“It's possible that she didna ken ane. An' what cam o' her cough?”
“It was too dreadful, and they ought not to have taken me to the room. I could not sleep all night. Grant had broken a blood-vessel, and they thought she was dying.”
“Is Lily deid?” demanded Jamie.
“Oh no; how could you fancy such a thing? But our doctor said it was a very bad case, and that she could not live above a week. We were desolated to part with her, but of course she could not remain,—I mean, we knew she would receive more attention in a hospital. So you understand——”
“A' dae,” broke in Jamie, “fine; Lily workit for you an' yir bairns in a time o' need till a' the strength she brocht wi' her wes gane, an' then, when she wes like tae dee, ye turned her oot as ye wudna hae dune wi' ane o' yir horses. Ye 've a graund hoose an' cairry a high heid, but ye 've a puir, meeserable cratur, no worthy to be compared wi' the lass ye hev dune tae deith.”
“You have no right——” but Jamie's eyes went through her and she fell away; “she can—have her wages for—two months.”
“No one penny o' yir siller wull she touch beyond her lawful due; gie me the name o' the hospital, an' a 'll tak care o' oor puir lass ma-sel.”
When Jamie was told at the hospital that Lily had been taken away again in the ambulance next day to the house of the visiting physician, his wrath had no restraint.
“Is there nae place in this ceety whar a freendless lassie can rest till she gaes tae her laist hame?” and Jamie set off for the physician, refusing to hear any explanation.
“Hev a' an appointment wi' Sir Andra? Yes, a' hev, an' for this verra meenut.” So again he got access, for the virile strength that was in him.
“We have done all we could for her, but she has only a day to live,” said Sir Andrew, a little man, with the manner of a great heart; “she will be glad to see you, for the lassie has been wearying for a sight of some kent face.”
“Ye 're Scotch,” said Jamie, as they went upstairs, softening and beginning to suspect that he might be mistaken about things for once in his life; “hoo did ye bring Lily tae yir ain hoose?”
“Never mind that just now,” said Sir Andrew. “Wait till I prepare Lily for your coming,” and Jamie owned the sudden tone of authority.'
“One of your old friends has come to see you, Lily”—Jamie noted how gentle and caressing was the voice—“but you must not speak above a whisper nor excite yourself. Just step into the next room, nurse.”
“Jamie,” and a flush of joy came over the pale, thin face, that he would hardly have recognised, “this is gude... o' ye... tae come sae far,... a' wes wantin'... tae see a Drumtochty face afore a'-” Then the tears choked her words.
“Ou ay,” began Jamie with deliberation. “You see a' wes up lookin' aifter some o' Drumsheugh's fat cattle that he sent aff tae the London market, so of course a' cudna be here withoot giein' ye a cry.
“It wes a ploy tae find ye, just like hide-an'-seek, but, ma certes, ye hev got a fine hame at laist,” and Jamie appraised the dainty bed, the soft carpet, the little table with ice and fruit and flowers, at their untold value of kindness.
“Div ye no ken, Jamie, that a'm——” But Lily still found the words hard to say at three-and-twenty.
“Ye mean that ye hevna been takin' care o' yirsel, an' a' can see that masel,” but he was looking everywhere except at Lily, who was waiting to catch his eye. “Ye 'ill need to gither yir strength again an' come back wi' me tae Drumtochty.
“Ye ken whar thae floors grew, Lily,” and
Jamie hastily produced his primroses; “a' thocht ye micht like a sicht o' them.”
“Doon ablow the Lodge in the Tochty woods.... whar the river taks a turn... an' the sun is shinin' bonnie noo... an' a birk stands abune the bank an' dips intae the water.”
“The verra place, a couthy corner whar the first primroses coom oot. Ye hevna forgot the auld Glen, Lily. Dinna greet, lassie, or Sir An-dra 'ill be angry. Ye may be sure he 'ill dae a' he can for ye.”
“He hes, Jamie, an' mair than a' can tell; a' wud like Grannie an'... the fouk tae ken hoo a 'ave been treated... as if a' wes a leddy, an' his ain blude.
“When they laid me in the bed at the hospital, an' a' githered that... it wudna be lang, an' awfu' longin' cam intae ma hert... for a quiet place tae... dee in.
“It was a graund airy room, an' everybody wes kind, an' a' hed a'thing ye cud wish for, but... it gied against ma nature tae... wi' a' thae strangers in the room; oor hooses are wee, but they 're oor ain.”
Jamie nodded; he appreciated the horror of dying in a public place.
“Sir Andra cam roond and heard the accoont, an' he saw me greetin'—a' cudna help it, Jamie,—an' he read ma name at the tap o' the bed.
“'You 're from my country,' he said, but he didna need tae tell me, for a' caught the soond in his voice, an' ma hert warmed; 'don't be cast down, Lily;' a' coontit it kind tae use ma name; 'we 'ill do all we can for you.'
“'A' ken a'm deein',' a' said, 'an' a'm no feared, but a' canna thole the thocht o' slippin' awa in a hospital; it wud hae been different at hame.'
“'Ye 'ill no want a hame here, Lily;' it wes braid Scotch noo, an' it never soonded sae sweet; “an', Jamie”—here the whisper was so low, Jamie had to bend his head—“a' saw the tears in his een.”
“Rest a wee, Lily; a 'm followin'; sae he took ye tae his ain hoose an' pit ye in the best room, an' they've waitit on ye as if ye were his ain dochter;... ye dinna need tae speak; a' wudna say but Sir Andra micht be a Christian o' the auld kind, a' mean, 'I was a stranger, and ye took Me in.'”
“Jamie,” whispered Lily, before he left, “there's juist ae thing hurtin' me a wee; it's the wy ma mistress... hes treated me. A' tried tae be faithfu', though maybe a' didna answer the bells sae quick the laist sax months,... an' a' thocht she micht... hae peetied a lone cratur mair.
“It's no that a' hev ony cause o' complaint aboot wages or keep—a' wes twice raised, Jamie, an' hed a'thing a' needed, an' a'm no hurt aboot bein' cairried tae the hospital, for there were five stairs tae ma room, an'... it wudna hae been handy tae wait on me.
“Na, na, Jamie, a'm no onreasonable, but... a' houpit she wud hae come tae see me or... sent a bit word; gin a body's sober (weak) like me, ye like tae be remembered; it... minds you o' the luve o' God, Jamie,” and Lily turned her face away. “A' wes prayin' tae see a Drumtochty face aince mair, an' a've gotten that, an' gin ma mistress hed juist said,... “Ye've dune as weel as ye cud,... a' wudna ask mair.”
“Ye hae't then, Lily,” said Jamie, takingan instant resolution, “for a've been tae see yir mistress, an' a' wes fair... ashamed the wy she spoke aboot ye, being Drumtochty masel, an' no' wantin' tae show pride.
