“Behold how good a thing it is,And how becoming well,Together, such as brethren areIn unity to dwell.”
And the sweet sound of Eastgate floated out on the peaceful air of the Glen, where the harvest moon was shining upon fields of gold.
When the practice of Drumtochty was advertised, and the duties defined by geography—the emoluments being treated with marked reserve—the medical profession did not contend in a body for the post, and it was more than a year before William Maclure had a successor. During the interregnum temporary physicians of varied experience and erratic character took charge of our health for short periods, and the Glen had experiences which are still fondly cherished, and afforded Elspeth Macfadyen the raw material for some of her most finished products. One of these worthies was a young gentleman twenty-four years of age and of Irish descent, whose thirst for fees and hatred of anything beyond the minimum of labour bordered on genius. It was he who declined to enter Lizzie Taylor's house, although sent for in the most interesting circumstances, and discoursed outside the door with a volubility that seemed almost Satanic, till he had received an earnest of ten shillings in fourteen coins of the realm. Perhaps the Glen was more indignant when Dr. O'Bralligan declined to rise one night and go to Glen Urtach, “not even if his sainted grandmother came to ask him, riding on-the back of the Angel Gabriel.”
“It 'ill no be Gabriel 'at 'ill tak chairge o' him,” said Janies Soutar succinctly. And the feeling in the kirkyard was so decided that O'Bralligan left within a week, explaining to Peter Bruce at the Junction that the people of Drumtochty were the “most oudacious and on-reasonable set o' blackguards” he had ever seen.
His successor had enjoyed the remarkable privilege of ministering in a fleeting capacity to the health of sixty-three parishes during a professional practice of under twenty years, and retained through all vicissitudes a pronounccd Glasgow accent, and an unquenchable thirst for distilled liquors. Dr. Murchieson was not greedy about fees, and had acquired considerable skill in his eventful life, so the Glen endured him for three months, but used him with precautions.
“Gin ye catch him gaein' east,” Hillocks summed up, “he's as quiet a man as ye wud wish, and skilly tae, but comin' wast he's clean redeeklus; last nicht,” added Hillocks, “he wes cairyin' his hat on the pint o' his stick an' singin' 'Scots wha hae.'”
An unaccountable tendency in certain states of mind to prescribe calomel tried the patience of the Glen, and Gormack conceived a personal prejudice against Murchieson because he had ordered him to be blistered with croton oil till he returned next day, when Gormack had a “titch” of bronchitis; but his cup ran over the night he sounded a pillow instead of Maggie Martin's lungs, and gave her mother no hope.
“Congested frae top tae bottom; nae whasle (rales) at a' the day; naethin' can be dune; a fine lassie,” and he departed, after a brief nap, full of music.
Hillocks drove him to the station, and he seemed to bear no grudge.
“That maks saxty-fower—a 've forgotten the names, but a' keep the coont.”
His farewell was divided between a generous appreciation of Drumtochty and an unfeigned regret that Kildrummie had no refreshment-room.
“Ilka trade hes some ne'er-dae-weels, an' the doctors hae fewer than maist. Ye canna expect onything else frae thae orra craturs,” said Drumsheugh next Sabbath, “an' we 're better withoot them. It passes me hoo yon body stude it, for he wes aye tastin'.”
“He didna stand it,” broke in Hillocks with eagerness; “div ye ken hoo mony whups he 's hed? 'A've been saxty-fower times,' he says to me at Kildrummie; a' doot he wes exaggerating though.”
“Been what, Hillocks?” inquired Jamie with keen interest.
“Ye ken what a'm ettlin' aifter fine, Jamie, an' it's no a chancy word tae mention.”
“Wes'tlocum tenens?”
“That,” said Hillocks, “is the word, if ye maun hae it; a' wunner the body's no feared; it's an awfu' business,” and Hillocks dropped into morals, “when a man canna manage his drink.”
Jamie declared that he had never seen the kirkyard so overcome, and ever afterwards Hillocks's name suggested sudden and captivating strokes of humour, so that men's faces lit up at the sight of him.
It was in these circumstances that the Glen fell back on Kirsty Stewart for medical aid, with the Kildrummie doctor as a last resort, and Kirsty covered her name with glory for a generation. She had always had some reputation as a practitioner of ability and experience—being learned in herbs, and the last of her folk; but her admirers were themselves astonished at the insight she showed in the mysterious illness of Peter Macintosh, and her very detractors could only insinuate that her credit ended with diagnosis. His case had a certain distinction from the first day he complained, and we remembered afterwards that it was never described as a “whup.” During the first week even there was a vague impression in the Glen, conveyed by an accent, that Peter was the subject of a dispensation, and the kirk-yard was full of chastened curiosity.
“What's this that 's wrang wi' Peter Macintosh, Whinnie?” broke out Drumsheugh, with a certain magisterial authority. “Ye live near him, and sud hae the richts o't. As for the fouk doon bye, ye can get naethin' oot o' them; the smith juist shook his head twa nichts syne, as if he wes at a beerial.”
“Ye needna speir at me, Drumsheugh,” responded Whinnie, with solemnity, “for a' ken nae mair than ye dae yersel, though oor fields mairch and we 've aye been neeburly.”
“Losh keep 's, ye surely can tell us whar it 's catchit Peter; is 't in his head or his heels? is he gaein' aboot or hes he ta'en tae his bed? did ye no see him?” said Drumsheugh severely.
“Ou aye, a' saw him, gin that be onything; but ye canna get muckle oot o' Peter at the best, and he 's clean past speakin' noo.
“He wes sittin' in his chair afore the door; an' a' he said wes, 'This is an awfu' business, Whinnie,' and he wud dance in his seat for maybe twa meenuts. 'What 's ailin' ye, Peter?' a' askit. 'A red-het ploo iron on ma back,' says he, an' it gied me a grue tae hear him.”
“Mercy on 's, neeburs,” interrupted Hillocks, “this is no cannie.”
“It's no his briest,” pursued Whinnie, “for he hesna got a hoast; an' it's no a stroke, whatever it be, for he 's aye on the motion; an' it 's no his inside; but in or oot, Peter 's a waesome sicht,” and Whinnie's manner greatly impressed the fathers.
Leezbeth went up on Monday, as a commissioner from Drumsheugh, and that masterful woman made no doubt that she would unravel the mystery; but she was distinctly awed by Mrs. McIntosh s tone, which was a fine blend of anxiety and importance.
“Hoo are ye, Leezbeth, an' hoo's Drumsheugh? There's threatenin' tae be a scoorie, but it 'ill maybe haud up till the aifternoon. Wull ye come in tae the kitchen the day? The gude man's no hansel' the noo, and he's sittin' ben the hoose.”
“That's what a' cam' aboot,” said Leezbeth, rebelling against the solemnity of the atmosphere; “we heard doon bye that he wes sober (ill), an' the maister's aff tae Dunleith, and cudna get up tae speir for him. What's the natur' o' the tribble? Wes t sudden?”
Janet knew she was mistress of the situation for once, and had no fear that Leezbeth could bring her down from her high places in this rough fashion.
“It's rael freendly o' ye, an' a'm muckle ob-leeged; the fouk are awfu' ta'en up aboot Peter, an' there's juist ae word on a'body's mooth. A' ken what's comin' as sune as a' see a neebur crossin' the fields.
“Ye may be sure, Leezbeth, a' wud tell ye, gin a' kent masel,” and Janet wagged her head; “it's nae pleesure tae me that there sud be naethin' noo at kirk or market but Peter's tribble, and tae hae half the Glen deavin' me wi' questions.
“Wumman, a' tell ye, as sure as a'm stan-nin' here, a' wud raither hae Peter gaein' aboot at his wark instead o' a' this tiravee (commotion), and him girnin' frae mornin' tae nicht in his chair. Div ye hear him ragin' at Mary?”
