Kenneth McAlpine Part 11

He shook the plaid and his bonnet, and folded the former under the porch for Kooran to lie on. Then he opened the latch and entered.

All was dark. Not a blink of fire was on the hearth, and long white lines across the floor showed him where the snow had been sifting in through the holes that did duty as windows. Kenneth's heart suddenly felt as cold and heavy as lead.

"Nancy," he cried, "Nancy, oh! Nancy."

There was a feeble answer from the bed in the corner.

He advanced towards it. There were two s.h.i.+ning lights there, the cat's eyes. Poor p.u.s.s.y was on the bed watching by her dying mistress.

He felt on the coverlet and found Nancy's hand there. It was cold, almost hard. "Nancy," he said, "it is Kennie, your own boy Kennie; don't be afraid."

It did not take long for Kenneth to light a roaring fire on the hearth.

As soon as it burned up he held the iron lamp over it to melt the frozen oil; then he hung it up. The water in a bucket was frozen, and even some milk that stood on a little table near Nancy's bed was solid.

The inside of that cot was dreary in the extreme, but Kenneth soon made it more cheerful.

Poor old Nancy smiled her thanks and held out her hand to her boy, as she always called Kennie. He chafed it while he entreated her to tell him how she felt.

"Happy! happy! happy!" she replied, "but, poor boy, you are shaking."

Kenneth was, and he felt his heart so full that tears would have been a relief, but he wisely restrained himself.

He melted and warmed the milk, and made her drink some. Then, at her own request, he raised her up in the bed.

"Dinna be sorry," she said, "when poor auld Nancy's in the mools. It is the gate we have a' to gang. But oh! dear boy, it's the gate to glory for poor Nancy. And so it will be for you, laddie, if you never forget to pray. Prayer has been the mainstay and comfort o' my life; G.o.d has always been near me, and He's near me now, and will see me safe through the dark waters o' death. Here's a little Bible," she said. "It was Nancy's when young. Keep it for her sake, and oh! never forget to read it.

"Now, laddie, can you find your way to Dugald's? Send him here. There is an aulder head on his shoulders than on yours, and I have that to say a man should hear and remember."

"I'll go at once," said Kenneth, "and come back soon, and bring the doctor too, Nancy. I won't say good-night, I'll be back so soon."

Kenneth gulped down his tears, patted her hand, and rushed away.

"Come on, Kooran," he cried. "Oh! Kooran, let us run; my heart feels breaking."

He took his way across the moor in a different direction from that in which he had come. The storm had abated somewhat. The wind had gone down, and the moon shone out now and then from a rift in the clouds.

He determined to take the shortest cut to Dugald's house, though there would be the stream to ford, and it must be big and swollen. Never mind; he would try it.

He soon reached a scattered kind of wood of stunted trees; there was no pathway through it, but he guided himself by the moon and kept going downhill. He would thus strike the river, and keeping on by its banks, ford wherever he could.

Nothing could be easier. So he said to himself, and on he went. It was very cold; and though the wind was not so fierce, it moaned and sighed most mournfully through the trees in this wood. Even Kooran started sometimes, as a spruce or Scottish fir tree would suddenly free itself from its burden of snow as if it were a living thing, free itself with a rus.h.i.+ng, crackling sort of sound, and stand forth among its fellows dark and spectre-like.

Kenneth had gone quite a long way, but still no stream came in sight.

He listened for the sound of running water over and over again, and just as often he seemed to hear it, and went in that direction, but found it must be only wind after all.

He grew tired all at once, tired, weak, and faint, and sat down on a tree stump, and Kooran came and licked his cheek with his soft warm tongue. He placed one hand in the dog's mane, as if to steady himself, for his head began to swim.

"I must go on, though," he muttered to himself. "Poor old Nancy. The doctor. I'll soon be back--I--"

He said no more for a time. He had fainted. When he recovered, he started at once to his feet.

"I've been asleep," he cried. "How could I!" He ate some snow; then he began to move on automatically, as it were, the dog running in front and barking. The dog would have led him home. "No, no, Kooran," he said; "the river, doggie, the river."

Kenneth tried to run now. His teeth were chattering with the cold, but his face was hot and flushed.

His nerves had become strangely affected. He started fifty times at imaginary spectres. Some one was walking on in front of him--some shadowy being. He ran a little; it eluded him. Then he stopped; he was sure he saw a head peering at him over a piece of rock. He called aloud, "Archie! Archie!"

His voice sounds strange to his own ears. He runs towards the rock.

There is no one behind it. No one. Nothing.

He feels fear creeping over his heart. He never felt fear before.

But still he wanders on, muttering to himself, "I'll soon be back. Poor old Nancy! Poor old Nancy!"

All at once--so it seems--he finds himself at the banks of a stream. He is bewildered now, completely. He presses his cold hand against that burning brow of his.

What is this river or stream? Where is he going? Did he cross this stream before? He must cross it now, but where is the ford? How deep and dark and sullen it looks.

He seats himself on the icy bank to think or try to think.

He is burning, yet he s.h.i.+vers.

Stories of water-kelpies keep crowding through his mind, and the words and weird music of a song he has heard,--

"Kelpie dwells in a wondrous hall Beneath the s.h.i.+mmering stream; His song is the song of the waterfall, And his light its rainbow gleam.

The rowans stoop, And the long ferns droop Their feathery heads in the spray."

And now he jumps to his feet. He has recollected himself, he was going for the doctor for poor Nancy, and this is the stream he was looking for. He must seek the ford. He cannot have far to go now. Once over the river, and a run will take him to Dugald's cottage.

But stay; what cares he for the ford? He will plunge into the deepest pool, and swim across. He is hot; he is burning; it will cool him.

He walks on a little way, and still the kelpie song runs in his brain.

The trees seem singing it; the wind keeps singing it; the driving clouds nod to its music.

"Where the foam flakes are falling, Falling, falling, falling, Falling for ever and ay--"

Ha! here is a deep dark pool at last. Why, yonder is the kelpie himself beckoning to him, and the maiden.

"When forest depths were dim, For love of her long golden hair--"

The poor dog divines his intention. He rushes betwixt him and the cold black water, uttering a cry that is almost human in its plaintive pathos.

Too late. He laughs wildly, and plunges in. Then there is a strange sense of fulness in his head. Sparks crackle across his eyes.

"Falling, falling, falling, Foam flakes are--"

He remembers no more.

But the brave dog has pulled him to the brink, and sits by his side, lifting his chin up towards the sky, and howling most pitifully.