“As sure 's a'm here, she cudna find words for her thochts o' ye; it wes naethin' but yir faithfulness an' yir gude wark, hoo a'body liket ye an' hoo gratefu' she wes to you. A' wes that affeckit that a' hed tae leave.
“What wud ye say, wumman, gin yon graund lady hes been twice a-day at the hospital speirin' for you, kerridge an' a', mind ye; but ye ken they 're terrible busy in thae places, an' canna aye get time tae cairry the messages.
“But that's no a',” for the glow on Lily's face was kindling Jamie's inspiration, and he saw no use for economy in a good work. “What think ye o' this for a luck-penny? twenty pund exact, an' a' in goud; it looks bonnie glintin' in the licht,” and Jamie emptied on the table the store of sovereigns he had brought from Muirtown bank, without shame.
“The mistress surely never sent that... tae me?” Lily whispered.
“Maybe a' pickit it up on the street; they think awa in the country the verra streets are goud here. 'Give her this from us all,' were her verra words,” said Jamie, whose conscience had abandoned the unequal struggle with his heart. “'Tell her that she's to get whatever she likes with it, and to go down to her home for a long holiday.'”
“Did ye thank her, Jamie? Nae man hes a better tongue.”
“Ma tongue never servit me better; sall, ye wud hae been astonished gin ye hed herd me,” with the emphasis of one who stood at last on the rock of truth.
“A'm rael content noo,” Lily said, “but a' canna speak mair, an' a've something tae say that 'ill no keep till the morn.” and Jamie promised to return that evening.
Jamie waited in the hall till the last of the famous physician's patients had gone; then he went in and said:
“When a' entered this hoose ma hert wes sair, for a' thocht a defenceless lassie hed been ill-used in her straits, an' noo a' wud like to apologeese for ma hot words. Ye've dune a gude work the day that's no for the like o' me to speak aboot, but it 'ill hae its reward frae the Father o' the fatherless.”
“Toots, man, what nonsense is this you 're talking?” said Sir Andrew; “you don't understand the situation. The fact is, I wanted to study Lily's case, and it was handier to have her in my house. Just medical selfishness, you know.”
“A' micht hae thocht o' that,” and the intelligence in Jamie's eye was so sympathetic that Sir Andrew quailed before it. “We hev a doctor in oor pairish that's yir verra marra (equal), aye practeesin' on the sick fouk, and for lookin' aifter himsel he passes belief.”
“Juist Weelum Maclure ower again,” Jamie meditated, as he went along the street. “London or Drumtochty, great physeecian or puir country doctor, there's no ane o' them tae mend anither for doonricht gudeness. There's naebody 'ill hae a chance wi' them at the latter end; an' for leein' tae, a' believe Sir Andra wud beat Weelum himsel.”
When Jamie returned, Lily had arranged her store of gold in little heaps, and began at once to give directions.
“Ye maun py ma debts first, ye ken, Jamie; a' cudna... leave, thinkin' thpit a' wes awin' a penny tae onybody. Grannie aye brocht us up tae live sae that we cud look a'body in the face, and exceptin' Chairlie....
“Twal shilling tae the shoemaker, an honest, well-daein' man; mony a time he's telt me aboot John Wesley: and a pund tae the dressmaker; it's no a' for masel; there wes anither Scotch lassie,... but that disna maitter. Cud ye pay thae accounts the nicht, for the dressmaker 'ill be needin' her money?... It wes ma tribble hindered me;... a' started ae day, an' the catch in ma side,... a' hed tae come back.
“Noo there 's ma kirk, an' we maunna forget it, for a 've been rael happy there; ma sittin' wes due the beginnin' o' the month, and a' aye gied ten shillings tae the missions; an', Jamie, they were speakin' o' presentin' the minister wi' some bit token o' respect aifter bein' twenty-five years here. Pit me doon for a pund—no ma name, ye ken; that wud be forward; juist... 'A gratefu' servant lass.'
“Ye 'ill get some bonnie hankerchief or siclike for the nurse; it wudna dae tae offer her siller; an' dinna forget the hoosemaid, for she's hed a sair trachle wi' me. As for Sir Andra,... naething can py him.
“Here's five pund, and ye 'ill gie't tae Grannie; she kens wha it's for; it 'ill juist feenish the debt...
“Ye can haud yir tongue, Jamie. Wull ye write a line tae Chairlie, an' say... that a' wes thinkin' o' him at the end, an' expectin' him tae be a credit tae his fouk... some day; an', Jamie, gin he ever come back in his richt mind tae the Glen, ye 'ill... no be hard on him like ye wes laist time?”
“Chairlie 'ill no want a freend gin a' be leevin', Lily; is that a'? for ye 're tirin' yersel.”
“There's ae thing mair, but a'm dootin' it's no richt o' me tae waste Grannie's siller on't, for a' wantit tae leave her somethin' wiselike;... but, O Jamie, a've taken a longin'... tae lie in Drumtochty kirkyaird wi' ma mither an' Grannie.
“A' ken it's a notion, but a' dinna like thae cemetairies wi' their gravel roadies, an' their big monuments, an' the croods o' careless fouk, an' the hooses pressin' on them frae every side.”
“A' promised Mary,” broke in Jamie, “that a' wud bring ye hame, an a 'll keep ma word, Lily; gin it be God's wull tae tak yir soul tae Himsel, yir body 'ill be laid wi' yir ain fouk,” and Jamie left hurriedly.
Next morning Sir Andrew and the minister were standing by Lily's bedside, and only looked at him when he joined them.
“Jamie,... thank ye a',... ower gude tae... a servant lass,... tell them... at hame.”
Each man bade her good-bye, and the minister said certain words which shall not be written.
“Thae... weary stairs,” and she breathed heavily for a time; then, with a sigh of relief, “A'm comin'.”
“Lily has reached the... landing,” said Sir Andrew, and as they went downstairs no man would have looked at his neighbour's face for a ransom.
“A' wrote that verra nicht tae Drumsheugh,” Jamie explained to our guard between the Junction and Kildrummie; “an a 'm no sure but he 'ill be doon himsel wi' a neebur or twa juist tae gie Lily a respectable funeral, for she hes nae man o' her bluide tae come.
“Div ye see onything, Peter?” Jamie was in a fever of anxiety; “the Kildrummie hearse stands heich, an' it sud be there, besides the mourners.”
“Kildrummie platform's black,” cried Peter from the footboard; “the 'ill be twal gin there be a man; ye stick by ane anither weel up the wy; it's no often a servant is brocht hame for beerial; a' dinna mind a case sin the line opened.”