“Gae awa oot o' there,” and Peter was evidently rejecting some office of attention; “gin ye come near me a 'll tak ma stick tae yir shoothers, ye little trimmie; ma word, a'm het eneuch withoot a plaid.”
“This is a terrible hoose the noo,” and Janet struggled vainly with a natural pride; “there's been naethin' like this wi' oor forbears sae far back as a' can mind, an' a' doot gin there's been the marra o't in the Glen.”
“Hoo's he affeckit?” for Leezbeth was much exasperated by Janet's airs, a woman who, in ordinary circumstances, could not have withstood her for an instant. “Ye can surely say that muckle. It 's no his chest; that 's in fine fettle; it 'ill be aither his legs or his head; maist likely his head frae the wy he's carryin' on.”
“Leezbeth, dinna mak licht o' sic a veesita-tion,” said Janet, with all the dignity of affliction; “ye dinna ken when it micht draw nearer hame. It wes hangin' ower Peter for months, but it cam oot sudden in the end, a' in a piece ae morning. Na, the tribble 'ill tak a rin up an' doon his legs, but it disna settle there, an' a' canna deny that he 's fractious at a time, but he never rammils (wanders); whatever it be, the tribble keeps tae its ain place.”
“Whar is that and what like is't?” for Leezbeth was now reduced to entreaty; “there maun be something tae see, an', Janet wum-man, a've hed deiths amang ma fouk, tae sae naethin' o' bringin' up Drumsheugh's calves for thirty year.”
“A' ken ye're skilly, Leezbeth,” said Janet, much mollified by Leezbeth's unwonted humility, “an' a'd be gled o' yir advice. Ye daurna ask Peter for a sicht, but a 'll gie ye an idea o't. It's juist for a' the warld,” and Leezbeth held her breath, “like a sklatch o' eukiness (itchiness) half roond his waist, naither mair nor less.”
“Is that a', Janet?” and Leezbeth began to take revenge for her humiliation; “ye needna hae made sic an ado aboot. Div ye no ken what's the maitter wi' yir man? gin ye hed ony gumption (sense) he micht hae been weel lang syne.
“Wumman, it 's a heat in the banes 'at he's gotten laist hairst, and the spring's drawin' it oot. Dinna send it in for ony sake, eke ye 'ill hae yir man in the kirkyaird.
“Ma advice,” continued Leezbeth, now rioting in triumph, “t'wud be tae rub him weel wi whisky; ye canna gang wrang wi' speerits, oot or in; an' dinna lat him sleep; if he took tae dronyin' (dozing) ye micht never get him waukened.” And so Drumsheugh's housekeeper departed, having dashed Janet at a stroke.
When Kirsty arrived in the afternoon to offer her services, Janet had no heart to enter into the case.
“Drumsheugh's Leezbeth gied us a cry afore dinner and settled the maitter; gin she lays doon the law there 's naebody need conter her; ye wud think she 'd been at the creation tae hear her speak; ye 've hed a lang traivel, Kirsty, an' ye 'ill be ready for yir tea.”
“Ou ay,” replied Janet bitterly, “she gied it a name; it's naething but a bit heat—a bairn's rash, a'm jidgin', though a'never saw ane like it a' ma days; but Leezbeth kens better, wi' a' her experience, an' of coorse it's a sateesfaction tae ken that the Glen needna fash (trouble) themselves aboot Peter.”
“Leezbeth wesna blate,” Kirsty burst out, unable to contain herself at the thought of this intrusion into her recognised sphere, “an' it 's a mercy we hae the like o' her in the Glen noo that Doctor Maclure is deid an' gane. Did ye say her experience?” and Kirsty began to warm to the occasion; “a' wunner whether it's wi' beasts or fouk? Gin it be wi' Drumsheugh's young cattle, a' hae naethin' tae say; but gin it be Christians, a' wud juist ask ae question—hoo mony o' her fouk hes she beeried?”
“Naethin' tae speak o' aside you, Kirsty,” said Janet, in propitiation; “a'body kens what preevileges ye 've hed.”
“Ae brither an' twa half sisters, that 's a',” continued Kirsty, “for a' hed it frae her own lips; it's no worth mentionin'; gin a' hed seen nae mair tribble than that a' wud be ashamed tae show ma face in a sick hoose; lat's hear aboot yir man, Janet,” and Kirsty settled down to details.
“Did ye say half roond, Janet?” and she leaned forward with concern on every feature.
“That 's hoo it is; the ither side is as white as a bairn's skin; an' though he be ma man, a 'll say this for him, that he's aye hed clean blude an' nae marks; but what are ye glowerin' at? hae ye ony licht? speak, wumman.”
“This is a mair serious business, Janet, than onybody suspectit,” and Kirsty sighed heavily.
“Preserve's, Kirsty, what div ye think is the matter wi' Peter? tell's the warst at aince,” for Kirsty's face suggested an apocalypse of woe.
“A heat,” she said, still lingering over Leez-beth's shallow, amateur suggestion, “gotten at the hairst... rub it wi' whisky... ay, ay, it 's plain whar she gets her skill, 'at disna ken the differ atween the tribble o' a man an' a beast.
“Isn't maist michty,” and now Kirsty grew indignant, “'at a wumman o' Leezbeth's age cudna tell an eruption frae a jidgment?”
“Kirsty Stewart, hoo div ye ken that?” cried Janet, much lifted; “a' wes jalousin' that it passed ordinary, but what gars ye think o' jidgment?”
“A'm no the wumman tae meddle wi' sic a word lichtly. Na, na, a' micht hae gaed awa' an' said naethin' gin Leezbeth hedna been sae ready wi' her heats.
“A'm no wantin' tae frichten ye, Janet,” and Kirsty's face assumed an awful significance, “an' a'm no wantin' tae flatter ye, but ye may lippen tae't Peter's hed a special dispensation. Did ye say aboot twa hands'-breadths?”
As Janet could only nod, Kirsty continued: “He's been gruppit by a muckle hand, an' it's left the sign. Leezbeth wes maybe no sae far wrang aboot the heat, but it came frae the oot-side, a'm dootin'.”
“Div ye mean,” and Janet's voice had sunk to a whisper, “is't auld—”
“Dinna say the word, wumman; he micht be hearin', and there's nae use temptin' him. It's juist a warnin', ye see, an' it's a mercy he gied nae farther. Hed he ta'en baith hands, it micht hae been the end o' yir man.”
“This is no lichtsome,” and Janet began to wail, although not quite insensible to the distinction Peter had achieved; “a' kent frae the beginnin' this wesna a common tribble, an' we 've behadden tae ye for settlin' the maitter. Whatever lies Peter dune tae bringisic a jidgment on himsel? He 's a cautious man as ye 'ill get in the Glen, an' pays his rent tae the day; he may taste at a time, but he never fechts; it beats me tae pit ma hand on the meanin' o't.”
“There wes some clash (gossip) aboot him contradickin' the minister,” said Kirsty, looking into the remote distance.
“Div ye mean the colie-shangie (disturbance) ower the new stove, when Peter and the doctor hed sic a cast oot? Ye 're an awfu' wumman,” and Janet regarded Kirsty with admiration; “a' never wud hae thocht o' conneckin' the twa things. But a' daurna say ye 've no richt, for a' hed ma ain fears aboot the wy Peter wes cairryin' on.
“'A 'll no gie up ma pew whar oor fouk hae sat Gude kens hoo lang, for the doctor or ony ither man; they can pit the stove on the ither side, an' gin it disna draw there, the doctor can set it up in the kirkyaird.' Thae were his verra words, Kirsty, an' a' tell 't him, they wud dae him nae gude.
“If a' didna beg o' him ootside that door no tae gang against the minister. 'Dinna be the first in the Glen tae anger the doctor,' a' said; but Peter's that thrawn when his birse is up that ye micht as weel speak tae a wall.
“He's made a bonnie like endin' wi' his dourness; but, Kirsty, he 's sair humbled, an' a' wudna say but he micht come roond gin he wes hannelled cautious. What wud ye advise, Kirsty?”
