Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood

“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.

CHAPTER XXXII

The Peat-Stack

How dreary the old house looked as we approached it through the gathering darkness! All the light appeared to come from the snow which rested wherever it could lie—on roofs and window ledges and turrets. Even on the windward walls, every little roughness sustained its own frozen patch, so that their grey was spotted all over with whiteness. Not a glimmer shone from the windows.

“Nobody lives there, father,” I said,—“surely?”

“It does not look very lively,” he answered.

The house stood upon a bare knoll. There was not a tree within sight. Rugged hills arose on all sides of it. Not a sound was heard but the moan of an occasional gust of wind. There was a brook, but it lay frozen beneath yards of snow. For miles in any direction those gusts might wander without shaking door or window, or carrying with them a puff of smoke from any hearth. We were crossing the yard at the back of the house, towards the kitchen-door, for the front door had not been opened for months, when we recognized the first sign of life. That was only the low of a bullock. As we dismounted on a few feet of rough pavement which had been swept clear, an old woman came to the door, and led us into a dreary parlour without even a fire to welcome us.

I learned afterwards that the laird, from being a spendthrift in his youth, had become a miser in his age, and that every household arrangement was on the narrowest scale. From wasting righteous pounds, he had come to scraping unrighteous farthings.

After we had remained standing for some time, the housekeeper returned, and invited my father to go to the laird’s room. As they went, he requested her to take me to the kitchen, which, after conducting him, she did. The sight of the fire, although it was of the smallest, was most welcome. She laid a few more peats upon it, and encouraged them to a blaze, remarking, with a sidelong look: “We daren’t do this, you see, sir, if the laird was about. The honest man would call it waste.”

“Is he dying?” I asked, for the sake of saying something; but she only shook her head for reply, and, going to a press at the other end of the large, vault-like kitchen, brought me some milk in a basin, and some oatcake upon a platter, saying,

“It’s not my house, you see, or I would have something better to set before the minister’s son.”

I was glad of any food however, and it was well for me that I ate heartily. I had got quite warm also before my father stepped into the kitchen, very solemn, and stood up with his back to the fire. The old woman set him a chair, but he neither sat down nor accepted the refreshment which she humbly offered him.

“We must be going,” he objected, “for it looks stormy, and the sooner we set out the better.”

“I’m sorry I can’t ask you to stop the night,” she said, “for I couldn’t make you comfortable. There’s nothing fit to offer you in the house, and there’s not a bed that’s been slept in for I don’t know how long.”

“Never mind,” said my father cheerfully. “The moon is up already, and we shall get home I trust before the snow begins to fall. Will you tell the man to get the horses out?”

When she returned from taking the message, she came up to my father and said, in a loud whisper,

“Is he in a bad way, sir?”

“He is dying,” answered my father.

“I know that,” she returned. “He’ll be gone before the morning. But that’s not what I meant. Is he in a bad way for the other world? That’s what I meant, sir.”

“Well, my good woman, after a life like his, we are only too glad to remember what our Lord told us—not to judge. I do think he is ashamed and sorry for his past life. But it’s not the wrong he has done in former time that stands half so much in his way as his present fondness for what he counts his own. It seems like to break his heart to leave all his little bits of property—particularly the money he has saved; and yet he has some hope that Jesus Christ will be kind enough to pardon him. I am afraid he will find himself very miserable though, when he has not one scrap left to call his own—not a pocket-knife even.”

“It’s dreadful to think of him flying through the air on a night like this,” said she.

“My good woman,” returned my father, “we know nothing about where or how the departed spirit exists after it has left the body. But it seems to me just as dreadful to be without God in the world, as to be without him anywhere else. Let us pray for him that God may be with him wherever he is.”

So saying, my father knelt down, and we beside him, and he prayed earnestly to God for the old man. Then we rose, mounted our horses, and rode away.