While they went through Kildrummie, Jamie walked alone behind the hearse as chief mourner, with a jealously regulated space of five feet between him and the neighbours; but as soon as the pine woods had swallowed up the procession, he dropped behind, and was once more approachable.
“Ye 've had a time o 't,” said Hillocks, treating Jamie as an ordinary man again; “wha wud hae thocht this wes tae be the end o' yir London jaunt? Sall!” and Hillocks felt himself unable to grapple with the situation.
“This is juist naethin',” with vague allusion to the arrival by railway and the Kildrummie hearse; “no worth mentionin' wi' the beginnin' o' the beerial at the ither end,” and Jamie chose Whinnie's box, out of three offered, to brace him for descriptive narrative.
“Ye maun understand,” began Jamie, knowing that he had at least four miles before it would be necessary for him to resume his position of solitary dignity, “that as sune as Lily turned ill she was taken tae the hoose o' a great London doctor, an' Sir Andra waited on her himsel; there 's maybe no' anither o' his patients withoot a title; a' herd him speak o' a Duchess ae day.
“When it wes a' over, puir lassie, if they didna fecht tae py for the beerial. The minister threipit wi' me that he hed a fund at his kirk for sic objects, a sonsy man wi' a face that pit ye in mind o' hame to look at it, but a' saw through his fund; it 's fearsome hoo Scotch folk 'ill lee tae cover gude deeds.”
“Div ye think he wud hae py'd it oot o' his ain pocket?” interrupted Hillocks.
“'Na, na,' at' said tae the minister,' for Hillocks was beneath notice, 'ye maun lat her mistress bear the beerial '—twenty pund, as a'm on this road, she gied; 'a faithfu' servant, she 's tae want for nothing;' it wes handsome, an' 'ill be maist comfortin' tae Mary.
“Ye saw the coffin for yersels,” and Jamie now gave himself to details; “the London hearse hed gless sides and twa horses, then a mourning-coach wi' the minister an' me; but that's the least o 't. What think ye cam next?”
“Some o' the neeburs walkin' maybe,” suggested Whinnie.
“Walkin',” repeated Jamie, with much bitterness, as of one who despaired of Drumtochty, and saw no use in wasting his breath; “juist so: ye 've hed mair rain here than in England.”
“Never mind Whinnie, Jamie,” intervened Drumsheugh; “we maun hae the rest o' the funeral; wes there another coach?”
“What wud ye say,” and Jamie spoke with much solemnity, “tae a private kerridge, an' mair than ane? Ay, ye may look.” allowing himself some freedom of recollection. “Sir Andra's wes next tae the coach, wi' the blinds drawn doon, and aifter it an elder's frae her kirk. He heard o' Lily through the minister, an' naething wud sateesfy him but tae dae her sic honour as he cud.
“Gaein' roond the corners o' the streets—a' cudna help it, neeburs—a' juist took a glisk oot at the window, an' when a' saw the banker's horses wi' the silver harness, a' wushed ye hed been there; sic respect tae a Drumtochty lass.
“Ye saw the lilies on the coffin,” wound up Jamie, doing his best to maintain a chastened tone. “Did ye catch the writin'—
'In remembrance of Lily Grant,Who did her duty.'
Sir Andra's ain hand; an' Lily got nae mair than her due.”
When Jamie parted with Drumsheugh on the way home, and turned down the road to Mary's cottage, to give her the lilies and a full account of her lassie, Drumsheugh watched him till he disappeared.
“Thirty pund wes what he drew frae the Muirtown bank oot o' his savings, for the clerk telt me himsel, and naebody jalouses the trick. It 's the cleverest thing Jamie ever did, an' ane o' the best a've seen in Drumtochty.”
Drumtochty had a legitimate curiosity regarding the history of any new tenant, and Hillocks was invaluable on such occasion, being able to collect a complete biography during a casual conversation on the state of markets. No details of family or business were left out in the end, but there was an unwritten law of precedence, and Hillocks himself would not have condescended on the rent till he had satisfied himself as to the incomer's religion. Church connection was universal and unalterable in the Glen. When Lachlan Campbell had his argument with Carmichael, he still sat in his place in the Free Kirk, and although Peter Macintosh absented himself for a month from the Parish Kirk over the pew question, he was careful to explain to the doctor that he had not forgotten himself so far as to become a renegade.
“Na, na, a'm no coming back,” Peter had said after the doctor had done his best, “till ye 're dune wi' that stove, an' ye needna prig (plead) wi' me ony langer. What is the gude o' being a Presbyterian gin ye canna object? but a 'll give ye this sateesfaction, that though fa' dinna darken the kirk door for the lave o' ma life, a 'll no gang ony ither place.”
An immigrant was the only change in our church circles, and the kirkyard waited for the news of Milton's creed with appreciable interest.
“Weel, Hillocks?” inquired Drumsheugh, considering it unnecessary in the circumstances to define his question.
“Ou aye,” for Hillocks accepted his responsibility, “a' gied Tammas Bisset a cry laist Friday, him 'at hes the grocer's shop in the Sooth Street an' a' the news o' Muirtown, juist tae hear the price o' butter, and a' happened tae licht on Milton an' tae say he wud be an addee-tion tae oor kirk.”
“Did ye though?” cried Whinnie, in admiration of Hillocks's opening move; “that wes rael cannie, but hoo did ye ken?”
“'Gin he be a help tae Drumtochty Kirk,' says Tammas”—Hillocks never turned out of his way for Whinnie—“'it 's mair than he wes tae the Auld Kirk here in twenty year.'”
“The Free Kirk 'ill be pleased then,” broke in Whinnie, who was incorrigible; “they 'ill mak him a deacon: they're terrible for the Sustentation Fund.”
“'It's no lost, Tammas, that a freend gets,' says I,” continued Hillocks, “'an' we 'ill no grudge him tae the Free Kirk; na, na, we're no sae veecious that wy in the Glen as ye are in Muirtown. Ilka man sud hae his ain principle and py his debts.
“' He coonted the Free Kirk waur than the auld here, an' a'm thinkin' he's ower pleased wi' himself tae change up by; he 'ill show ye some new fashions, a'm judgin',' says Tammas.” And Hillocks ceased, that the fathers might face the prospect of a new religion.
“It 's no chancy,” observed Whinnie, collecting their mind.
“There wes a man doon Dunleith wy in ma father's time,” began Drumsheugh, ransacking ancient history for parallels, “'at wud hae naethin' tae dae wi' kirks. He preached himsel in the kitchen, an' bapteezed his faimily in the mill dam. They ca'd him a dookie (Baptist), but a 've heard there's mair than ae kind; what wud he be, Jamie?”
“Parteeklar Baptist,” replied that oracle; “he buried his wife in the stackyaird, an' opened vials for a year; gin Milton be o' that persuasion, it 'ill be a variety in the Glen; it 'ill keep's frae wearyin'.”