“The doctor's comin' hame this week, a'm hearing an' he 'ill be up tae see Peter afore Sabbath. Noo ma opinion is,” and Kirsty spoke with great deliberation, “that ye micht juist bring roond the conversation till ye titched on the stove, an' Peter cud gie the doctor tae understand that there wud be nae mair argiment aboot his seat.
“Whinnie cud get a bottle fraethe Muirtown doctor on Friday—it wud be a help—but it's no medeecine, no, nor whisky,' 'at 'ill dae the wark. Gin ye settle with the minister, yir man 'ill be in the kirk afore the month be oot,” and Kirsty was invested with such mystery that Janet hardly dared an allusion to Milton's third marriage.
Peter made his first appearance in the kirk-yard the very day the stove was installed, and received the congratulations of the fathers with an admirable modesty.
“A' wes feared he micht be lifted,” Hillocks remarked, after Peter had gone in to take possession of his new seat, “an' ye cudna hae wonnered gin he hed, for he's gaen through mair than most, but he held oot his hand for the box wi' as little pride as if it hed been rheumatiks.
“He's fell hearty an' cheery, but Peter's hed a shak, an' when he saw the smoke oot the stove there wes a look cam ower his face. Sall,” concluded Hillocks, with emphasis, “he 'ill no meddle with the minister again, a 'll warrant.”
“Wha wud hae thocht the doctor wes sae veecious, or are ye considerin' that there wes anither hand in't, Hillocks?” inquired Jamie Soutar, with great smoothness of speech.
“Naebody said the minister did it, Jamie, and a' never said onybody did it, but we may hae oor ain thochts, and Peter 'ill no forget this stramash (accident) as lang as he lives.”
“Na, na, a minister's an ill craw tae shoot at, Jamie,” and Hillocks went into kirk as one who had rebuked a mocking scepticism; but Jamie stood alone under the beech-tree till they had raised the psalm, and then he followed his neighbors, with a face of funereal solemnity.
DRUMSHEUGH had arrested Dr. Maclure on the high road the winter before he died, and compelled him to shelter for a while, since it was a rough December night not far from Christmas, and every one knew the doctor had begun to fail.
“Is that you, Weelum?” for the moon was not yet up, and an east wind was driving the snow in clouds; “a' wes oot seein' the sheep werena smoored in the drift, an' a'm wrastlin' hame.
“Come back tae the hoose an' rest; gin there's tae be ony mune she 'ill be oot by nine, and the wind 'ill maybe settle; ye 're baith o' ye sair forfoochen” (exhausted), and Drumsheugh seized Jess's bridle.
For eight miles the wind had been on Mac-lure's back, and he was cased in snow from the crown of the felt hat, that was bent to meet his jacket collar, down to the line of his saddle. The snow made a little bank on the edge of the saddle that was hardly kept, in check by the heat of Jess's body; it was broken into patches on his legs by the motion of riding, but clung in hard lumps to the stirrup irons. The fine drift whirling round powdered him in front, and melting under his breath, was again frozen into icicles on his beard, and had made Jess's mane still whiter. When Drumsheugh's housekeeper opened the kitchen door and the light fell on the horse and her master—a very ghostly sight—Leezabeth was only able to say, “Preserve 's a' body and soul,” which was the full form of a prayer in use on all occasions of surprise.
Three times the doctor essayed to come down, and could not for stiffness, and he would have fallen on the doorstep had it not been for Drumsheugh.
“This 'ill be a lesson tae ye, Weelum,” helping him in to the kitchen; “ye 're doonricht numbed; get aff the doctor's boots, Leezabeth, an' bring a coat for him.”
“Awa wi' ye; div ye think a'm a bairn?... A 'll be masel in a meenut... it wes the cauld... they're stiff tae pull, Leezabeth... let me dae't... weel, weel, if ye wull... but a' dinna like tae see a wumman servin' a man like this.”
He gave in after a slight show of resistance, and Leezabeth, looking up, saw her master watching Maclure wistfully, as one regards a man smitten unto death. Drumsheugh realised in one moment that this was the doctor's last winter; he had never seen him so easily managed all his life.
Leezabeth had kept house for Drumsheugh for many years, and was understood to know him in all his ways. It used to be a point of interesting debate which was the harder, but all agreed that they led the Glen in ingenious economy and unfailing detection of irresponsible generosity. The Kildrummie butcher in his irregular visits to the Glen got no support at Drumsheugh, and the new lass that favoured the ploughmen with flowing measure was superseded next milking time.
“That's yir pint, Jeems, naither mair nor less,” Leezabeth would say to the “second man.” “Mary's hand shaks when there's lads aboot,” and Drumsheugh heard the story with much appreciation in the evening.
She used to boast that there was “nae saft bit aboot the maister,” and of all things Drumsheugh was supposed to be above sentiment. But Leezabeth was amazed that evening at a curious gentleness of manner that softened his very voice as he hung round the doctor.
“Drink it aff, Weelum,” holding the glass to his lips; “it 'ill start the hert again; try an' rise, an' we 'ill gang ben the hoose noo... that's it, ye're on yir legs again... that door's aye in the road... it's a dark passage; gie's yir airm... it's awfu' hoo stiff a body gets sittin'.”
Leezabeth was ordered to bring such dainties as could be found, and she heard Drumsheugh pressing things upon the doctor with solicitude.
“It's no richt tae gang that lang withoot meat, an' the nicht's sae cauld; ye 'ill be fund on the road some mornin'. Try some o' thae black currants; they're graund for a hoast. Ye're no surely dune already.
“Draw in yir chair tae the fire, Weelum; tak this ane; it wes ma mither's, an' it's easier; ye need it aifter that ride. Are ye warm noo?”
“A'm rael comfortable an' content, Drumsheugh; it's a wee lonesome wast yonder when a man comes in weet an' tired o' a nicht; juist tae sit aside a freend, although nane o's say mickle, is a rest.”
“A' wush ye wud come aftener, Weelum,” said Drumsheugh hastily; “we 're no as young as we were, an' we micht draw thegither mair. It's no speakin' maks freends.... Hoo auld are ye noo?”
“Seeventy-three this month, an' a 'll no see anither birthday; ye 're aulder, Drum”—Maclure only was so privileged—“but ye 're a hale man an' gude for twal year yet.”
“Ye micht hae been the same yersel if ye hadna been a senseless fule an' sae thrawn (obstinate) ye wudna be guided by onybody; but if ye gang cautious ye 'ill live us a' oot yet; ye 're no like the same man noo 'at cam in tae the kitchen. Leezabeth wes fleggit at the sicht o' ye,” and Drumsheugh affected mirth.
“Wes she, though?” said Maclure, with some relish. “A've often thocht it wud tak a chairge o' gunpooder tae pit Leezabeth aff her jundy (ordinary course). Hoo lang hes she been wi' ye? A' mind her comin'; it wes aifter yir mither deed; that 's a gude while past noo.”
“Five and thirty year last Martinmas; she 's a Kildrummie wumman, but a' her fouk are dead. Leezabeth's been a faithfu' housekeeper, an' she's an able wumman; a' ve nae-thing tae say against Leezabeth.
“She 's a graund manager,” continued Drumsheugh meditatively, “an' there's no been mickle lost here since she cam; a 'll say that for her; she dis her wark accordin' tae her licht, but it's aye scrapin' wi' her, and the best o' hoosekeepers maks a cauld hame.
“Weelum—” and then he stopped, and roused the fire into a blaze.
“Ay, ay,” said Maclure, and he looked kindly at his friend, whose face was averted.
“Wes ye gaein' tae say onything?” and Maclure waited, for a great confidence was rare in Drumtochty.
“There wes something happened in ma life lang syne nae man kens, an' a' want tae tell ye, but no the nicht, for ye 're tired an' cast doon. Ye'ill come in sune again, Weelum.”