We were only about halfway home, when the clouds began to cover the moon, and the snow began to fall. Hitherto we had got on pretty well, for there was light enough to see the track, feeble as it was. Now, however, we had to keep a careful lookout. We pressed our horses, and they went bravely, but it was slow work at the best. It got darker and darker, for the clouds went on gathering, and the snow was coming down in huge dull flakes. Faster and thicker they came, until at length we could see nothing of the road before us, and were compelled to leave all to the wisdom of our horses. My father, having great confidence in his own little mare, which had carried him through many a doubtful and difficult place, rode first. I followed close behind. He kept on talking to me very cheerfully—I have thought since—to prevent me from getting frightened. But I had not a thought of fear. To be with my father was to me perfect safety. He was in the act of telling me how, on more occasions than one, Missy had got him through places where the road was impassable, by walking on the tops of the walls, when all at once both our horses plunged into a gulf of snow. The more my mare struggled, the deeper we sank in it. For a moment I thought it was closing over my head.

“Father! father!” I shouted.

“Don’t be frightened, my boy,” cried my father, his voice seeming to come from far away. “We are in God’s hands. I can’t help you now, but as soon as Missy has got quieter, I shall come to you. I think I know whereabouts we are. We’ve dropped right off the road. You’re not hurt, are you?”

“Not in the least,” I answered. “I was only frightened.”

A few moments more, and my mare lay or rather stuck quiet, with her neck and head thrown back, and her body deep in the snow. I put up my hands to feel. It rose above my head farther than I could reach. I got clear of the stirrups and scrambled up, first on my knees, and then on my feet. Standing thus upon the saddle, again I stretched my hands above my head, but still the broken wall of snow ascended above my reach. I could see nothing of my father, but I heard him talking to Missy. My mare soon began floundering again, so that I tumbled about against the sides of the hole, and grew terrified lest I should bring the snow down. I therefore cowered upon the mare’s back until she was quiet again. “Woa! Quiet, my lass!” I heard my father saying, and it seemed his Missy was more frightened than mine.

My fear was now quite gone, and I felt much inclined to laugh at the fun of the misadventure. I had as yet no idea of how serious a thing it might be. Still I had sense enough to see that something must be done—but what? I saw no way of getting out of the hole except by trampling down the snow upon the back of my poor mare, and that I could not think of; while I doubted much whether my father even could tell in what direction to turn for help or shelter.

Finding our way home, even if we got free, seemed out of the question. Again my mare began plunging violently, and this time I found myself thrown against some hard substance. I thrust my hand through the snow, and felt what I thought the stones of one of the dry walls common to the country. I might clear away enough of the snow to climb upon that; but then what next—it was so dark?

“Ranald!” cried my father; “how do you get on?”

“Much the same, father,” I answered.

“I’m out of the wreath,” he returned. “We’ve come through on the other side. You are better where you are I suspect, however. The snow is warmer than the air. It is beginning to blow. Pull your feet out and get right upon the mare’s back.”

“That’s just where I am, father—lying on her back, and pretty comfortable,” I rejoined.

All this time the snow was falling thick. If it went on like this, I should be buried before morning, and the fact that the wind was rising added to the danger of it. We were at the wrong end of the night too.

“I’m in a kind of ditch, I think, father,” I cried—the place we fell off on one side and a stone wall on the other.”

“That can hardly be, or I shouldn’t have got out,” he returned. “But now I’ve got Missy quiet, I’ll come to you. I must get you out, I see, or you will be snowed up. Woa, Missy! Good mare! Stand still.”

The next moment he gave a joyous exclamation.

“What is it, father?” I cried.

“It’s not a stone wall; it’s a peat-stack. That is good.”

“I don’t see what good it is. We can’t light a fire.”

“No, my boy; but where there’s a peat-stack, there’s probably a house.”

He began uttering a series of shouts at the top of his voice, listening between for a response. This lasted a good while. I began to get very cold.

“I’m nearly frozen, father,” I said, “and what’s to become of the poor mare—she’s got no clothes on?”

“I’ll get you out, my boy; and then at least you will be able to move about a little.”

I heard him shovelling at the snow with his hands and feet.