the boy, who ran well, had looked back, he might have seen that the girl was not doing her best—that she was in fact restraining her speed. Presently she quickened her pace, and was rapidly lessening21 the distance between them, when, becoming aware of her approach, the boy quickened his, and for a time there was no change in their relative position. Then again she quickened her pace—with an ease which made her seem capable of going on to accelerate it indefinitely—and was rapidly overtaking him. But as she drew near, she saw he panted, not a little distressed22; whereupon she assumed a greater speed still, and passed him swiftly—nor once looked round or slackened her pace until, having left him far behind, she put a shoulder of the hill between them.
The moment she passed him, the boy flung himself on the ground and lay. The girl had felt certain he would do so, and fancied she heard him flop23 among the heather, but could not be sure, for, although not even yet at her speed, her blood was making tunes24 in her head, and the wind was blowing in and out of her ears with a pleasant but deafening25 accompaniment. When she knew he could see her no longer, she stopped likewise and threw herself down while she was determining whether she should leave him quite, or walk back at her leisure, and let him see how little she felt the run. She came to the conclusion that it would be kinder to allow him to get over his discomfiture26 in private. She rose, therefore, and went straight up the hill.
About half-way to the summit, she climbed a rock as if she were a goat, and looked all round her. Then she uttered a shrill27, peculiar28 cry, and listened. No answer came. Getting down as easily as she had got up, she walked along the side of the hill, making her way nearly parallel with their late racecourse, passing considerably29 above the spot where her defeated rival yet lay, and descending30 at length a little hollow not far from where she and Francis had been sitting.
In this hollow, which was covered with short, sweet grass, stood a very small hut, built of turf from the peat-moss below, and roofed with sods on which the heather still stuck, if, indeed, some of it was not still growing. So much was it, therefore, of the colour of the ground about it, that it scarcely caught the eye. Its walls and its roof were so thick that, small as it looked, it was much smaller inside; while outside it could not have measured more than ten feet in length, eight in width, and seven in height. Kirsty and her brother Steenie, not without help from Francis Gordon, had built it for themselves two years before. Their father knew nothing of the scheme until one day, proud of their success, Steenie would have him see their handiwork; when he was so much pleased with it that he made them a door, on which he put a lock:—
‘For though this be na the kin’ o’ place to draw crook-fingered gentry,’ he said, ‘some gangrel body micht creep in and mak his bed intil ’t, and that lock ’ill be eneuch to haud him oot, I’m thinkin!’
He also cut for them a hole through the wall, and fitted it with a window that opened and shut, which was more than could be said of every window at the farmhouse31.
Into this nest Kirsty went, and in it remained quiet until it began to grow dark. She had hoped to find her brother waiting for her, but, although disappointed, chose to continue there until Francis Gordon should be well on his way to the castle, and then she crept out, and ran to recover her stocking.
When she got home, she found Steenie engrossed32 in a young horse their father had just bought. She would fain have mounted him at once, for she would ride any kind of animal able to carry her; but, as he had never yet been backed, her father would not permit her.
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1
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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2
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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3
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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4
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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5
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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6
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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7
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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8
dune
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| n.(由风吹积而成的)沙丘 | |
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9
brag
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| v./n.吹牛，自夸；adj.第一流的 | |
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10
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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11
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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12
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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13
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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14
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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15
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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16
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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17
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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18
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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19
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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20
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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21
lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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22
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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23
flop
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| n.失败(者)，扑通一声；vi.笨重地行动，沉重地落下 | |
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24
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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25
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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26
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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27
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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28
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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29
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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30
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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31
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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32
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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