“The mornin's nicht, gin it be possible,” and then both men were silent for a space.
The wind came in gusts, roaring in the chimney, and dying away with a long moan across the fields, while the snow-drift beat against the window. Drumsheugh's dog, worn out with following his master through the drifts, lay stretched before the fire sound asleep, but moved an ear at the rattling of a door upstairs, or a sudden spark from the grate.
Drumsheugh gazed long into the red caverns and saw former things, till at last he smiled and spake.
“Hoo langis't since ye guddled for troot, Weelum?”
“Saxty year or sae; div ye mind yon hole in the Sheuchie burn, whar it comes doon frae the muir? They used to lie and feed in the rin o' the water.
“A' wes passin' that wy lairst hairst, an' a' took a thocht and gied ower tae the bank. The oak looks juist the same, an' a' keekit through, an' if there wesna a troot ablow the big stane. If a' hedna been sae stiff a' wud hae gien doon and tried ma luck again.”
“A' ken the hole fine, Weelum,” burst out Drumsheugh; “div ye mind where a' catchit yon twa-punder in the dry simmer? it wes the biggest ever taen oot o' the Sheuchie; a' telt ye a' next day at schule.”
“Ye did that, an' ye blew aboot that troot for the haie winter, but nane o' us ever saw't, an' it wes juist a bare half pund tae begin wi'; it 's been growin', a' doot; it 'ill be five afore ye 're dune wi't, Drum.”
“Nane o' yir impidence, Weelum. A' weighed it in Luckie Simpson's shop as a' gied hame, an' it made twa pund as sure as a'm sitting here; but there micht be a wecht left in the scale wi't.”
“Fishers are the biggest leears a' ever cam across, and ye've dune yir best the nicht, Drum; but eh, man, guddlin' wes a graund ploy,” and the doctor got excited.
“A' think a'm at it aince mair, wi' ma sleeves up tae the oxters, lying on ma face, wi' naethin' but the een ower the edge o' the stane, an' slippin' ma hands intae the caller water, an' the rush o' the troot, and grippin' the soople slidderin' body o't an' throwin't ower yir head, wi' the red spots glistening on its whlfe belly; it wes michty.”
“Ay, Weelum, an' even missin't wes worth while; tae feel it shoot atween yir hands an' see it dash doon the burn, maltin' a white track in the shallow water, an' ower a bit fall and oot o' sicht again in anither hole.”
They rested for a minute to revel in the past, and in the fire the two boys saw water running over gravel, and deep, cool holes beneath overhanging rocks, and little waterfalls, and birch boughs dipping into the pools, and speckled trout gleaming on the grass.
Maclure's face kindled into mirth, and he turned in his chair.
“Ye 're sayin' naethin' o' the day when the burn wes settlin' aifter a spate, and ye cam tae me an' Sandy Baxter an' Netherton's brither Squinty, an' temptit us tae play the truant, threepin' ye hed seen the troot juist swarmin' in the holes.”
“A' tried John Baxter tae,” interrupted Drumsheugh, anxious for accuracy since they had begun the story, “though he didna come. But he wudna tell on's for a' that. Hillocks lat it oot at the sight o' the tawse. 'They 're up the Sheuchie aifter the troot,' he roared, an' the verra lassies cried 'clype' (tell tale) at him gaein' hame.”
“What a day it wes, Drum; a' can see Sandie's heels in the air when he coupit intae the black hole abune Gormack, an' you pullin' him oot by the seat o' his breeks, an' his Latin Reader, 'at hed fa'en oot o' his pocket, sailin' doon the water, an' 'Squinty' aifter it, scram-mellin' ower the stanes;” and the doctor laughed aloud.
“Ye 've forgot hoo ye sent me in tae beg for a piece frae the gude wife at Gormack, an' she saw the lave o' ye coorin' ahint the dyke, an' gied us a flytin' for playin' truant.”
“Fient a bit o't,” and Maclure took up the running again; “an' then she got a sicht o' Sandie like a drooned rat, and made him come in tae dry himsel, and gied us pork an' oat cake. My plate hed a burn on it like the Sheuchie—a' cud draw the pattern on a sheet o' paper till this day—that wes Gormack's mither's; it's no sae lang since she deed; a' wes wi' her the laist nicht.”
“An' the tawse next day frae the auld Dominie, him 'at wes afore Domsie; he hed a fine swing. A' think a' feel the nip still,” and Drumsheugh shuffled in his chair; “an' then we got anither lickin' frae oor faithers; but, man,” slapping his knee, “it wes worth it a'; we 've never hed as gude a day again.”
“It s juist like yesterday, Drum, but it cam tae an end; and div ye mind hoo we were feared tae gae hame, and didna start till the sun wes weel doon ahint Ben Urtach?
“Four o's,” resumed Maclure; “an' Sandie got a Russian bayonet through his breist fech-tin' ae snawy nicht in the trenches, an' puir Squinty deed oot in Ameriky wearyin' for the Glen an' wishin' he cud be buried in Drumtochty kirkyaird. Fine laddies baith, an' that's twa o' the fower truants that hae gane hame.
“You an' me, Drum, hed the farthest road tae traivel that nicht, an' we 're the laist again; the sun's settin' for us tae; we 've hed a gude lang day, and ye 'ill hae a whilie aifter me, but we maun follow the ither twa.”
“Ye're richt, Weelum, aboot the end o't, whichever gangs first,” said Drumsheugh.
Another silence fell on the two men, and both looked steadfastly into the fire, till the dog rose and laid his head on Drumsheugh's hand. He was also getting old, and now had no other desire than to be with his master.
Drumsheugh moved his chair into the shadow, and sighed.
“It's no the same though, Weelum, it's no the same ava.... We did what we sudna, an' wes feared tae meet oor faithers, nae doot, but we kent it wud be waur oot on the cauld hill, an' there wes a house tae shelter 's at ony rate.”
Maclure would not help, and Drumsheugh went on again as if every word were drawn from him in agony.
“We dinna ken onything aboot...”—and he hesitated—“aboot... the ither side. A 've thocht o't often in the gloamin' o' a simmer nicht, or sittin' here alane by the fire in winter time; a man may seem naething but an auld miserly fairmer, an' yet he may hae his ain thochts.
“When a' wes a laddie, the doctor's father wes in the poopit, an' Dominie Cameron wes in the schule, an' yir father rode up an' doon the Glen, an' they 're a' gane. A' can see at a time in kirk the face that used tae be at the end of ilka seat, an' the bairns in the middle, an' the gude wife at the top: there's no ane a' canna bring up when the doctor's at the sermon.
“Wae's me, the auld fouk that were in Burnbrae, an' Hillocks, an' Whinny Knowe are a' dead and buried, ma ain father an' mother wi' the lave, an' their bairns are makin' ready tae follow them, an' sune the 'ill be anither generation in oor places.”
He paused, but Maclure knew he had not finished.
“That's no the warst o't, for naebody wants tae live ower lang, till he be cripple an' dottle (crazy.) A' wud raither gang as sune as a' cudna manage masel, but... we hev nae word o' them. They've said gude-bye, and gane oot o' the Glen, an' fouk say they 're in the land o' the leal. It 's a bonny song, an' a' dinna like onybody tae see me when it's sung, but... wha kens for certain... aboot that land?”
Still Maclure made no sign.
“The sun 'ill come up frae Strathmore, and set abune Glen Urtach, an' the Tochty 'ill rin as it dis this nicht, an' the 'ill be fouk sowin' the seed in spring and githerin' in the corn in hairst, an' a congregation in the kirk, but we 'ill be awa an'... Weelum, wull that be... the end o' us?” And there was such a tone in Drumsheugh's voice that the dog whined and licked his hand.
“No, Drumsheugh, it 'ill no be the end,” said the doctor in a low, quiet voice, that hardly sounded like his own. “A've often thocht it's mair like the beginnin'. Oor forbears are oot o' sicht, an' a' wudna want tae hae them back, but nae man 'ill ever gar me believe the kirkyaird hauds Drumtochty.