“The Dunleith man aye paid twenty shillings in the pund, at ony rate,” Drumsheugh wound up, “an' his word wi' a horse wes a warranty: a' dinna like orra releegions masel, but the 'll aye be some camsteary (unmanageable) craturs in the warld,” and the kirkyard tried to be hopeful.
Milton's first visit to the kirk was disappointing, and stretched Drumtochty's courtesy near unto the breaking. Hillocks, indeed, read Milton's future career in his conduct that day, and indulged in mournful prophecies at the smiddy next evening.
“Ye're richt eneuch, smith; that's juist what he did, an' a' took his measure that meenut. When he telt Drumsheugh that it wes nae time tae be speakin' o' hairst at the kirk door, an' offered us a bookie each, a' saw there wes somethin' far wrang wi' him. As sure as a'm stannin' here, he 'ill be a tribble in the pairish.
“The Milton seat is afore oors, an' a' saw a' he did, frae the beginnin' o' the sermon tae the end, an' a' tell ye his conduct wes scandalous. Ae meenut he wud shak his head at the doctor, as if he kent better than the verra minister; the next he wud be fleein' through his Bible aifter a text. He wes never at peace, naither sittin' nor standin'; he's juist an etter-cap. There's nae peace whar yon man is, a 'll warrant; a' never closed an ee laist Sabbath.”
It was into Jamie's hands Milton fell when he reviewed the sermon on the way home, and expressed his suspicion of ministers who selected texts on subjects like Mercy and Justice.
“We aye get that sermon aboot the latter end o' hairst, Milton, an' it's pop'lar; the fouk hae a great notion o' a gude life up here, an' they 're ill tae change. A'm no sayin' but ye 're richt, though, an' it 'ill be a help tae hae yir creeticism.
“Drumtochty is clean infatuat aboot the doctor, an' canna see onything wrang in him. He's been a' his days in the Glen, an' though he's no sae stirrin' as he micht be, the mischief o't is that he aye lives a' he preaches, an' the stupid bodies canna see the want.
“As for texts, the doctor 's nae doot aggravatin'; there's times a've wanted tae hae the Sermon on the Mount torn oot o' the Bible an' gude bits o' the Prophets; he's aye flingin' them in oor faces. Milton, a' tell ye,” and Jamie stood still on the road to give solemnity to his description of Doctor Davidson's defects, “if there's a moral text atween the boords o' the Bible, he 'ill hae a haud o 't.”
“A'm rael pleased tae hear sic soond views, Mister—”
“Soutar is ma name—Jamie maist commonly.”
“Soutar,” and Milton might be excused falling into the snare, “ye ken the difference atween a show o' warks an' the root o' the maitter. A' wes astonished at yir elder; when a' pointed oot the defects in the sermon, he said, 'Gin we dae a' the doctor telt us, we 'ill no be far wrang;' ye micht as weel be a heathen.'
“Drumsheugh is nae standard,” Jamie explained; “he's sae begottit (taken up) wi' the commandments that a'm feared o' him. He's clever at a bargain, but gin he thocht he hed cheatit onybody, Drumsheugh wudna sleep; it 's clean legalism.
“Ye micht try the Free Kirk, Milton; they 've a new man, an' he 's warmer than the doctor; he 's fund oot anither Isaiah, an' he's sae learned that he 'ill maybe hae twa Robbie Burns' yet; but that 's naither here nor there; he's young an' fu' o' speerit; gie him a trial,” Jamie discovered with much interest that Milton had been examining the Free Church, and had expressed his strong dissatisfaction, some said because of grossly erroneous doctrine, others because Carmichael had refused to allow him to preach. Doctrine was the ground he alleged to Jamie, who looked in to see how he had got settled and what he thought of things.
“A' peety this Glen,” he said, with solemnity; “ae place it 's cauld morality, an' the ither it's fause teaching. Div ye ken what a' heard wi' ma ain ears laist Sabbath frae Maister Carmichael?”
Jamie was understood to declare his conviction that a man who was not satisfied with one Isaiah might be capable of anything.
“Ye ken verra weel,” for Milton believed Jamie a kindred spirit at this stage, “that we 're a' here on probation, and that few are chosen, juist a handfu' here and there; no on accoont o' ony excellence in oorsels, so we maunna boast.”
“Verra comfortin' for the handfu',” murmured Jamie, his eyes fixed on the roof.
“Weel, gin yon young man didna declare in sae mony words that we were a' God's bairns, an' that He wes gaein' tae dae the best He cud wi' every ane o's. What think ye o' that?—nae difference atween the elect an' the ithers, nae preeveleges nor advantages; it's against baith scriptur an' reason.”
“He wes maybe mixin' up the Almichty wi' his ain father,” suggested Jamie; “a 've heard ignorant fouk say that a' the differ is that the Almichty is no waur than oor ain father, but oot o' a' sicht kinder. But whar wud ye be gin ye allooed the like o' that? half o' the doctrines wud hae tae be reformed,” and Jamie departed, full of condolence with Milton.
It was not wonderful after these trying experiences that Milton became a separatist, and edified himself and his household in his kitchen.
Perhaps the Glen might also be excused on their part for taking a somewhat severe view of this schismatic proceeding and being greatly stirred by a sermon of the doctor's—prepared especially for the occasion—in which the sin of Korah, Dathan, and Abiram was powerfully expounded, and Milton's corn room described as a “Plymouthistic hut.”
“Ma certes,” said Hillocks to Jamie on the way home, “the doctor's roosed. Yon wes an awfu' name he cam oot wi'; it's no verra cannie tae hae onything tae dae wi' thae preachin', paitterin' craturs.”
“There wes a sough through the pairish, Hillocks, that ye were ower by sittin' in the cauf-hoose (chaff-house) yersel laist week, an' that ye were extraordinar' ta'en up wi' Milton. Elspeth Macfadyen wes threipin' (insisting) that you an' Milton were thinkin' o' starting a new kirk. Miltonites wud be a graund name; a' dinna think it 's been used yet.”
“Elspeth's tongue's nae scannel.” Hillocks's curiosity had led him astray, and he was now much ashamed. “A' juist lookit in ae forenicht tae see what kin o' collie-shangie Milton wes cairryin' on, an' a' wes fair disgustit. He ran the hale time frae Daniel tae the Revelations, an' it wes a' aboot beasts frae beginnin' tae end. A rammelin' idiot, nae-thin' else,” and Hillocks offered up Milton as a sacrifice to the indignation of the Glen.
Shortly afterwards Hillocks began to make dark allusions that excited a distinct interest, and invested his conversation with a piquant flavour.
