Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood Part 22

Oscar came up wagging his tail, and looking as pleased as if he had restored obedience to a flock of unruly sheep. I shrank back from Scroggie, wishing Turkey, who was still at the other end of the bridge, would make haste.

"Wasn't it fun, Ra.n.a.ld?" said Scroggie. "You don't think I was so lame that I couldn't get over that gate? I stuck on purpose."

Turkey joined us with an inquiring look, for he knew how Scroggie had been in the habit of treating me.

"It's all right, Turkey," I said. "Scroggie stuck on the gate on purpose."

"A good thing for you, Ra.n.a.ld!" said Turkey. "Didn't you see Peter Mason amongst them?"

"No. He left the school last year."

"He was there, though, and I don't suppose _he_ meant to be agreeable."

"I tell you what," said Scroggie: "if you like, I'll leave my school and come to yours. My mother lets me do as I like."

I thanked him, but said I did not think there would be more of it. It would blow over.

Allister told my father as much as he knew of the affair; and when he questioned me, I told him as much as I knew.

The next morning, just as we were all settling to work, my father entered the school. The hush that followed was intense. The place might have been absolutely empty for any sound I could hear for some seconds. The ringleaders of my enemies held down their heads, as antic.i.p.ating an outbreak of vengeance. But after a few moments'

conversation with Mr. Wilson, my father departed. There was a mystery about the proceeding, an unknown possibility of result, which had a very sedative effect the whole of the morning. When we broke up for dinner, Mr. Wilson detained me, and told me that my father thought it better that, for some time at least, I should not occupy such a prominent position as before. He was very sorry, he said, for I had been a great help to him; and if I did not object, he would ask my father to allow me to a.s.sist him in the evening-school during the winter. I was delighted at the prospect, sank back into my natural position, and met with no more annoyance. After a while I was able to a.s.sure my former foes that I had had no voice in bringing punishment upon them in particular, and the enmity was, I believe, quite extinguished.

When winter came, and the evening-school was opened, Mr. Wilson called at the manse, and my father very willingly a.s.sented to the proposed arrangement. The scholars were mostly young men from neighbouring farms, or from workshops in the village, with whom, although I was so much younger than they, there was no danger of jealousy. The additional a.s.sistance they would thus receive, and their respect for superior knowledge, in which, with my advantages, I had no credit over them, would prevent any false shame because of my inferiority in years.

There were a few girls at the school as well--among the rest, Elsie Duff. Although her grandmother was very feeble, Elsie was now able to have a little more of her own way, and there was no real reason why the old woman should not be left for an hour or two in the evening. I need hardly say that Turkey was a regular attendant. He always, and I often, saw Elsie home.

My chief pleasure lay in helping her with her lessons. I did my best to a.s.sist all who wanted my aid, but offered unsolicited attention to her. She was not quick, but would never be satisfied until she understood, and that is more than any superiority of gifts. Hence, if her progress was slow, it was unintermitting. Turkey was far before me in trigonometry, but I was able to help him in grammar and geography, and when he commenced Latin, which he did the same winter, I a.s.sisted him a good deal.

Sometimes Mr. Wilson would ask me to go home with him after school, and take supper. This made me late, but my father did not mind it, for he liked me to be with Mr. Wilson. I learned a good deal from him at such times. He had an excellent little library, and would take down his favourite books and read me pa.s.sages. It is wonderful how things which, in reading for ourselves, we might pa.s.s over in a half-blind manner, gain their true power and influence through the voice of one who sees and feels what is in them. If a man in whom you have confidence merely lays his finger on a paragraph and says to you, "Read that," you will probably discover three times as much in it as you would if you had only chanced upon it in the course of your reading. In such case the mind gathers itself up, and is all eyes and ears.

But Mr. Wilson would sometimes read me a few verses of his own; and this was a delight such as I have rarely experienced. My reader may wonder that a full-grown man and a good scholar should condescend to treat a boy like me as so much of an equal; but sympathy is precious even from a child, and Mr. Wilson had no companions of his own standing. I believe he read more to Turkey than to me, however.

As I have once apologized already for the introduction of a few of his verses with Scotch words in them, I will venture to try whether the same apology will not cover a second offence of the same sort.

JEANIE BRAW[1]

I like ye weel upo' Sundays, Jeanie, In yer goon an' yer ribbons gay; But I like ye better on Mondays, Jeanie, And I like ye better the day.[2]

[Footnote 1: Brave; well dressed.].

[Footnote 2: To-day.]

For it _will_ come into my heid, Jeanie, O' yer braws[1] ye are thinkin' a wee; No' a' o' the Bible-seed, Jeanie, Nor the minister nor me.

[Footnote 1: Bravery; finery.]

And hame across the green, Jeanie, Ye gang wi' a toss o' yer chin: Us twa there's a shadow atween, Jeanie, Though yer hand my airm lies in.

But noo, whan I see ye gang, Jeanie, Busy wi' what's to be dune, Liltin' a haveless[2] sang, Jeanie, I could kiss yer verra shune.

[Footnote 2: Careless.]

Wi' yer silken net on yer hair, Jeanie, In yer bonny blue petticoat, Wi' yer kindly airms a' bare, Jeanie, On yer verra shadow I doat.