“Na, na, a've watched the Glen for mony a year, an' the maist hertsome sicht a' hae seen is the makin' o' men an' weemen. They're juist thochtless bairns tae begin wi', as we were oorsels, but they 're no dune wi' schule aifter they leave Domsie.
“Wark comes first, and fechtin' awa wi' oor cauld land and wringin' eneuch oot o't tae pay for rent and livin' pits smeddum (spirit) into a man. Syne comes luve tae maist o's, an' teaches some selfish, shallow cratur tae play the man for a wumman's sake; an' laist comes sorrow, that gars the loudest o's tae haud his peace.
“It's a lang schulin', but it hes dune its wark weel in Drumtochty. A'm no sayin' oor fouk are clever or that they haena fauts, but a'm prood to hev been born and lived ma days in the Glen. A' dinna believe there's a leear amang us—except maybe Milton, an' he cam frae Muirtown—nor a cooard wha wudna mak his hand keep his head; nor a wastrel, when Charlie Grant's in Ameriky; nor a hard-herted wratch 'at wudna help his neebur.
“It's a rouch schule the Glen, an' sae wes puir Domsie's; but, sall, he sent oot lads 'at did us credit in the warld, an' a 'm judging Drumsheugh, that the scholars that gied oot o' the Glen the ither road 'ill hae their chance tae, an' pit naebody tae shame. Ye ken a' hevna hed muckle time for releegion, but a body gies a thocht tae the ither warld at a time, an' that's ma ain mind.”
“Ye're maybe no far wrang, Weelum; it soonds wise like, but... ye canna be sure.”
“A've seen fouk 'at were sure,” said the doctor, “an' a 'm thankfu' that a' kent auld Burnbrae. He wes a strict man, an' mony a lecture he gied me aboot gaein' tae kirk an' usin' better langidge, but a' tell ye, he wes the richt sort; nae peetifu' chaff o' heepocrisy aboot him.
“A' wes wi' him at his deith,...”
“Did ye see onything?” Drumsheugh leaned forward and spoke in a whisper.
“A' saw naething but a gude man gaein' oot on his lang journey, an' a' want tae see nae graunder sicht.
“He wesna conscious, an' his wife, puir wumman, wes murnin' that she wudna get a last look, an' John, him 'at 's Burnbrae noo, wes distressed for his mither's sake.
“'Say the name,' for a' wes holdin' his head, 'an' he 'ill hear;' but a' cudna; it wesna for my tongue.
“So he said it into his father's ear, an' Burnbrae opened his eyes, and githered them a' in a smile, an' a' heard twa words.
“'No evil.' He wes past sayin' fear.... Drumsheugh, a' wud... tak ma chance the nicht wi' auld Burnbrae.”
“Ma mither didna ken us for the laist twa days,” and Drumsheugh rested his head on his hands.
“Ye mind the bit lassiky”—Maclure would tell all when he was at it—“that lived wi' Mary Robertson and Jamie Soutar made sic a wark aboot, for her mither wes dead; she wes chokin' wi' her tribble, an' a' took her on ma knee, for Daisy and me were aye.
“'Am a' gaein' tae dee the day?' she said, an' a' cud not tell a lee lookin' intae yon een.'
“'Ye're no feared, dautie, 'a' said; 'ye 'ill sune be hame.'
“'Haud me ticht, then, Docksie '—that wes her name for me—' an' mither 'ill tak me oot o' yir airms. '... The Almichty wud see the wee lassie wesna pit tae shame, or else... that's no His name.
“The wind's doon,” and the doctor hurried over to the window, “an' the mune is shinin' clear an' sweet; a 'll need tae be aff, an' a 'll hae the licht instead o' the drift aifter a', Drumsheugh.”
Nothing passed between them till they came to the main road, and the doctor said goodnight.
Then Drumsheugh stood close in to the saddle, and adjusted a stirrup leather.
“You an' me are no like Burnbrae and the bairnie, Weelum; a'm feared at times aboot... the home comin'.”
“A' dinna wunner, Drumsheugh, a'm often the same masel; we 're baith truant laddies, chief, and maybe we 'ill get oor paiks, an' it 'ill dae us gude. But be that as it may, we maun juist risk it, an' a'm houpin' the Almichty 'ill no be waur tae us than oor mither when the sun gaes doon and the nicht wind sweeps ower the hill.”
When Leezabeth brought word that Dr. Mac-lure had ridden into the “close,” Drumsheugh knew for what end he had come, but it was characteristic of Drumtochty that after they had exhausted local affairs, he should be stricken dumb and stare into the fire with averted face. For a space the doctor sat silent, because we respected one another's souls in the Glen, and understood the agony of serious speech, but at last he judged it right to give assistance.
“Ye said laist nicht that ye hed something tae say.”
“A'm comin' tae't; juist gie me twa meenuts mair.” But it was ten before Drumsheugh opened his mouth, although he arranged himself in his chair and made as though he would speak three times.
“Weelum,” he said at last, and then he stopped, for his courage had failed.
“A 'm hearin', Drum; tak yir ain time; the fire 's needin' mendin',” and the light, blazing up suddenly, showed another Drumsheugh than was known on Muirtown market.
“It's no easy, Weelum, tae say onything that gangs deeper than the weather an' cattle beasts.” Drumsheugh passed his hand across his forehead, and Maclure's pity was stirred.
“Gin ye hae dune onything wrang, an' ye want tae relieve yir mind, ye may lippen tae me, Drumsheugh, though it titch yir life. A' can haud ma tongue, an' a 'm a leal man.
“A' thocht it wesna that,” as Drumsheugh shook his head; “a'm jidgin' that ye hae a sorrow the Glen disna ken, and wud like an auld freend tae feel the wecht o't wi' ye.”
Drumsheugh looked as if that was nearer the mark, but still he was silent.
“A', ken what ye're feelin' for a' cudna speak masel,” and then he added, at the sight of his friend's face, “Dinna gar yirsel speak against yir wull. We 'ill say naethin' mair aboot it.... Did ye hear o' Hillocks coupin' intae the drift till there wes naethin' seen but his heels, and Gormack sayin', 'Whar are ye aff tae noo, Hillocks?'”
“A' maun speak,” burst out Drumsheugh; “a've carried ma tribble for mair than thirty year, and cud hae borne it till the end, but ae thing a' canna stand, an' that is, that aither you or me dee afore a've cleared ma name.”
“Yir name?” and the doctor regarded Drumsheugh with amazement.
“Ay, ma character; a've naethin' else, Weelum, naither wife nor bairns, so a'm jealous o't, though fouk michtna think it.
“Noo, gin onybody in Muirtown askit ma certeeficat o' a Drumtochty neebur, gie me his answer,” and Drumsheugh turned suddenly on Maclure, who was much confused.
“Nae Drumtochty man wud say ony ill o' ye; he daurna, for ye've gien him nae occasion, an' ye surely ken that yirsel withoot askin'.” But Drumsheugh was still waiting.
“He micht say that ye were juist a wee,” and then he broke off, “but what need ye care for the havers of a market? fouk 'ill hae their joke.”
“Ye said a wee; what is't, Weelum?” and the doctor saw there was to be no escape.
“Weel, they micht maybe sayin' behind yir back, Drum, what some o' them wud say tae yir face, meanin' nae evil, ye ken, that ye were... carefu', in fact, an'... keen aboot the bawbees. Naethin' mair nor worse than that, as a 'm sittin' here.”
“Naethin' mair, said ye?” Drumsheugh spoke with much bitterness—“an' is yon little?
“Carefu';' ye 've a gude-hearted man, Weelum; miser's nearer it, a 'm dootin', a wratch that 'ill hae the laist penny in a bargain, and no spend a saxpence gin he can keep it.”
Maclure saw it was not a time to speak.