“It wes an ill day when his lordship lat yon man intae the pairish,” and he shook his head with an air of gloomy mystery. “A' wush a' saw him oot o 't withoot mischief. Oor fouk hev been weel brocht up, an' they 're no what ye wud ca' simple, but there s nae sayin'; weemen are easily carried.”
“Ay, ay,” said Jamie encouragingly.
“A'm telt,” continued Hillocks, “that the wratches are that cunnin' an' plausible they wud wile a bird aff a tree; they got intae a pairish in the Carse, and afore the year wes oot gin they didna whup aff three servant lassies tae Ameriky.”
“Div ye mean tae say that Milton...” and the fathers noticed how Jamie was guiding Hillocks to his point.
“Ye've said the word, Jamie, an' it's a gey like business for Drumtochty,” and it was known in twenty-four hours up as far as Glen Urtach that Hillocks had hunted Milton's religion to earth, and found him out to be a Morman.
This was considered one of Jamie's most successful efforts, and the Glen derived so much pure delight from the very sight of Milton for some weeks that he might have become popular had it not been for an amazing combination of qualities.
“His tracts are irritatin', an' no what we've been accustomed tae in Drumtochty”—Drums-heugh was giving judgment in the kirkyard—“but a' cud thole them. What a' canna pit up wi' is his whinin' an' leein'. A' never heard as muckle aboot conscience an' never saw sae little o't in this pairish.”
It was a tribute in its way to Milton that he alone of all men aroused the dislike of the kindest of parishes, so that men fled from before his face. Hillocks, who was never happy unless he had two extra on his dogcart, and unto that end only drew the line at tramps, would pass with a bare compliment on board, and drop the scantiest salutation.
“Hoo are ye the day, Milton? a' doot it's threatenin' a shoor.”
Drumsheugh had been known to disappear into a potato field at Milton's approach, under pretence of examining the tubers, while Bumbrae, who was incarnate charity, and prejudiced in favour of anything calling itself religion, abandoned this “professor” in regretful silence. Drumtochty was careful not to seat themselves in the third until Milton had taken his place, when they chose another compartment, until at last Peter used to put in this superior man with Kildrummie to avoid delay. It was long before Milton realised that Drumtochty did not consider his company a privilege, and then he was much lifted, seeing clearly the working of conscience in a benighted district.
“Milton hes been giein' oot in Muirtown that he's thankfu' he wes sent tae Drumtochty,” Jamie announced one Sabbath, with chastened delight, “an' that his example wes affectin' us already. 'They daurna face me in the verra train,' says he tae Tammas Bisset; 'it's the first time yon fouk ever came across a speeritual man. They're beginnin' tae revile, an' we ken what that means; a' never thocht a' wud hae the honour of persecution for righteousness' sake.' That 's his ain mind on't, an' it's a comfort tae think that Milton's contented.”
“A've kent anc or twa fair leears in ma time,” reflected Hillocks, “but for a bare-face—”
“Persecuted is a lairge word,” broke in Drumsheugh, “ay, an' a graund tae, an' no fit for Milton's mooth. Gin he named it tae me, a'd teach him anither story. A foumart (pole cat) micht as weel speak o' persecution when he's hunted aff the hillside.
“Na, na,” and Drumsheugh set himself to state the case once for all, “we 've oor faults maybe in Drumtochty,” going as far by way of concession as could be expected, “but we 're no juist born fules; we 've as muckle sense as the chuckies, 'at ken the differ atween corn an' chaff wi' a luke.”
Jamie indicated by a nod that Drumsheugh was on the track.
“Noo there's ane o' oor neeburs,” proceeding to illustration, “'at lectures against drink frae ae new year tae anither. He's a true man, an' he luves the Glen, an' naebody 'ill say an ill word o' Airchie Moncur—no in this kirk-yaird at ony rate.”
“A fine bit craiturie,” interjected Hillocks, whom Archie had often besought in vain to take the pledge for example's sake, being an elder.
“Weel,” resumed Drumsheugh, “there's anither neebur, an' a 'm telt that his prayer is little ahint the minister's at the Free Kirk meetin's, and a' believe it, for a gude life is bund tae yield a good prayer. Is there a man here that wudna be gled tae stand wi' Burnbrae in the Jidgment?”
“A'm intendin' tae keep as close as a' can masel,” said Jamie, and there was a general feeling that it would be a wise line.
“It's no Milton's preachin' Drumtochty disna like, but his leein', an' that Drumtochty canna abide. Nae man,” summed up Drumsheugh, “hes ony richt tae speak aboot re-leegion ye canna trust in the market.”
So it came to pass that Milton counted Drumtochty as an outcast place, because they did not speak about the affairs of the life to come, and Drumtochty would have nothing to do with Milton, because he was not straight in the affairs of the life which now is. Milton might have gone down to the grave condemning and condemned had it not been for his sore sickness, which brought him to the dust of death, and afforded Drumsheugh the opportunity for his most beneficent achievement.
“They think he may come roond wi' care,” reported Drumsheugh, “but he 'ill be wakely for twa month, an' he'ill never be the same man again; it's been a terrible whup.” But the kirkyard, for the first time in such circumstances, was not sympathetic.
“It's a mercy he's no been taken awa,” responded Hillocks, after a distinct pause, “an' it 'ill maybe be a warnin' tae him; he's no been unco freendly sin he cam intae the Glen, either wi' his tongue or his hands.”
“A'm no sayin' he hes, Hillocks, but it's no a time tae cuist up a man's fauts when he's in tribble, an' it's no the wy we've hed in Drumtochty. Milton's no fit tae meddle wi' ony-body noo, nor, for that maitter, tae manage his ain business. There's no mair than twa, acre seen the ploo; a'm dootin' the 'll be a puir sowin' time next spring at Milton.”
“Gin he hedna been sic a creetical an' ill-tongued body the Glen wud sune hae cleared up his stubble; div ye mind when Netherton lost his horses wi' the glanders, an' we jined an' did his plooin'? it wes a wise-like day's wark.”
“Yir hert's in the richt place,” said Drums-heugh, ignoring qualifications; “we'll haud a plooin' match at Milton, an' gie the cratur a helpin' hand. A'm willin' tae stand ae prize, an' Burnbrae 'ill no be behind; a' wudna say but Hillocks himsel micht come oot wi' a five shillin' bit.”
They helped Milton out of bed next Thursday, and he sat in silence at a gable window that commanded the bare fields. Twenty ploughs were cutting the stubble into brown ridges, and the crows followed the men as they guided the shares with stiff resisting body, while Drumsheugh could be seen going from field to field with authority.
“What's this for?” inquired Milton at length; “naebody askit them, an'... them an' me hevna been pack (friendly) thae laist twa years.”
