Two hours or so earlier, David, perceiving some Assuagement1 in the storm, and his host having offered to go at once to the doctor and the schoolmaster, had taken his mare3, and mounted to go home. He met with no impediment now except the depth of the snow, which made it so hard for the mare to get along that, full of anxiety about his children, he found the distance a weary one to traverse.
When at length he reached the Knowe, no one was there to welcome him. He saw, however, by the fire and the food, that Marion was not long gone. He put up the gray, clothed her and fed her, drank some milk, caught up a quarter of cakes, and started for the hill.
The snow was not falling so thickly now, but it had already almost obliterated4 the footprints of his wife. Still he could distinguish them in places, and with some difficulty succeeded in following their track until it was clear which route she had taken. They indicated the easier, though longer way—not that by the earth-house, and the father and daughter passed without seeing each other. When Kirsty got to the farm, her father was following her mother up the hill.
When David reached the Hillfauld, the name he always gave Steenie’s house, he found the door open, and walked in. His wife did not hear him, for his iron-shod shoes were balled with snow. She was standing6 over the body of Phemy, looking down on the white sleep with a solemn, motherly, tearless face. She turned as he drew near, and the pair, like the lovers they were, fell each in the other’s arms. Marion was the first to speak.
‘Eh Dauvid! God be praised I hae yersel!’
‘Is the puir thing gane?’ asked her husband in an awe-hushed tone, looking down on the maid that was not dead but sleeping.
‘I doobt there’s no doobt aboot that,’ answered Marion. ‘Steenie, I was jist thinkin, wud be sair disappintit to learn ’at there was. Eh, the faith o’ that laddie! H’aven to him’s sic a rale place, and sic a hantle better nor this warl’, ’at he wad not only fain be there himsel, but wad hae Phemy there—ay, gien it war ever sae lang afore himsel! Ye see he kens7 naething aboot sin and the saicrifeece, and he disna un’erstan ’at Phemy was aye a gey wull kin’ o’ a lassie!’
‘Maybe the bonny man, as Steenie ca’s him,’ returned David, ‘may hae as muckle compassion8 for the puir thing i’ the hert o’ ’im as Steenie himsel!’
‘Ow ay! Whatfor no! But what can the bonny man himsel du, a’ bein sattlet?’
‘Dinna leemit the Almichty, wuman—and that i’ the verra moment whan he’s been to hiz—I wunna say mair gracious nor ord’nar, for that cudna be—but whan he’s latten us see a bit plainer nor common that he is gracious! The Lord o’ mercy ’ill manage to luik efter the lammie he made, ae w’y or ither, there as here. Ye daurna say he didna du his best for her here, and wull he no du his best for her there as weel?’
‘Doobtless, Dauvid! But ye fricht me! It souns jist rank papistry—naither mair nor less! What can he du? He canna dee again for ane ’at wudna turn til ’im i’ this life! The thing’s no to be thoucht!’
‘Hoo ken2 ye that, wuman? Ye hae jist thoucht it yersel! Gien I was you, I wudna daur to say what he cudna du! I’ the meantime, what he maks me able to houp, I’m no gaein to fling frae me!’
David was a true man: he could not believe a thing with one half of his mind, and care nothing about it with the other. He, like his Steenie, believed in the bonny man about in the world, not in the mere9 image of him standing in the precious shrine10 of the New Testament11.
After a brief silence—
‘Whaur’s Kirsty and Steenie?’ he said.
‘The Lord kens; I dinna.’
‘They’ll be safe eneuch.’
‘It’s no likly.’
‘It’s sartin,’ said David.
And therewith, by the side of the dead, he imparted to his wife the thoughts that drove misery12 from his heart as he sat on his mare in the storm with the reins13 on her neck, nor knew whither she went.
‘Ay, ay,’ returned his wife after a pause, ‘ye’re unco richt, Dauvid, as aye ye are! And I’m jist conscience-stricken to think ’at a’ my life lang I hae been ready to murn ower the sorrow i’ my hert, never thinkin o’ the glaidness i’ God’s! What call hed I to greit ower Steenie, whan God maun hae been aye sair pleased wi’ him! What sense is there in lamentation14 sae lang’s God’s eident settin richt a’! His hert’s the safity o’ oors. And eh, glaid sure he maun be, wi sic a lot o’ his bairns at hame aboot him!’
‘Ay,’ returned David with a sigh, thinking of his old comrade and the son he had left behind him, ‘but there’s the prodigal15 anes!’
‘Thank God, we hae nae prodigal!’
‘Aye, thank him!’ rejoined David; ‘but he has prodigals16 that trouble him sair, and we maun see til’t ’at we binna thankless auld5 prodigals oorsels!’
Again followed a brief silence.
‘Eh, but isna it strange?’ said Marion. ‘Here’s you and me stanin murnin ower anither man’s bairn, and naewise kennin what’s come o’ oor ain twa!—Dauvid, what can hae come o’ Steenie and Kirsty?’
‘The wull o’ God’s what’s come o’ them; and God haud me i’ the grace o’ wussin naething ither nor that same!’
‘Haud to that, Dauvid, and haud me till’t: we kenna what’s comin!’
‘The wull o’ God’s comin,’ insisted David. ‘But eh,’ he added, ‘I’m concernt for puir Maister Craig!’
‘Weel, lat’s awa hame and see whether the twa bena there afore ’s!—Eh, but the sicht o’ the bonny corp maun hae gien Steenie a sair hert! I wudna won’er gien he never wan17 ower ’t i’ this life!’
‘But what’ll we du aboot it or we gang? It’s the storm may come on again waur nor ever, and mak it impossible to beery her for a month!’
‘We cudna carry her hame atween’s, Dauvid—think ye?’
‘Na, na; it’s no as gien it was hersel! And cauld’s a fine keeper—better nor a’ the embalmin o’ the Egyptians! Only I’m fain to haud Steenie ohn seen her again!’
‘Weel, lat’s hap18 her i’ the bonny white snaw!’ said Marion. ‘She’ll keep there as lang as the snaw keeps, and naething ’ill disturb her till the time comes to lay her awa!’
‘That’s weel thoucht o’!’ answered David. ‘Eh, wuman, but it’s a bonny beerial compared wi’ sic as I hae aften gien comrade and foe19 alike!’
They went out and chose a spot close by the house where the snow lay deep. There they made a hollow, and pressed the bottom of it down hard. Then they carried out and laid in it the death-frozen dove, and heaped upon her a firm, white, marble-like tomb of heavenly new-fallen snow.
Without re-entering it, they closed the door of Steenie’s refuge, and leaving the two deserted20 houses side by side, made what slow haste they could, with anxious hearts, to their home. The snow was falling softly, for the wind was still asleep.
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1
assuagement
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| n.缓和；减轻；缓和物 | |
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2
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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3
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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4
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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5
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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6
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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7
kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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8
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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9
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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10
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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11
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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12
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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13
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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14
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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15
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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16
prodigals
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| n.浪费的( prodigal的名词复数 )；铺张的；挥霍的；慷慨的 | |
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17
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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18
hap
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| n.运气；v.偶然发生 | |
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19
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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