“They 've hed mony a lauch in the train ower ma tigs wi' the dealers, an' some o' them wud hae like tae hev cam aff as weel—a cratur like Milton; but what dis Burnbrae, 'at coonted his verra livin' less than his principles, or auld Domsie, that's dead an' gane noo, 'at wud hae spent his laist shillin' sendin' a laddie tae the College—he gied it tae me aince het, like the man he wes—or the minister, wha wud dee raither than condescend tae a meanness, or what can... Marget Hoo think o' me?” and the wail in Drumsheugh's voice went to the heart of Maclure.
“Dinna tak on like this, Drum; it's waesome tae hear ye, an' it 's clean havers ye 're speakin' the nicht. Didna Domsie get mony a note frae ye for his college laddies?—a 've heard him on't—an' it wes you 'at paid Geordie Hoo's fees, an' wha wes't brocht Sir George an' savit Annie Mitchell's life—?”
“That didna cost me muckle in the end, sin' it wes your daein' an' no mine; an' as for the bit fees for the puir scholars, they were naethin' ava.
“Na, na, Weelum, it 'ill no dae. A' ken the hert o' ye weel, and ye 'ill stan' by yir freend through fair and foul; but a'm gaein' tae clear things up aince for a'; a 'll never gang through this again.
“It's no the Glen a'm thinkin' aboot the nicht; a' wud like tae hae their gude opinion, an' a 'm no what they 're considerin' me, but a' canna gie them the facts o' the case, an'... a' maun juist dee as a' hev lived.
“What cuts me tae the hert is that the twa fouk a' luve sud hae reason to jidge me a miser; ane o' them wull never ken her mistake, but a 'll pit masel richt wi' the ither. Weelum, for what div ye think a've been scrapin' for a' thae years?”
“Weel, gin ye wull hae ma mind,” said the doctor slowly, “a' believed ye hed been crossed in luve, for ye telt me as much yersel....”
“Ye 're richt, Weelum; a 'll tell ye mair the nicht; gang on.”
“It cam tae ma mind that ye turned tae bargainin' an' savin', no for greed—a' kent there wes nae greed in ye; div ye suppose a' cudna tell the differ atween ma freend an' Milton?—but for a troke tae keep yir mind aff... aff yir sorrow.”
“Thank ye, Weelum, thank ye kindly, but it wesna even on accoont o' that a've lived barer than ony plooman for the best part o' ma life; a' tell ye, beyond the stockin' on ma fairm a'm no worth twa hunder pund this nicht.
“It wes for anither a' githered, an' as fast as I got the gear a' gied it awa,” and Drumsheugh sprang to his feet, his eyes shining; “it wes for luve's sake a' haggled an' schemed an' stairved an' toiled till a've been a byword at kirk and market for nearness; a' did it a' an' bore it a' for ma luve, an' for... ma luve a' wud hae dune ten times mair.
“Did ye ken wha it wes, Weelum?”
“Ye never mentioned her name, but a' jaloosed, an' there's nane like her in the Glen—”
“No, nor in braid Scotland for me! She 'ill aye be the bonniest as weel as the noblest o' weemen in ma een till they be stickit in deith. But ye never saw Marget in her bloom, when the blossom wes on the tree, for a' mind ye were awa in Edinburgh thae years, learning yir business.
“A' left the schule afore she cam, an' the first time a' ever kent Marget richt wes the day she settled wi' her mither in the cottar's hoose on Drumsheugh, an' she 's hed ma hert sin' that 'oor.
“It wesna her winsome face nor her gentle ways that drew me, Weelum; it wes... her soul, the gudeness 'at lookit oot on the warld through yon grey een, sae serious, thochtfu', kindly.
“Nae man cud say a rouch word or hae a ill thocht in her presence; she made ye better juist tae hear her speak an' stan' aside her at the wark. 'A' hardly ever spoke tae her for the three year she wes wi's, an' a said na word o' luve. A' houpit some day tae win her, an' a' wes mair than content tae hae her near me. Thae years were bitter tae me aifterwards, but, man, a' wudna be withoot them noo; they 're a' the time a' ever hed wi' Marget.
“A'm a-wearyin' ye, Weelum, wi' what can be little mair than havers tae anither man.” But at the look on the doctor's face, he added, “A 'll tell ye a' then, an'... a 'll never mention her name again. Ye 're the only man ever heard me say 'Marget' like this.
“Weelum, a' wes a man thae days, an' thochts cam tae me 'at gared the hert leap in ma breist, and ma blude rin like the Tochty in spate. When a' drave the scythe through the corn in hairst, and Marget lifted the gowden swathe ahint me, a' said, 'This is hoo a 'll toil an' fecht for her a' the days o' oor life an' when she gied me the sheaves at the mill for the threshin', 'This is hoo she 'ill bring a' guid things tae ma hame.'
“Aince her hand touched mine—a' see a withered forget-me-not among the aits this meenut—an'... that wes the only time a' ever hed her hand in mine... a' hoddit the floor, an', Weelum, a' hev it tae this day.
“There's a stile on the road tae the hill, an' a hawthorn-trec at the side o 't; it wes there she met ae sweet simmer evenin', when the corn wes turnin' yellow, an' telt me they wud be leavin' their hoose at Martinmas. Her face hed a licht on it a' hed never seen. 'A 'm tae be marriet,' she said, 'tae William Howe.
“Puir lad, puir lad, aifter a' yir houps; did ye lat her ken?”
“Na, na; it wes ower late, an' wud only hae vexed her. Howe and her hed been bairns thegither, an' a 've heard he wes kind tae her father when he wes sober (weakly), an' so... he got her hert. A' cudna hae changed her, but a' micht hae made her meeserable.
“A' leaned ower that stile for twa lang oors. Mony a time a 've been there sin' then, by nicht and day. Hoo the Glen wud lauch, for a 'm no the man they see. A' saw the sun gae doon that nicht, an' a' felt the darkness fa' on me, an' a' kent the licht hed gane oot o' ma life for ever.”
“Ye carried yersel like a man, though,” and the doctor's voice was full of pride, “but ye 've hed a sair battle, Drum, an' nae man tae say weel dune.”
“Dinna speak that wy, Weelum, for a 'm no say gude as ye 're thinkin'; frae that oor tae Geordie's illness a never spak ae word o' kindness tae Marget, an' gin hatred wud hae killed him, she wud hae lost her bridegroom.
“Gude forgie me,” and the drops stood on Drumsheugh's forehead. “When Hoo cudna pay, and he wes tae be turned oot of Whinnie Knowe, a' lauched tae masel, though there isna a kinder, simpler heart in the Glen than puir Whinnie's. There maun be some truth in thae auld stories aboot a deevil; he hed an awfu' grup o' me the end o' that year.
“But a' never hatit her; a' think a've luvit her mair every year; and when a' thocht o' her trachlin' in some bit hoosie as a plooman's wife, wha wes fit for a castle, ma hert wes melted.
“Gin she hed gien me her luve, wha never knew a' wantit it, a' wud hae spilt ma blude afore ye felt care, an' though ye sees me naethin' but a cankered, contrackit, auld carle this day, a' wud hae made her happy aince, Weelum. A' wes different when a' wes young,” and Drumsheugh appealed to his friend.
“Dinna misca' yersel tae me, Drum; it's nae use,” said the doctor, with a shaky voice.
“Weel, it wesna tae be,” resumed Drumsheugh after a little; “a' cudna be her man, but it seemed tae me ae day that a' micht work for Marget a' the same, an' naebody wud ken. So a' gied intae Muirtown an' got a writer—”
The doctor sprang to his feet in such excitement as was hardly known in Drumtochty.
“What a fule ye 've made o' the Glen, Drumsheugh, and what a heepocrite ye 've been. It wes you then that sent hame the money frae Ameriky 'at cleared Whinnie's feet and set Marget and him up bien (plentiful) like on their merrid,” and then Maclure could do the rest for himself without assistance.