“It's a love-darg,” said his wife, “because ye've been sober (ill), they juist want to show kindness, bein' oor neeburs. Drumsheugh, a' hear, set it agaein', but there's no a fairmer in the Glen hesna a hand in't wi' horses or sic-like.”
Milton made no remark, but he was thinking, and an hour before midday he called for his wife.
“It's rael gude o' them, an', wumman, it's mair than... a' wud hae dune for them. An', Eesie,... gither a'thing thegither ye can get, and gie the men a richt dinner, and bid Jeemes see that every horse hes a feed o' corn... a full ane; dinna spare onything the day.”
It was a point of honour on such occasions that food for man and beast should be brought with them, so that there be no charge on their neighbour, but Drumsheugh was none the less impressed by Milton's generous intentions. When he told Hillocks, who was acting as his aide-de-camp, that worthy exclaimed, “Michty,” and both Drumsheugh and Hillocks realised that a work of grace had begun in Milton.
He refused to lie down till the men and horses went out again to work, and indeed one could not see in its own way a more heartening sight. Pair by pair our best horses passed, each with their own ploughman, and in a certain order, beginning with Saunders, Drumsheugh's foreman, full of majesty at the head of the parish, and concluding with the pair of hardy little beasts that worked the uplands of Bogleigh. A fortnight had been spent on preparation, till every scrap of brass on the high-peaked collars and bridles glittered in the sunlight, and the coats of the horses were soft and shiny. The tramp of the horses' feet and the rattle of the plough chains rang out in the cold November air, which had just that touch of frost which makes the ground crisp for the ploughshare. The men upon the horses were the pick of the Glen for strength, and carried themselves with the air of those who had come to do a work. Drumsheugh was judge, and Saunders being therefore disqualified, the first prize went to young Burnbrae, the second to Netherton's man, and the third to Tammas Mitchell—who got seven and sixpence from Hillocks, and bought a shawl for Annie next Friday. Drumsheugh declared it was rig for rig the cleanest, quickest, straightest work he had seen in Drumtochty, and when the ploughs ceased there was not a yard of oat stubble left on Milton.
After the last horse had left and the farm was quiet again—no sign of the day save the squares of fresh brown earth—Drumsheugh went in alone—he had never before crossed the door—to inquire for Milton and carry the goodwill of the Glen. Milton had prided himself on his fluency, and had often amazed religious meetings, but now there was nothing audible but “gratefu'” and “humbled,” and Drumsheugh set himself to relieve the situation.
“Dinna mak sae muckle o 't man, as if we hed worked yir fairm for a year an' savit ye frae beggary. We kent ye didna need oor help, but we juist wantit tae be neeburly an' gie ye a lift tae health.
“A'body is pleased ye 're on the mend, and there's no ane o 's that wudna be prood tae dae ony troke for ye till ye 're able tae manage for yersel; a 'll come roond masel aince a week an gie a look ower the place.” Milton said not one word as Drumsheugh rose to go, but the grip of the white hand that shot out from below the bed-clothes was not unworthy of Drumtochty.
“Ye said, Hillocks, that Milton wes a graund speaker,” said Drumsheugh next Sabbath, “an' a' wes expectin' somethin' by ordinar on Thursday nicht, but he hedna sax words, an' ilka ane wes separate frae the ither. A 'm judgin' that it's easy tae speak frae the lips, but the words come slow and sair frae the hert, an' Milton hes a hert; there's nae doot o' that noo.”
On the first Sabbath of the year the people were in the second verse of the Hundredth Psalm, when Milton, with his family, came into the kirk and took possession of their pew. Hillocks maintained an unobtrusive but vigilant watch, and had no fault to find this time with Milton. The doctor preached on the Law of Love, as he had a way of doing at the beginning of each year, and was quite unguarded in his eulogium of brotherly kindness, but Milton did not seem to find anything wrong in the sermon. Four times—Hillocks kept close to facts—he nodded in grave approval, and once, when the doctor insisted with great force that love did more than every power to make men good, Milton was evidently carried, and blew his nose needlessly. Hillocks affirmed stoutly that the crumpled pound note found in the recesses of the ladle that day came from Milton, and corroborative evidence accumulated in a handsome gown sent to Saunders' wife for the lead he gave the ploughs that famous day, and a box of tea, enough to last her time, received by blind old Barbara Stewart. Milton was another man, and when he appeared once more at the station and went into a compartment left to Kildrummie, Drumsheugh rescued him with a show of violence and brought him into the midst of Drumtochty, who offered him exactly six different boxes on the way to the Junction, and reviewed the crops on Milton for the last two years in a distinctly conciliatory spirit.
Milton fought his battle well, and only once alluded to the past.
“It wes ma misfortune,” he said to Drumsheugh, as they went home from kirk together, “tae mix wi' fouk that coonted words mair than deeds, an' were prooder tae open a prophecy than tae dae the wull o' God.
“We thocht that oor knowledge wes deeper an' oor life better than oor neeburs', an' a've been sairly punished. Gin a' hed been bred in Drumtochty, a' micht never hae been a byword, but a' thank God that ma laist years 'ill be spent amang true men, an', Drumsheugh, a'm prayin' that afore a' dee a' also may be... a richt man.”
This was how Drumsheugh found Milton walking in crooked paths and brought him into the way of righteousness, and Milton carried himself so well afterwards that Drumsheugh had only one regret, and that was that Jamie Soutar had not lived to see that even in Milton there was the making of a man.
PETER Bruce was puzzled by a passenger who travelled from the Junction on a late October day, and spoke with a mixed accent. He would not be more than forty years of age, but his hair was grey, and his face bore the marks of unchangeable sorrow. Although he was not a working man, his clothes were brushed to the bone, and his bag could not contain many luxuries. There was not any doubt about his class, yet he did not seem willing to enter the third, but wandered up and down the train, as if looking for a lost carriage. As he passed beyond the van he appeared to have found what he was seeking, and Peter came upon him examining the old Kildrummie third, wherein Jamie Sou-tar had so often held forth, and which was now planted down on the side of the line as a storehouse for tools and lamps. The stranger walked round the forlorn remains and peered in at a window, as if to see the place where he or some one else he knew had sat.
“Ye ken the auld third,” said Peter, anxious to give a lead; “it 's been aff the rails for mair than twal years; it gies me a turn at times tae see it sittin' there like a freend that's fa'en back in the warld.”
As the stranger gave no sign, Peter attached himself to his door—under pretext of collecting the tickets—and dealt skilfully with the mystery. He went over the improvements in Kildrummie, enlarging on the new U. P. kirk and the extension of the Gasworks. When these stirring tales produced no effect, the conclusion was plain.
“It's a fell step tae Drumtochty, an' ye 'll be the better o' the dogcairt. Sandie 's still tae the fore, though he's failin' like's a'; wull a' tell the engine driver tae whustle for't?”