For oh! but ye're eident[3] and free, Jeanie, Airy o' hert and o' fit[4]; There's a licht shines oot o' yer ee, Jeanie; O' yersel' ye thinkna a bit.

[Footnote 3: Diligent.]

[Footnote 4: Foot.]

Turnin' or steppin' alang, Jeanie, Liftin' an' layin' doon, Settin' richt what's aye gaein' wrang, Jeanie, Yer motion's baith dance an' tune.

Fillin' the cogue frae the coo, Jeanie, Skimmin' the yallow cream, Poorin' awa' the het broo, Jeanie, Lichtin' the lampie's leme[5]--

[Footnote 5: Flame.]

I' the hoose ye're a licht an' a law, Jeanie, A servant like him that's abune: Oh! a woman's bonniest o' a', Jeanie, Whan she's doin' what _maun_ be dune.

Sae, dressed in yer Sunday claes, Jeanie, Fair kythe[1] ye amang the fair; But dressed in yer ilka-day's[2], Jeanie, Yer beauty's beyond compare.

[Footnote 1: Appear.]

[Footnote 2: Everyday clothes.]

CHAPTER x.x.xI

A Winter's Ride

In this winter, the stormiest I can recollect, occurred the chief adventure of my boyhood--indeed, the event most worthy to be called an adventure I have ever encountered.

There had been a tremendous fall of snow, which a furious wind, lasting two days and the night between, had drifted into great mounds, so that the shape of the country was much altered with new heights and hollows. Even those who were best acquainted with them could only guess at the direction of some of the roads, and it was the easiest thing in the world to lose the right track, even in broad daylight. As soon as the storm was over, however, and the frost was found likely to continue, they had begun to cut pa.s.sages through some of the deeper wreaths, as they called the snow-mounds; while over the tops of others, and along the general line of the more frequented roads, footpaths were soon trodden. It was many days, however, before vehicles could pa.s.s, and coach-communication be resumed between the towns. All the short day, the sun, though low, was brilliant, and the whole country shone with dazzling whiteness; but after sunset, which took place between three and four o'clock, anything more dreary can hardly be imagined, especially when the keenest of winds rushed in gusts from the north-east, and lifting the snow-powder from untrodden shadows, blew it, like so many stings, in the face of the freezing traveller.

Early one afternoon, just as I came home from school, which in winter was always over at three o'clock, my father received a message that a certain laird, or _squire_ as he would be called in England--whose house lay three or four miles off amongst the hills, was at the point of death, and very anxious to see him: a groom on horseback had brought the message. The old man had led a life of indifferent repute, and that probably made him the more anxious to see my father, who proceeded at once to get ready for the uninviting journey.

Since my brother Tom's departure, I had become yet more of a companion to my father; and now when I saw him preparing to set out, I begged to be allowed to go with him. His little black mare had a daughter, not unused to the saddle. She was almost twice her mother's size, and none the less clumsy that she was chiefly employed upon the farm. Still she had a touch of the roadster in her, and if not capable of elegant motion, could get over the ground well enough, with a sort of speedy slouch, while, as was of far more consequence on an expedition like the present, she was of great strength, and could go through the wreaths, Andrew said, like a red-hot iron. My father hesitated, looked out at the sky, and hesitated still.

"I hardly know what to say, Ra.n.a.ld. If I were sure of the weather--but I am very doubtful. However, if it should break up, we can stay there all night. Yes.--Here, Allister; run and tell Andrew to saddle both the mares, and bring them down directly.--Make haste with your dinner, Ra.n.a.ld."

Delighted at the prospect, I did make haste; the meal was soon over, and Kirsty expended her utmost care in clothing me for the journey, which would certainly be a much longer one in regard of time than of s.p.a.ce. In half an hour we were all mounted and on our way--the groom, who had so lately traversed the road, a few yards in front.

I have already said, perhaps more than once, that my father took comparatively little notice of us as children, beyond teaching us of a Sunday, and sometimes of a week-evening in winter, generally after we were in bed. He rarely fondled us, or did anything to supply in that manner the loss of our mother. I believe his thoughts were tenderness itself towards us, but they did not show themselves in ordinary shape: some connecting link was absent. It seems to me now sometimes, that perhaps he was wisely retentive of his feelings, and waited a better time to let them flow. For, ever as we grew older, we drew nearer to my father, or, more properly, my father drew us nearer to him, dropping, by degrees, that reticence which, perhaps, too many parents of character keep up until their children are full grown; and by this time he would converse with me most freely. I presume he had found, or believed he had found me trustworthy, and incapable of repeating unwisely any remarks he made. But much as he hated certain kinds of gossip, he believed that indifference to your neighbour and his affairs was worse. He said everything depended on the spirit in which men spoke of each other; that much of what was called gossip was only a natural love of biography, and, if kindly, was better than blameless; that the greater part of it was objectionable, simply because it was not loving, only curious; while a portion was amongst the wickedest things on earth, because it had for its object to believe and make others believe the worst. I mention these opinions of my father, lest anyone should misjudge the fact of his talking to me as he did.

Our horses made very slow progress. It was almost nowhere possible to trot, and we had to plod on, step by step. This made it more easy to converse.

"The country looks dreary, doesn't it, Ra.n.a.ld?" he said.

"Just like as if everything was dead, father," I replied.