“It wud be you tae 'at started Whinnie again aifter the Pleuro took his cattle, for he wes aye an unlucky wratch, an' if it wesna you that deed oot in New York and sa vit him five years ago, when the stupid body pit his name tae Piggie's bill. It's you 'at wes Whinnie's far-awa' cousin, wha hed gotten rich and sent hame help through the lawyer, an' naebody suspeckit onything.
“Drumsheugh”—and the doctor, who had been finding the room too small for him, came to a halt opposite his friend—“ye 're the maist accomplished leear 'at 's ever been born in Drumtochty, an'... the best man a' ever saw. Eh, Drum,” and Maclure's voice sank, “hoo little we kent ye. It's an awfu' peety Domsie didna hear o' this afore he slippit awa'; a' can see him straichtenin' himsel at the story. Jamie Soutar 'ill be michty when he gets a haudo't....”
Twice Drumsheugh had tried to interrupt Maclure and failed, but now he brought his hand down upon the table.
“Wud ye daur, Weelum, tae mention ae word a' hae telt ye ootside this room? gin a' thocht he wes the man-” And Drumsheugh's face was blazing.
“Quiet, man, quiet! Ye ken a' wudna with-oot yir wull; but juist ae man, Jamie Soutar. Ye 'ill lat me share 't wi' Jamie.”
“No even Jamie; an' a'm ashamed tae hae telt yersel, for it looks like boastin'; an' aifter a' it wes a bit o' comfort tae me in ma cauldrife life.
“It's been a gey lang trial, Weelum; ye canna think what it wes tae see her sittin' in the kirk ilka Sabbath wi' her man, tae follow her face in the Psalms, tae catch her een in the Saicrament, an' tae ken that a' never wud say 'Marget' tae her in luve.
“For thirty year an' mair a 've studied her, an' seen her broon hair that wes like gowd in the sunlight turn grey, and care score lines on her face, b'it every year she 's comelier in ma een.
“Whinnie telt us his tribble aboot the bill in the kirkyard, an' a' saw the marks o 't in her look. There wes a tear ran doon her cheek in the prayer, an' a'... cud hae grat wi' her, an' then ma hert loupit wi' joy, for a' thocht there 'll be nae tear next Sabbath.
“Whinnie got the siller frae his... cousin, ye ken, through the week, an' settled his debt on Friday. A' met him on the street, an' made him buy a silk goon for Marget:... a' gied wi' him tae choose it, for he's little jidgment, Whinnie.”
“A' wes in the train that day masel,” broke in the doctor, “an' a' mind Hillocks daffin' wi' ye that nae wumman cud get a goon oot o' you. Sic fuies an' waur.”
“A' didna mind that, no ae straw, Weelum, for Marget wes ten year younger next Sabbath, an' she wore ma goon on the Saicrament. A' kent what bocht it, an' that was eneuch for me.
“It didna maitter what the Glen said, but ae thing gied tae ma hert, an' thet wes Marget's thocht o' me... but a' daurna clear masel.
“We were stannin' thegither ae Sabbath”—Drumsheugh spoke as one giving a painful memory, on which he had often brooded—“an' gaein' ower the market, an' Hillocks says, 'A' dinna ken the man or wumman 'at 'ill get a bawbee oot o' you, Drumsheugh. Ye 're the hardest lad in ten parishes.'
“Marget passed that meenut tae the kirk, an'... a' saw her look. Na, it wesna scorn, nor peety; it wes sorrow.... This wes a bien hoose in the auld day when she wes on the fairm, an' she wes wae tae see sic a change in me. A' hed tae borrow the money through the lawyer, ye ken, an' it wes a fecht payin' it wi' interest. Aye, but it wes a pleesure tae, a' that a'll ever hev, Weelum....”
“Did ye never want tae... tell her?” and the doctor looked curiously at Drumsheugh.
“Juist aince, Weelum, in her gairden, an' the day Geordie deed. Marget thankit me for the college fees and bit expenses a' hed paid. 'A father cudna hae been kinder tae ma laddie,' she said, an' she laid her hand on ma airm. 'Ye 're a gude man, a' see it clear this day, an'... ma hert is... warm tae ye,' A' ran oot o' the gairden. A' micht hae broken doon. Oh, gin Geordie hed been ma ain laddie an' Marget... ma wife.”
Maclure waited a little, and then he quietly left, but first he laid his hand on his friend's shoulder to show that he understood.
After he had gone, Drumsheugh opened his desk and took out a withered flower. He pressed it twice to his lips, and each time he said Marget with a sob that rent his heart. It was the forget-me-not.
People tell us that if you commit a secret to a dweller in the city, and exact pledges of faithfulness, the confidence will be proclaimed on the housetops within twenty-four hours, and yet, that no charge of treachery can be brought against your friend. He has simply succumbed to the conflict between the habit of free trade in speech and the sudden embargo on one article. Secret was engraved on his face and oozed from the skirts of his garments, so that every conversational detective saw at a glance that the man was carrying treasure, and seized it at his will.
When one told a secret thing to his neighbour in Drumtochty, it did not make a ripple on the hearer's face, and it disappeared as into a deep well. “Ay, ay” was absolutely necessary as an assurance of attention, and the farthest expression of surprise did not go beyond, “That wesna chancy.” Whether a Drumrecesses of his mind, no one can tell, but when Jamie Soutar, after an hour's silence, one evening withdrew his pipe and said “Sall” with marked emphasis, it occurred to me that he may have been digesting an event. Perhaps the law of silence was never broken except once, but that was on a royal scale, when William Maclure indirectly let out the romance of Drumsheugh's love to Marget Howe, and afterwards was forgiven by his friend.
Marget had come to visit the doctor about a month before he died, bearing gifts, and after a while their conversation turned to George.
“Dinna speak aboot ma traivellin' tae see ye,” Marget said; “there's no a body in the Glen but is behaddit tae ye, an' a' can never forget what ye did for ma laddie yon lang summer-time.”
“A' did naethin,' an' nae man can dae muckle in that waesome tribble. It aye taks the cleverest laddies an' the bonniest lassies; but a' never hed a heavier hert than when a' saw tochty man ever turned over secrets in the Geordie's face that aifternoon. There's ane fechtin' decline.”
“Ye mak ower little o' yir help, doctor; it wes you 'at savit him frae pain an' keepit his mind clear. Withoot you he cudna workit on tae the end or seen his freends. A' the Glen cam up tae speir for him, and say a cheery word tae their scholar.
“Did a' ever tell ye that Posty wud gang roond a gude half mile oot o' his road gin he hed a letter for Geordie juist tae pit it in his hands himsel? and Posty 's a better man sin then; but wha div ye think wes kindest aifter Domsie an' yersel?”
“Wha wes't?” but Maclure lifted his head, as if he had already heard the name.
“Ay, ye 're richt,” answering the look of his friend, “Drumsheugh it wes, an' a' that simmer he wes sae gentle and thochtfu' the Glen wudna hae kent him in oor gairden.
“Ye've seen him there yersel, but wud ye believe't, he cam three times a week, and never empty-handed. Ae day it wud be some tasty bit frae Muirtown tae gar Geordie eat, another it wud be a buke the laddie had wantit tae buy at College, an' a month afore Geordie left us, if Drumsheugh didna come up ae Saturday wi' a parcel he had gotten a' the way frae London.
“'Whatna place is this, Geordie?' an' he taks aff the cover an' holds up the picture. It wud hae dune ye gude tae hae seen the licht in the laddie's een. 'Athens,' he cried, an' then he reached oot his white hand tae Drumsheugh, but naethin' wes said.
“They were at it the hale forenoon, Geordie showin' the Temple the Greeks set up tae Wisdom, an' the theatre in the shadow of the hill whar the Greek prophets preached their sermons; an' as a' gied oot an' in, Geordie wud read a bonnie bit, and Domsie himsel cudna hae been mair interested than Drumsheugh. The deein' scholar an' the auld fairmer....”