“No, I 'll walk... better folk than I have tramped that road... with loads, too.” And then, as he left the station, the unknown said, as if recollecting his native tongue, “Gude day, Peter; it is a comfort tae sae ae kent face aifter mony changes.”
Something hindered the question on Peter's lips, but he watched the slender figure—which seemed bent with an invisible burden—till it disappeared, and then the old man shook his head.
“It beats me tae pit a name on him, an' he didna want tae be askit; but whaever he may be, he 's sair stricken. Yon's the saddest face 'at hes come up frae the Junction sin a' hoddit Flora Campbell in the second. An' a'm judgin' he 'ill be waur tae comfort.”
The road to Drumtochty, after it had thrown off Kildrummie, climbed a hill, and passed through an open country till it plunged into the pine woods. The wind was fresh, blowing down from the Grampians, with a suggestion of frost, and the ground was firm underfoot. The pungent scent of ripe turnips was in the air, mingled, as one passed a stackyard, with the smell of the newly gathered grain, whose scattered remains clung to the hedges. As the lonely man passed one homestead, a tramp was leaving the door, pursued with contempt.
“Awa wi' ye, or a'll louse the dog,” an honest woman was saying. “Gin ye were a puir helpless body a 'd gie ye meat an' drink, but an able-bodied man sud be ashamed tae beg. Hae ye nae speerit that ye wud hang upon ither fouk for yir livin'?”
The vagabond only bent his head and went on his way, but so keen was the housewife's tongue that it brought a faint flush of shame to his cheek. As soon as she had gone in again, and the two men were alone on the road, the one with the sad face gave some silver to the outcast.
“Don't thank me—begin again somewhere... I was a tramp myself once,” and he hurried on as one haunted by the past.
His pace slackened as he entered the pines, and the kindly shelter and the sweet fragrance seemed to give him peace. In the centre of the wood there was an open space, with a pool and a clump of gorse. He sat down and rested his' head on his hands for a while; then he took two letters out of his pocket that were almost worn away with handling, and this was the first he read:
“Ye mind that the laist time we met wes in Drumtochty kirkyaird, an' that I said hard things tae ye aboot yir laziness and yir conduct tae yir grandmither. Weel, a 'm sorry for ma words this day, no that they werena true, for ye ken they were, but because a 've tae send waesome news tae ye, an' a' wush a kinder man hed been the writer.
“Ye ken that yir sister Lily gaed up tae London an' took a place. Weel, she hes served wi' sic faithfulness that she 'ill no be here tae welcome ye gin ye come back again. A' happened tae be in London at the time, and wes wi' Lily when she slippit awa, an' she bade me tell ye no tae lose hert, for ae body at least believed in ye, an' wes expeck in' ye tae turn oot weel.
“A' wush that were a', for it's eneuch for ye tae bear, gin ye be a man an' hae a memory. But tribbles aye rin in pairs. Yir grandmither kept up till the beerial wes ower, an' then she took tae her bed for a week. A 'll never be up again,' she said tae me, 'an' a 'll no be lang here.' We laid her aside Lily, an' she sent the same word tae ye wi' her last breath: 'Tell Chairlie a' wes thinkin' aboot him till the end, an' that a'm sure ma lassie's bairn 'ill come richt some day.'
“This letter 'ill gie ye a sair hert for mony a day, but ye wull coont the sairness a blessing an' no an ill. Never lat it slip frae yir mind that twa true weemen loved ye an' prayed for ye till the laist, deem' wi' yir name on their lips. Ye 'ill be a man yet, Chairlie.
“Dinna answer this letter—answer yon fond herts that luve an' pray for ye. Gin ye be ever in tribble, lat me ken. A' wes yir grand-mither's freend and Lily's freend; sae lang as a'm here, coont me yir freend for their sake.
“James Soutar.”
It was half an hour before he read the second letter.
“Dear Chairlie,—A 'm verra sober noo, an' canna rise; but gin ony medeecine cud hae cured me, it wud hae been yir letter. A' thae years a've been sure ye were fechtin' yir battle, an' that some day news wud come o' yir victory.
“Man, ye've dune weel—a pairtner, wi' a hoose o' yir ain, an' sic an income. Ye aye hed brains, an' noo ye've turned them tae accoont. A' withdraw every word a' ca'd ye, for ye 're an honour noo tae Drumtochty. Gin they hed only been spared tae ken o' yir success!
“A 've divided the money amang yir sisters in Muirtown, and Doctor Davidson 'ill pit the lave intae a fund tae help puir laddies wi' their education. Yir name 'ill never appear, but a 'm prood tae think o' yir leeberality, and mony will bless ye. Afore this reaches ye in America a 'll be awa, and ithers roond me are near their lang hame. Ye 'ill maybe tak a thocht o' veesiting the Glen some day, but a' doot the neeburs that githered in the kirkyaird 'ill no be here tae wush ye weel, as a' dae this day. A 'm glad a' lived tae get yir letter. God be wi' ye.”
The letter dropped from his hand, and the exile looked into the far distance with something between a smile and a tear.
“They were gude men 'at githered ablow the beech-tree in the kirkyaird on a Sabbath mornin',” he said aloud, and the new accent had now lost itself altogether in an older tongue; “and there wesna a truer hert amang them a' than Jamie. Gin he hed been'spared tae gie me a shak o' his hand, a' wud hae been comforted; an' aifter him a' wud like a word,
“James Soutar.”
Frae Drumsheugh.
A' wunner gin he be still tae the fore.
“Na, na,” and his head fell on his chest, “it's no possible; o' a' the generation 'at condemned me, no ane 'ill be leevin' tae say forgiven. But a' cudna hae come hame suner—till a' hed redeemed masel.”
He caught the sound of a cart from the Glen, and a sudden fear overcame him at the meet-of the first Drumtochty man. His first movement was to the shelter of the wood; then he lay down behind the gorse and watched the bend of the road. It was a double cart, laden with potatoes for Kildrummie station, and the very horses had a homely look; while the driver was singing in a deep, mellow voice, “Should auld acquaintance be forgot.” The light was on his face, and the wanderer recognised him at once. They had been at school together, and were of the same age, but there was not a grey hair in young Burnbrae's beard, nor a line on his face.
As the cart passed, Grant watched the tram, and marked that the Christian name was in fresh paint.
“It 's James, no John, noo. Burnbrae hesna feenished his lease, an' a'm thinkin' Jean 'ill no hae lasted long aifter him. He wes a gude man, an' he hed gude sons.”
The cart was a mile on the road, and Burn-brae's song had long died into silence among the pines, before Grant rose from the ground and went on his way.
There is a certain point where the road from Kildrummie disentangles itself from the wood, and begins the descent to Tochty Bridge. Drumtochty exiles used to stand there for a space and rest their eyes on the Glen which they could now see, from the hills that made its western wall to the woods of Tochty that began below the parish kirk, and though each man might not be able to detect the old home, he had some landmark—a tree or a rise of the hill—to distinguish the spot where he was born, and if such were still his good fortune, where true hearts were waiting to bid him welcome. Two Drumtochty students returning in the spring with their honours might talk of learned studies and resume their debates coming through the wood, but as the trees thinned conversation languished, and then the lads would go over to the style. No man said aught unto his neighbour as they drank in the Glen, but when they turned and went down the hill, a change had come over them.
“Man, Dauvid,” Ross would say—with three medals to give to his mother, who had been all day making ready for his arrival, and was already watching the upland road—“far or near, ye 'ill never fin' a bonnier burn than the Tochty; see yonder the glisk o 't through the bridge as it whummels ower the stanes and shimmers in the evening licht.”
“An' Hillocks's haughs,” cried Baxter, who was supposed to think in Hebrew and had won a Fellowship for foreign travel, “are green an' sweet the nicht, wi' the bank o' birks ahint them, an' a' saw the hill abune yir hame, Jock, an' it wes glistenin' like the sea.”
Quite suddenly, at the sight of the Glen, and for the breath of it in their lungs, they had become Drumtochty again, to the names they had called one another in Domsie's school, and as they came to the bottom of the hill, they raced to see who first would reach the crest of the ancient bridge that might have been Marshal Wade's for its steepness, and then were met on the other side by Hillocks, who gave them joyful greeting in name of the parish. But not even Hillocks, with all his blandishments, could wile them within doors that evening. John Ross saw his mother shading her eyes at the garden gate and wearying for the sight of his head above the hill, and already David Baxter seemed to hear his father's voice, “God bless ye, laddie; welcome hame, and weel dune.” For the choice reward of a true man's work is not the applause of the street, which comes and goes, but the pride of them that love him.
What might have been so came upon this emigrant as he gazed upon the Glen, that the driver of the Kildrummie bread cart, a man quite below the average of Drumtochty intelligence, was struck by the hopelessness of his attitude, and refrained from a remark on the completion of harvest which he had been offering freely all day. They were threshing at Hillocks's farm that day, and across the river Grant saw the pleasant bustle in the stackyard and heard the hum of the mill. It used to be believed that Hillocks held a strategic position of such commanding power that no one had ever crossed that bridge without his supervision—except on Friday when he was in Muirtown—and so strong was the wayfarer's longing for some face of the former time, that he loitered opposite the barn door, in hopes that a battered hat, dating from the middle of the century and utilised at times for the protection of potatoes, might appear, and a voice be heard, “A 've seen a waur day, ye 'ill be gaein' up the Glen,” merely as a preliminary to more searching investigation at what was the frontier of Drumtochty. Hillocks also must be dead, and as for the others, they were too busy with their work to give any heed to a stranger. A gust of wind catching up the chaff, whirled it across the yard and powdered his coat. The prodigal accepted the omen, and turned himself to the hill that went up to Mary's cottage.
He had planned to pass the place, and then from the footpath to the kirkyard to have looked down on the home of his boyhood, but he need not have taken precautions. No one was there to question or recognise him; Mary's little house was empty and forsaken. The thatch had fallen in with the weight of winter snows, the garden gate was lying on the walk, the scrap of ground once so carefully kept was overgrown with weeds. Grant opened the unlatched door—taking off his hat—and stood in the desolate kitchen. He sat down on the edge of the box-bed no one had thought it worth while to remove, and covered his face while memory awoke. The fire again burned on the hearth, and was reflected from the dishes on the opposite wall; the table was spread for supper, and he saw his wooden bicker with the black horn spoon beside it; Mary sat in her deep old armchair, and stirred the porridge sputtering in the pot; a rosy-cheeked laddie curled in a heap at his grandmother's feet saw great marvels in the magic firelight.
“Get up, Chairlie, an' we 'ill tak oor supper, an' then ye'ill feenish yir lessons. Domsie says ye hae the makin' o' a scholar, gin ye work hard eneuch, an' a' ken ye 'ill dae that for yir auld grannie's sake an' yir puir mither's, wunna ye, ma mannie?” but when her hand fell on his head, he rose suddenly and made for the other room, the “ben” of this humble home.
A little bit of carpet on the floor; four horsehair chairs, one with David and Goliath in crochet-work on its back; a brass fender that had often revealed to Mary the secret pride of the human heart; shells on the mantel-piece in which an inland laddie could hear the roar of the sea, with peacock's feathers also, and a spotted china dog which was an almost speaking likeness of the minister of Kildrummie; a mahogany chest of drawers—the chairs were only birch, but we can't have everything in this world—whereon lay the Family Bible and thePilgrim s Progressand Rutherford's Letters, besides a box with views of the London Exhibition that were an endless joy. This was what rose before his eyes, in that empty place. Within the drawers were kept the Sabbath clothes, and in this room a laddie was dressed for kirk, after a searching and remorseless scrubbing in the “but,” and here he must sit motionless till it was time to start, while Mary, giving last touches to the fire and herself, maintained a running exhortation, “Gin ye brak that collar or rumple yir hair, peety ye, the 'ill be nae peppermint-drop for you in the sermon the day.” Here also an old woman whose hands were hard with work opened a secret place in those drawers, and gave a young man whose hands were white her last penny.
“Ye 'ill be carefu', Chairlie, an' a'll try tae send ye somethin' till ye can dae for yirsel, an', laddie, dinna forget... yer Bible nor yir hame, for we expect ye tae be a credit tae 's a'.” Have mercy, O God!
Within and without it was one desolation—full of bitter memories and silent reproaches—save in one corner, where a hardy rose-tree had held its own, and had opened the last flower of the year. With a tender, thankful heart, the repentant prodigal plucked its whiteness, and wrapped it in Jamie's letters.
Our kirkyard was' on a height facing the south, with the massy Tochty woods on one side and the manse on the other, while down below—a meadow between—the river ran, so that its sound could just be heard in clear weather. From its vantage one could see the Ochils as well as one of the Lomonds, and was only cut off from the Sidlaws by Tochty woods. It was not well kept, after the town's fashion, having no walk, save the broad track to the kirk door and a narrower one to the manse garden; no cypresses or weeping willows or beds of flowers—only four or five big trees had flung their kindly shadow for generations over the place where the fathers of the Glen took their long rest; no urns, obelisks, broken columns, and such-like pagan monuments, but grey, worn stones, some lying flat, some standing on end, with a name and date, and two crosses, one to George Howe, the Glen's lost scholar, and the other to William Maclure, who had loved the Glen even unto death. There was also a marble tablet let into the eastern wall of the church, where the first ray of the sun fell,