“Ay, ay,” said Maclure..
“Ae story Geordie telt me never ran dry wi' Drumsheugh, an' he aye askit tae hear it as a treat till the laddie grew ower sober—aboot twa lovers in the auld days, that were divided by an airm o' the sea, whar the water ran in a constant spate, and the lad hed tae sweem across tae see his lass. She held a licht on high tae guide him, an' at the sicht o't he cared naethin' for the danger; but ae nicht the cauld, peetiless water gied ower his head, and her torch burned oot. Puir faithfu' lass, she flung hersel into the black flood, and deith jined them where there's nae partin'.”
“He likit that, did he?” said Maclure, with a tone in his voice, and looking at Marget curiously.
“Best o' a' the ancient things George gied him in the gairden, an' ae day he nearly grat, but it wesna for their deith.
“'Na, na,' he said tae George, 'a' coont him happy, for he hed a reward for the black crossin'; laddie, mony a man wud be wullin' tae dee gin he wes luved. What think ye o' a man fechtin' through the ford a' his life wi' nae kindly licht?'
“Geordie wes wae for him, an' telt me in the gloamin', an' it set me thinkin'. Cud it be that puir Drumsheugh micht hae luved an' been refused, an' naebody kent o't? Nane but the Almichty sees the sorrow in ilka hert, an' them 'at suffers maist says least.
“It cam tae me that he must hae luved, for he wes that conseederate wi' Geordie, sae wum-manlike in his manner wi' the pillows and shawls, sae wilie in findin' oot what wud please the laddie; he learned yon in anither place than Muirtown Market. Did ye... ever hear onything, doctor? It 's no for clashin' (gossip) a' wud ask, but for peety an' his gudeness tae ma bairn.”
“Is't likely he wud tell ony man, even though he be his freend?” and Maclure fenced bravely, “did ye hear naethin' in the auld days when ye wes on Drumsheugh?”
“No a whisper; he wes never in the mooth o' the Glen, an' he wesna the same then; he wes quiet and couthy, ceevil tae a' the workin' fouk; there wes nae meanness in Drumsheugh in thae days. A've often thocht nae man in a' the Glen wud hae made a better husband tae some gude wumman than that Drumsheugh. It passes me hoo he turned sae hard and near for thirty years. But dinna ye think the rael Drumsheugh hes come oot again?”
The doctor seemed to be restraining speech.
“He's no an ordinary man, whatever the Glen may think,” and Marget seemed to be meditating. “Noo he wudna enter the hoose, an' he wes that agitat that aince when a' brocht him his tea he let the cup drop on the graivel. Be sure there's twa fouk in every ane o 's—ae Drumsheugh 'at focht wi' the dealers an' lived like a miser, an' anither that gied the money for Tammas Mitchell's wife an' nursit ma laddie.”
Maclure would have been sadly tried in any case, but it was only a week ago Drumsheugh had made his confession. Besides, he was near the end, and his heart was jealous for his friend. It seemed the worse treachery to be silent.
“There 's juist ae Drumsheugh, Marget Hoo, as ye 're a leevin' wumman, him ye saw in the gairden, wha wud hae denied himsel a meal o' meat tae get thae pictures for yir... for Geordie.
“The Glen disna ken Drumsheugh, and never wull this side o' the grave,” and the doctor's voice was ringing with passion, and something like tears were in his eyes; “but gin there be a jidgment an'... books be opened, the 'ill be ane for Drumtochty, and the bravest page in it 'ill be Drumsheugh's.
“Ye 're astonished, an' it's nae wunder”—for the look in Marget's grey eyes demanded more—“but what a' say is true. It hes never been for himsel he's pinched an' bargained; it wes for... for a freend he wantit tae help, an' that wes aye in tribble. He thocht 'at it micht... hurt his freend's feelin's and pit him tae shame in his pairish gin it were kent, so he took the shame himsel. A' daurna tell ye mair, for it wud be brakin' bonds at ween man and man, but ye 've herd eneuch tae clear Drumsheugh's name wi' ae wumman.”
“Mair than cleared, doctor,” and Marget's face glowed, “far mair, for ye 've shown me that the Sermon on the Mount is no a dead letter the day, an' ye 've lifted the clood frae a gude man. Noo a'll juist hae the rael Drumsheugh, Geordie's Drumsheugh,” and again Marget thanked Maclure afresh.
For the moment the heroism of the deed had carried her away, but as she went home the pity of it all came over her. For the best part of his life had this man been toiling and suffering, all that another might have comfort, and all this travail without the recompense of love. What patience, humility, tenderness, sacrifice lay in unsuspected people. How long?... Perhaps thirty years, and no one knew, and no one said, “Well done!” He had veiled his good deeds well, and accepted many a jest that must have cut him to the quick. Marget's heart began to warm to this unassuming man as it had not done even by George's chair.
The footpath from the doctor's to Whinnie Knowe passed along the front of the hill above the farm of Drumsheugh, and Marget came to the cottage where she had lived with her mother in the former time. It was empty, and she went into the kitchen. How home-like it had been in those days, and warm, even in winter, for Drumsheugh had made the wright board over the roof and put in new windows. Her mother was never weary speaking of his kindness, yet they were only working people. The snow had drifted down the wide chimney and lay in a heap on the hearth, and Marget shivered. The sorrow of life came upon her—the mother and the son now lying in the kirkyard. Then the blood rushed to her heart again, for love endures and triumphs. But sorrow without love... her thoughts returned to Drumsheugh, whose hearthstone was cold indeed. She was now looking down on his home, set in the midst of the snow. Its cheerlessness appealed to her—the grey sombre house where this man, with his wealth of love, lived alone. Was not that Drumsheugh himself crossing the laigh field, a black figure on the snow, with his dog behind him... going home where there was none to welcome him... thinking, perhaps, what might have been?... Suddenly Marget stopped and opened a gate.... Why should he not have company for once in his lonely life... if the woman he loved had been hard to him, why should not one woman whom he had not loved take her place for one half hour?
When Drumsheugh came round the corner of the farmhouse, looking old and sad, Marget was waiting, and was amazed at the swift change upon him.
“Ye didna expect me,” she said, coming to meet him with the rare smile that lingered round the sweet curves of her lips, “an' maybe it 's a leeberty a'm takin'; but ye ken kindness breaks a' barriers, an' for the sake o' Geordie a' cudna pass yir hoose this nicht withoot tellin' that ye were in ma hert.”
Drumsheugh had not one word to say, but he took her hand in both of his for an instant, and then, instead of going in by the kitchen, as all visitors were brought, save only the minister and Lord Kilspindie, he led Marget round to the front door with much ceremony. It was only in the lobby he found his tongue, and still he hesitated, as one overcome by some great occasion.
“Ye sud be in the parlour, Marget Hoo, but there 's no been a fire there for mony a year; wull ye come intae ma ain bit room?... A' wud like tae see ye there,” and Marget saw that he was trembling, as he placed her in a chair before the fire.
“Ye were aince in this room,” he said, and now he was looking at her wistfully; “div ye mind? it's lang syne.”
“It wes when a' cam' tae pay oor rent afore we flitted, and ye hed tae seek for change, an' a' thocht ye were angry at oor leavin'.”
“No angry, na, na, a' wesna angry... it took me half an oor tae find some siller, an' a' the time ye were sittin' in that verra chair... that wes the Martinmas ma mither deed... ye 'ill no leave withoot yir tea.”
After he had gone to tell Leezbeth of his guest, Marget looked round the room, with its worn furniture, its bareness and its comfortlessness. This was all he had to come to on a Friday night when he returned from market; out and in here he would go till he died. One touch of tenderness there was in the room, a portrait of his mother above the mantelpiece, and Marget rose to look at it, for she had known her, a woman of deep and silent affection. A letter was lying open below the picture, and this title, printed in clear type at the head, caught Marget's eye: