“Macfarlane and Robertson, Writers,Kilspindie Buildings, Muirtown.”
Marget's heart suddenly stood still, for it was the firm that sent the seasonable remittances from Whinnie's cousin. This cousin had always been a mystery to her, for Whinnie could tell little about him, and the writers refused all information whatever, allowing them to suppose that he was in America, and chose to give his aid without communication. It had occurred to her that very likely he was afraid of them hanging on a rich relation, and there were times when she was indignant and could not feel grateful for this generosity.
Other times she had longed to send a letter in her name and Whinnie's, telling him how his gifts had lightened their life and kept them in peace and honesty at Whinnie Knowe; but the lawyers had discouraged the idea, and she had feared to press it.
What if this had all been a make-believe, and there had been no cousin... and it had been Drumsheugh who had done it all.... Was this the object of all his sacrifice... to keep a roof above their heads... and she had heard him miscalled for a miser and said nothing... how could she look him in the face... she was sure of it, although there was no proof.... A grey light had been gathering all the afternoon in her mind, and now the sun had risen, and everything was light.
Any moment he might come in, and she must know for certain; but it was Leezbeth that entered to lay the tea, looking harder than ever, and evidently seeing no call for this outbreak of hospitality.
“The maister's gaen upstairs tae clean him-sel,” said the housekeeper, with a suggestion of contempt. “A' saw naethin' wrang wi' him masel,” But Leezbeth was not one that could move Marget to anger at any time, and now she was waiting for the sight of Drumsheugh's face.
He came in twenty years younger than she had seen him in that dreary field, and, speaking to her as if she had been the Countess of Kil-spindie, asked her to pour out the tea.
“Drumsheugh,” and he started at the note of earnestness, “before a' sit doon at yir table there's ae question a' have tae ask an' ye maun answer. Ye may think me a forward wumman, an' ma question may seem like madness, but it's come intae ma mind, an a 'll hae nae rest till it 's settled.”
Marget's courage was near the failing, for it struck her how little she had to go on, and how wild was her idea; but it was too late to retreat, and she also saw the terror on his face.
Drumsheugh stood silent, his eyes fixed on her face, and his hand tightened on the back of a chair.
“Is't you—are ye the freend 'at hes helped ma man an' me through a' oor tribbles?”
Had he been prepared for the ordeal, or had she opened with a preface, he would have escaped somehow, but all his wiles were vain before Marget's eyes.
“Ye were wi' William Maclure,” and Drumsheugh's voice quivered with passion, “an' he telt ye. A 'll never forgie him, no, never, nor speak ae word tae him again, though he be ma dearest freend.”
“Dinna blame Doctor Maclure, for a' he did wes in faithfulness an' luve,” and Marget told him how she had made her discovery; “but why sud ye be angry that the fouk ye blessed at a sair cost can thank ye face tae face?” Marget caught something about “a pund or twa,” but it was not easy to hear, for Drumsheugh had gone over to the fireplace and turned away his face.
“Mony punds; but that's the least o 't; it's what ye suffered for them a' thae years o' savin', and what ye did wi' them, a'm rememberin'. Weelum micht never hev hed a hoose for me, an' a' micht never hev hed ma man, an' he micht gaen oot o' Whinnie Knowe and been broken-herted this day hed it no been for you.
“Sic kindness as this hes never been kent in the Glen, an' yet we 're nae blude tae you, no mair than onybody in the pairish. Ye 'ill lat me thank ye for ma man an' Geordie an' masel, an' ye 'ill tell me hoo ye ever thocht o' showin' us sic favour.” Marget moved over to Drumsheugh and laid her hand on him in entreaty. He lifted his head and looked her in the face.
“Marget!” and then she understood. He saw the red flow all over her face and fade away again, and the tears fill her eyes and run down her cheeks, before she looked at him steadily, and spoke in a low voice that was very sweet.
“A' never dreamed o' this, an' a 'm not worthy o' sic luve, whereof I hev hed much fruit an' ye hev only pain.”
“Ye're wrang, Marget, for the joy hes gien ower the pain, an' a 've hed the greater gain. Luve roosed me tae wark an' fecht, wha micht hae been a ne'er-dae-weel. Luve savit me frae greed o' siller an' a hard hert. Luve kept me clean in thocht an' deed, for it was ever Marget by nicht an' day. If a'm a man the day, ye did it, though ye micht never hae kent it. It's little a' did for ye, but ye 've dune a'thing for me... Marget.”
After a moment he went on:
“Twenty year ago a' cudna hae spoken wi' ye safely, nor taken yir man's hand withoot a grudge; but there's nae sin in ma luve this day, and a' wudna be ashamed though yir man heard me say, 'A' luve ye, Marget.'”
He took her hand and made as though he would have lifted it to his lips, but as he bent she kissed him on the forehead. “This,” she said, “for yir great and faithfu' luve.”
They talked of many things at tea, with joy running over Drumsheugh's heart; and then spoke of Geordie all the way across the moor, on which the moon was shining. They parted at the edge, where Marget could see the lights of home, and Drumsheugh caught the sorrow of her face, for him that had to go back alone to an empty house.
“Dinna peety me, Marget; a've hed ma reward, an' a'm mair than content.”
On reaching home, he opened the family Bible at a place that was marked, and this was what he read to himself: “They which shall be accounted worthy... neither marry nor are given in marriage... but are as the angels of God in heaven.”
We had called him Posty so long that Jamie Soutar declared our postman had forgotten the sound of his own name, and had once refused a letter addressed to himself. This was merely Jamie's humour, for Posty held his legal designation in jealous remembrance, and used it for the confusion of pride with much effect.
When Milton, in whom Pharisaism had reached the point of genius, dealt faithfully with Posty at New Year time on his personal habits, and explained that he could not give him money lest he should waste it in strong drink—offering him instead a small volume of an improving character—Posty fell back on his reserves.
“Ma name,” he said, eyeing Milton sternly, and giving each syllable its just weight, “is Aircheebald MacKittrick; an' gin ye hae ony complaint against me for neglect o' duty, ye can lodge it wi' the Postmaister-General, speecifyin' parteeclars, sic as late arrival or omittin' tae deliver, an' a'll hae the sateesfaction o' cairryin' yer letter pairt o' the way tae its desteenation.
“A 've ma, public capaucity as an officer of the Crown”—Posty was now master of the situation and grew more awful every moment—“an' there a'm open tae creeticism. In ma private capaucity as a free-born Scot, the Queen hersel' has nae business tae interfere wi' me. Whether a' prefer speerits or limejuice for ma tastin' “—Milton had once deceived Posty with the latter seductive fluid—“whether a' mairry ae wife or three”—Milton's third nuptials were still fresh in the Glen—“is a maitter for a man's ain deceesion.
“As regairds the bookie,” and Posty held its cheap covers between his thumb and forefinger, “ye'ill excuse me. Jamie Soutar gied me a lend o' hisFrench Revolution, an' a'm juist warstlin' thro' wi't. A hev 'na muckle time for readin', an' Tammas Carlyle's a stiff body, but his buiks are graund feedin'. Besides”—and now Posty gave thecoup de grace—“thae re-leegious bookies hae nae logic for an able-bodied man, an' the laist ane ye gied me was louse in doctrine, juist stinkin' wi' Armeenianism.”
Posty was understood to hold an impregnable position with the head of his department, and it was boasted in the Glen that he had carried the mails from Drumtochty to Pitscourie—thirteen miles—and back, every day, excluding Sabbaths, for eight-and-twenty years. It was also believed that he had only been late twice, when the Scourie burn carried away the bridge, and Posty had to go four miles up stream to find a crossing-place, and the day when he struck his head against a stone, negotiating a drift, and lay insensible for three hours.
At five o'clock to a minute Posty appeared every morning in the village shop, which had accumulated during the night a blended fragrance of tea and sugar, and candles and Mac-dougall's sheep dip, and where Mrs. Robb, our postmistress, received Posty in a negligent undress sanctioned by official business and a spotless widowhood.
“That's frae the shooting lodge tae his Lordship. It 'ill be aboot the white hares;” and Mrs. Robb began to review the letters with unfailing accuracy. “Ye can aye ken Drumsheugh's hand; he's after some siller frae Piggie Walker. Piggie trickit him aince; he 'ill no dae't again. 'Miss Howieson.' Ma word! Jean's no blate tae pit that afore her lassie's name, and her a servant-lass, tho' a 'm no sayin' 'at she disna deserve it, sendin' her mother a post-office order the beginnin' o' ilka month, riglar. 'The Worshipful Chief Bummer of the Sons of Temperance Reform.' Michty, what a title! That's what they ca' that haverin' body frae the sooth Archie Moncur hed up lecturin' laist winter on teetotalism. Ye were terribly affeckit yersel, Posty, a' heard”—to which sally the immovable face gave no sign.
“And here's ane tae auld Maister Yellowlees, o' Kildrummie, askin' him tae the fast a'm jalousin'. Sall, the Free Kirk fouk 'ill no bless their minister for his choice. Div ye mind the diveesions o' his laist sermon here on the sparrows, Posty?”
“'We shall consider at length'”—the voice seemed to proceed from a graven image—“'the natural history of the sparrow; next we shall compare the value of sparrow in ancient and modern times; and lastly, we shall apply the foregoing truth to the spiritual condition of two classes.'”
“That 's it tae a word. It was michty, an' Donald Menzies threipit that he heard the deil lauchin' in the kirk. Weel, that's a', Posty, an' an Advertiser frae Burnbrae tae his son in the Black Watch. He 'ill be hame sune juist covered wi' medals. A' doot there 's been mair snow thro' the nicht. It 'ill be heavy traivellin'.”
The light of the oil-lamp fell on Posty as he buckled his bag, and threw his figure into relief against a background of boxes and barrels.
A tall man even for Drumtochty, standing six feet three in his boots, who, being only a walking skeleton, ought to have weighed some twelve stone, but with the bone and breadth of him turned the scale at fifteen. His hair was a fiery red, and his bare, hard-featured face two shades darker. No one had ever caught a trace of the inner man on Posty's face, save once and for an instant—when he jumped into Kelpie's hole to save a wee lassie. Elspeth Macfadyen said afterwards “his eyes were graund.” He wore the regulation cap on the back of his head, and as no post-office jacket was big enough to meet on Posty's chest, he looped it with string over a knitted waistcoat. One winter he amazed the Glen by appearing in a waterproof cape, which a humanitarian official had provided for country postmen, but returned after a week to his former estate, declaring that such luxuries were unhealthy and certain to undermine the constitution. His watch was the size of a small turnip, and gave the authorised time to the district, although Posty was always denouncing it for a tendency to lose a minute in the course of summer, an irregularity he used to trace back to a thunderstorm in his grandfather's time. His equipment was completed by an oaken stick, which the smith shod afresh every third year, and which Posty would suddenly swing over his head as he went along. It was supposed that at these times he had settled a point of doctrine.
Mrs. Robb started him with a score of letters, and the rest he gathered as he went. The upper Glen had a box with a lock, at the cross roads, and the theory was that each farm had one key and Posty his own. Every key except Posty's had been lost long ago, and the box stood open to the light, but Posty always made a vain attempt to sneck the door, and solemnly dropped the letters through the slit. Some farms had hidie holes in the dyke, which Posty could find in the darkest morning; and Hillocks, through sheer force of custom, deposited his correspondence, as his father had done before him, at the root of an ancient beech. Persons handing Posty letters considered it polite to hint at their contents, and any information about our exiles was considered Posty 's due. He was hardly ever known to make any remark, and a stranger would have said that he did not hear, but it was noticed that he carried the letters to Whinnie Knowe himself during George's illness, and there is no doubt that he was quite excited the day he brought the tidings of Professor Ross's recovery.
He only became really fluent after he had been tasting, for which facilities were provided at five points on his route, and then he gave himself to theology, in which, from a technical point of view, he could hold his own with any man in the Glen except Lachlan Campbell and Jamie Soutar, As he could not always find another theologian when he was in this mood he used to walk the faster as a relief to his feelings, and then rest quietly by the roadside for half an hour, wrapt in meditation. You might have set your watch by his rising when he went on his way like a man whose mind was now at ease.
His face was so unconscious and unsuspicious during these brief retreats that it arrested a well-doing tramp one day and exposed him to misconstruction. It seemed to him, as he explained afterwards to our policeman, that Posty might have fainted, and he felt it his duty to take charge of the mail-bag, which its guardian utilised to fill up the hollow of his back. Very gently did the tramp loosen the strap and extricate the bag. He was rising from his knees when a big red hand gripped his arm, and Posty regarded the tree above his head with profound interest.
“A 'm obleeged tae ye,” a voice began, “for yir thochtfu' attention, an' the care ye took no tae disturb me. Ye 'ill be a resident in the Glen, a 'm coontin', an' wantin' yir letters,” and Posty rose with great deliberation and refastened the strap.
“A' canna mind yir face for the moment, but maybe ye 've veesitin' yir freends. Dinna gang awa till a' find yir letter; it micht hae money in 't, an' it 's plain ye 've needin't.
“Surely ye didna mean tae assault a puir helpless cratur,” continued Posty, picking up his stick and laying hold of the tramp by his rags, “an' rob him o' Her Majesty's mails? Div ye ken that wud be highway robbery wi' aggravations, and, man, ye micht be hanged and quartered.
“Ye wud never misconduct yirsel like that, but some o' yir freends micht, an' a' wud like tae send them a bit message.... Lord's sake, dinna yowl like that, or the neeburs 'ill think a'm hurtin' ye.”
Two hours later the tramp was found behind a hedge anointing his sores with butter, and using language which Posty, as a religious man, would have heard with profound regret.
When this incident came to Doctor Davidson's ears, he took a strong view, and spoke with such frankness and with such a wealth of family illustration, that Posty was much edified and grew eloquent.
“Say awa, doctor, for it's a' true, an' ye 're daein' yir duty as a minister faithfu' an' weel. A'm greatly obleeged tae ye, an' a 'll no forget yir warnin'. Na, na, it 'ill sink.
“Ye'ill no be angry, though, or think me liteegious gin a' pint oot a difference atween me an' ma brither that ye was neeburin' wi' me in the maitter o' tastin'.
“A 'ill no deny that a' tak ma mornin', and maybe a forenoon, wi' a drap down at Pitscoourie after ma dinner, and juist a moothfu' at Luckie Macpherson's comin' thro' Netheraird, and a body needs something afore he gaes tae bed, but that's ma ordinar' leemit.
“Noo, Jock is juist in an' oot drammin' frae mornin' tae nicht, baith in Drumtochty an' Muirtown, and that's bad for the constitution, tae sae naethin' o' morals.
“Forbye that, doctor, if Jock crosses the line, he gets veecious ower politics or the catechism, an' he 'll fecht like a gude ane; but gin a'm juist a wee overcom'—a've never been intoxicat' like thae puir, regairdless, toon waufies—a' sit doon for half-an'-oor hummilled an' reflect on the dispensations o' Providence.”
Posty had, in fact, three moods: the positive, when he was a man of few words; the comparative, when he was cheerful and gave himself to the discussion of doctrine; and the superlative, when he had been tasting freely and retired for meditation.
As the years passed, and Posty established himself in all hearts, the philanthropy of the Glen came to a focus on his redemption, to Posty's inward delight, and with results still fondly remembered.
Cunningham, the Free Church scholar and shyest of men, gave his mind to Posty in the intervals of editing Sophocles, and after planning the campaign for four months, allured that worthy into his study, and began operations with much tact.
“Sit down, Posty, sit down, I'm very glad to see you, and... I wanted to thank you for your attention... every one in the Glen must be satisfied with... with your sense of official duty.”
“Thank ye, sir,” said Posty, in his dryest voice, anticipating exactly what Cunningham was after, and fixing that unhappy man with a stony stare that brought the perspiration to his forehead.
“There is one thing, however, that I wanted to say to you, and, Posty, you will understand that it is a... little difficult to... in fact to mention,” and Cunningham fumbled with some Greek proofs.
“What 's yir wull, sir?” inquired Posty, keeping Cunningham under his relentless eye.
“Well, it 's simply,” and then Cunningham detected a new flavour in the atmosphere, and concluded that Posty had been given into his hands, “that... there 's a very strong smell of spirits in the room.”
“A' noticed that masel', sir, the meenut a' cam in, but a' didna like to say onything aboot it,” and Posty regarded Cunningham with an expression of sympathetic toleration.
“You don't mean to say,” and Cunningham was much agitated, “that you think...”
“Dinna pit yirsel' aboot, sir,” said Posty, in a consoling voice, “or suppose a' wud say a word ootside this room. Na, na, there 's times a 'm the better o' a gless masel', an' it's no possible ye cud trachle through the Greek with-oot a bit tonic; but ye 're safe wi' me,” said Posty, departing at the right moment, and he kept his word. But Cunningham was so scandalised that he let out the conversation, and the Glen was happy for a month over it, for they loved both men, each in his own way.
When Jock MacKittrick died suddenly Cunningham expressed his sympathy with Posty, and produced an unexpected impression on that self-contained man.
“It was only last evening that I saw you and your brother part in the village; it must be a terrible blow to you.”
“Ye saw that?” broke in Posty; “then ye 're the only man in the Glen that kens what a sore heart a'm cairryin' the day. Juist ablow the public hoose, and he gaed up and a' gaed hame; it's a fact.
“The fouk are sayin' the day as a' cam alang the Glen, 'Ye 'ill miss Jock, Posty, he slippit aff afore his time.' An' a juist gie them an, 'Ou, aye, it maks a difference,' but they dinna ken ma secret; hooever did ye licht on it?
“There's nae use denyin' 't that he said tae me, 'Ye'ill tak yir evenin', Posty,' for Jock aye ca'd me that—he was prood o't bein' in the faimily—an' gin ye ask me what cam ower me that a' sud hae refused him a' canna tell.
“'Na, na, Jock,' a' said, 'a 've hed eneuch the day, an' a'm gaein' hame;' he lookit at me, but a' wes dour, an' noo it 's ower late; a'll never taste wi' Jock again.” And Posty's iron manner failed, and for once in his life he was profoundly affected.
The last philanthropist who tried his hand on Posty before he died was “the Colonel” as we called him—that fine hearty old warrior who stayed with the Carnegies at the Lodge, and had come to grief over Jamie Soutar at the evangelistic meeting. The Colonel was certain that he could manage Posty, for he was great at what he called “button-holing,” and so he had his second disaster, understanding neither Drumtochty nor Posty. Being full of the simplest guile he joined Posty on the road and spun the most delightful Indian yarns, which were all intended to show what splendid fellows his soldiers were, and how they ruined themselves with drink. Posty gave most patient attention and only, broke silence twice.
“Drinkin'—if ye are meanin' intoxication—is waur than a failin', it 's a sin an' no a licht ane. Ye ken whar the drunkards gang tae in the end, but dinna let me interrupt ye.”
Later he inquired anxiously where the Colonel's regiment had been recruited, and was much relieved by the answer.
“A' wes thinkin' they cudna be oor lads that lat the drink get the upper hand; they sud be able tae tak their drappie cannily an' no mak fuies o' themselves, but a 've heard that a gless or twa o' speerits 'ill turn their heads in the sooth.”
When the Colonel, considerably damped by these preliminaries, came to close grips, Posty took a stand.
“'Pledge' did ye say, Colonel; na, na, a' dauma hae onything tae dae wi' sic devices, they 're naething else than vows, an' vows are aboleeshed in this dispensation. The Catholics keep them up a'm informed, but a'm a Protestant, an' ma conscience wudna alloo me tae sign.
“But a'm terribly pleased wi' yir stories, sir, an' they gar the time pass fine, an' ye maunna be offended. Gin ye cud meet me the morn at the boonds o' the pairish, a'm willin' tae argie the maitter o' vows up the Glen juist tae shairp-en oor minds.
“As for the bit ribbon,” and Posty held it as if it carried infection, “gin ye hed belanged tae Drumtochty ye wud hae kent nae man cud wear sic a thing. Oor fouk hae an' awfu' sense o' humour; it 's sae deep they canna lauch, but they wud juist look at the man wi' a ribbon on, an' as sure's deith they wudna be weel for the rest o' the day.
“Besides, Colonel, a 'm suspeckin' that there's juist ae preceedent for the ribbon in the Bible, that wes the Pharisees, when they made broad their phylacteries, and a' ne 'er likit thae gentry.”
“Sall gin ilka man began tae pit his virtues on his coat, an' did it honest, it wud be a show at kirk and market. Milton wud hae naethin' but yir ribbon, an' Burnbrae, wha's the best man in the Glen, wudna hae room on his Sabbath coat for his decorations,” and Posty chuckled inwardly to the horror of the Colonel.
Three days afterwards the great tragedy happened, and no one needed again to trouble himself about Posty. It was summer time, with thunder in the air, and heavy black clouds above Glen Urtach. June was the month in which Mrs. Macfadyen scoured her blankets, and as her burn was nearly dry, she transferred her apparatus to the bank of the Tochty, where a pool below the mill gave her a sure supply of water. Elspeth lit a fire beneath the birches on the bank, and boiled the water. She plunged the blankets into a huge tub, and kilting up her coats danced therein powerfully, with many a direction to Elsie, her seven-year-old, to “see ye dinna fa' in, or ye 'll be carried intae the Kelpie's Hole ablow, an' it 'll no be yir mither can bring you oot.”
The sun was still shining brightly on the Glen, when the distant storm burst on Ben Hornish, whose steep sides drain into the Urtach, that ends in the Tochty. Down the Tochty came the first wave, three feet high, bringing on its foaming yeasty waters branches of trees, two young lambs, a stool from some cottage door, a shepherd's plaid, and all kinds of drift from eddies that had been swept clean. Elspeth heard the roar, and lifted her eyes to see Elsie, who had been playing too near the edge, swept away into the pool beneath, that in less than a minute was a seething cauldron of water that whirled round and round against the rocks before it rushed down the bed of the river.
“Ma bairn! ma bairn! God hae mercy upon her!” and Elspeth's cry ran through the bonnie birk wood and rose through the smiling sky to a God that seemed to give no heed.
“Whar is she?” was all Posty asked, tearing off his coat and waistcoat, for he had heard the cry as he was going to the mill, and took the lade at a leap to lose no time.
“Yonder, Posty, but ye...”
He was already in the depths, while the mother hung over the edge of the merciless flood. It seemed an hour—it was not actually a minute—before he appeared, with the blood pouring from a gash on his forehead, and hung for a few seconds on a rock for air.
“Come oot, Posty, ye hae a wife and bairns, an' ye 'll be drooned for Elspeth was a brave-hearted, unselfish woman.
“A'll hae Elsie first,” and down he went again, where the torrent raged against the rocks.
This time he came up at once, with Elsie, a poor little bundle, in his arms.
“Tak' her quick,” he gasped, clinging with one hand to a jagged point.
And Elspeth had no sooner gripped Elsie by her frock than Posty flung up his arms, and was whirled down the river, now running like a mill-race, and Elspeth fancied she saw him turning over and over, for he seemed to be insensible.
Within an hour they found his body down below the Lodge with many wounds on it, besides that gash, and they knew at once that he had been dashed to death against the stones.
They carried him to the Lodge—the Colonel insisted on being a bearer—and for two hours by the clock they did their best for Posty.
“It 's no a drop o' water 'ill droon Posty,” said Jamie Soutar, “and that his ain Tochty, an' as for a clout (blow) on the head, what's that tae a man like Posty! he 'll be on the road the mornin'.” But Jamie spoke with the fierce assurance of a man that fears the worst and is afraid of breaking down.
“The water hes been ower muckle for him aifter a',” our cynic said to Archie Moncur, who had long striven to make a teetotaller of Posty, as they went home together, “tho' he didna give in tae the end.”
“A' doot a' wes a wee hard on him, Jamie”—Archie had the tenderest heart in the Glen and was much loved—“but there wes nae man a' like't better.”
“Yer tongue wes naithin' tae mine, Airchie, when a' yoke't on him, but he bore nae ill will, did Posty, he had an awfu' respeck for ye an' aye spoke o' ye as his freend.”
“Sae a' wes—wha wudna be—he hed a true heart hed Posty, and nae jukery-packery (trickery) aboot him.”
“An' a graund heid tae,” went on Jamie; “there wes naebody in the Glen cud meet him in theology, except maybe Lachlan, and did ye ever hear him say an ill word aboot ony body?”
“Never, Jamie, an' there wes naebody he wesna interested in; the black-edged letters aye burned his fingers—he hated tae deliver them. He wes abody's freend wes Posty,” went on Archie, “an' naebody's enemy.”
“He deed like a man,” concluded Jamie; “there 's juist anither consolation—the lassie 's comin' roond fine.”
When the new Free Kirk minister was settled in Drumtochty, Jamie told him the story on the road one day and put him to the test.
“What think ye, sir, becam' o' Posty on the ither side?” and Jamie fixed his eyes on Carmichael.
The minister's face grew still whiter.
“Did ye ever read what shall be done to any man that hurts one of God's bairns?”
“Fine,” answered Jamie, with relish, “a millstane aboot his neck, an' intae the depths o' the sea.”
“Then, it seems to me that it must be well with Posty, who went into the depths and brought a bairn up at the cost of his life,” and Carmichael added softly, “whose angel doth continually behold the face of the Father.”
“Yir hand, sir,” said Jamie, and when the great heresy trial began at Muirtown, Jamie prophesied Carmichael's triumphant acquittal, declaring him a theologian of the first order.
NARROW circumstances and high spirit drove forth some half-dozen young men and women from the Glen every year, to earn their living in the cities of the South. They carried with them, as a working capital, sound education, unflagging industry, absolute integrity, and an undying attachment to Drumtochty. Their one necessary luxury was a weekly copy of theMuirtown Advertiser, which four servant lasses would share between them and circulate at church doors, carefully wrapt in a page of some common daily, and their one hour of unmixed enjoyment its careful perusal, column by column, from the first word to the last. It would have been foolishness to omit the advertisements, for you might have missed the name of Drumsheugh in connection with a sale of stirks; and although at home no Drumtochty person allowed himself to take an interest in the affairs of Kildrummie or Netheraird, yet the very names of neighbouring parishes sounded kindly at the distance of Glasgow. One paragraph was kept for the last, and read from six to twelve times, because it was headed Drumtochty, and gave an account of the annual ploughing match, or the school examination, or the flower show, or a winter lecture, when Jamie Soutar had proposed the vote of thanks. Poor little news and names hard of pronunciation-; but the girl sitting alone by the kitchen fire—her fellow servants gone to bed—or the settler in the far Northwest—for he also got hisAdvertiserafter long delays—felt the caller air blowing down the Glen, and saw the sun shining on the Tochty below the mill, and went up between the pinks and moss-roses to the dear old door—ah me! the click of the garden gate—and heard again the sound of the Hundredth Psalm in the parish kirk.
If one wished to take a complete census of our people in Glasgow, he had only to attend when Doctor Davidson preached on the fast day, and make his way afterwards to the vestry door.
“There's a gude puckle fouk waitin' tae see ye, sir,” the city beadle would say to the doctor, with much ceremony; “a'm judgin' they 're frae yir ain pairish. Is it yir wull they be admitted?”
Then in they came, craftsmen in stone and iron, clerks in offices and students from the University, housemaids and working men's wives, without distinction of persons, having spent the last ten minutes in exchanging news and magnifying the sermon. The doctor gave a Christian name to each, and some personal message from the Glen, while they, in turn, did their best to reduce his hand to pulp, and declared aloud that preaching like his could not be got outside Drumtochty, to the huge delight of Bigheart, minister of the church, who was also a Chaplain to the Queen and all Scotland.
The Dispersion endured any sacrifice to visit the old Glen, and made their appearance from various places, at regular intervals, like Jews coming up to Jerusalem. An exile was careful to arrive at Muirtown Station on a Friday afternoon, so that he might join the Drumtochty contingent on their way home from market. It is not to be supposed, however, that there was any demonstration when he showed himself on the familiar platform where Drumtochty men compared notes with other parishes at the doors of the Dunleith train.
“Is that you, Robert? ye 'ill be gaein' wast the nicht,” was the only indication Hillocks would give before the general public that he had recognised young Netherton after three years' absence, and then he would complete his judgment on the potato crop as if nothing had happened.
“Ye're there, aifter a', man; a' wes feared the sooth train micht be late,” was all the length even Netherton's paternal feelings would carry him for the time; “did ye see that yir box wes pit in the van?” and the father and son might travel in different compartments to the Junction. Drumtochty retained still some reticence, and did not conduct its emotions in public, but it had a heart. When the van of the Dunleith train had cleared the Junction and Drumtochty was left to itself—for Kildrummie did not really count—it was as when winter melts into spring.
“Hoo are ye, Robert, hoo are ye? gied tae see ye,” Drumsheugh would say, examining the transformed figure from head to foot; “man, a' wud hardly hae kent ye. Come awa an' gie 's yir news,” and the head of the commonwealth led the way to our third with Robert, Drumtochty closing in behind.
Preliminaries were disposed of in the run to Kildrummie, and as the little company made their way through the pine woods, and down one side of the Glen, and over the Tochty bridge, and up the other slope to the parting of the ways, Robert was straitly questioned about the magnitude of the work he did in Glasgow, and the customs of the people, and the wellbeing of every single Drumtochty person in that city, and chiefly as to the sermons he had heard, their texts and treatment. On Sabbath the group at the kirk door would open up at Robert's approach, but he would only nod in a shamefaced way to his friends and pass on; for it was our etiquette that instead of remaining to gossip, a son should on such occasions go in with his mother and sit beside her in the pew, who on her part would mistake the psalm that he might find it for her, and pay such elaborate attention to the sermon that every one knew she was thinking only of her son.
If a Drumtochty man distinguished himself in the great world, then the Glen invested his people with vicarious honour, and gathered greedily every scrap of news. Piggie Walker himself, although only an associate of the parish by marriage and many transactions, would not have visited David Ross in the Upper Glen, with a view to potatoes, without inquiring for David's son the Professor; and after the sale was effected that astute man would settle down with genuine delight to hear the last letter, dated from a Colonial University and containing an account of the Professor's new discovery.
It was Piggie that asked for the letter; David would not have offered to read it for a year's rent. Drumtochty parents with promising sons lived in terror lest secret pride should give them away and they be accused behind their backs of “blawing,” which in a weaker speech is translated boasting.
David considered, with justice, that they ought to take special care, and tried to guide his wife with discretion.
“We maun be cannie wi' John's title, wum-man, for ye ken Professor is a by-ordinar' word; a' coont it equal tae Earl at the verra least; an' it wudna dae tae be aye usin' 't.
“Ye micht say't aince in a conversation, juist lettin' it slip oot by accident this wy, the Professor wes sayin' in his laist letter—a' mean, oor son in Australy'—but a' wud ca' him John at ither times. Pride's an awfu' mischief, Meg.”
“Ye 're as prood as a'm masel, David, and there's nae use ye scoldin' at me for giein' oor laddie the honour he won wi' his brain an' wark,” and the mother flared up. “A'm no feared what the neeburs say. Professor he is, an' Professor a 'll ca' him; ye 'ill maybe be sayin' Jock next, tae show ye 're humble.”
“Dinna tak me up sae shairp, gude wife, or think a' wud mak little o' John; but the Al-michty hesna gien ilka faimily a Professor, an' a'm no wantin' tae hurt oor neeburs, an' them sae ta'en up wi' him themsels. Ye micht read his laist letter again, wumman; there's a bit a've near forgotten.”
Meg went to the drawers where she kept the clothes he wore as a boy, and the silk dress he gave her when he received his great appointment, and the copies of his books bound in morocco, which he sent home with this inscription:
“To my Father and Mother.
“From the Author;” and every scrap of paper about him and from him she had ever received.
The letter is taken from an old stocking, and, as she pretends to some difficulty in finding the place, Meg is obliged to read it for the forty-ninth time throughout from the name of the University at the head to the signature:
“Heart's love to you both from
“Your ever affectionate son,
“John Ross.”
David makes as though he had missed a word now and again in order to prolong the pleasure.
It was not hard to tell that he had such a letter in his pocket on the 'Sabbath, for the kirkyard was very cunning in its sympathy.
“Hoo's the Professor keepin' when ye heard laist, Bogleigh?” Drumsheugh would say, skilfully leading up to the one subject, and careful to give David his territorial designation, although it was a very small farm indeed, “he 'ill send a scrape o' the pen at a time, a 'm ex-peckin', gin he hes a meenut tae spare.”
“Busy or no busy,” answers Bogleigh, “he maks time tae write hame. His mither hes hed a letter frae John aince a week withoot fail sin he left Bogleigh a laddie o' saxteen for Edinburgh.
“They 're no juist twa or three lines, aither, but sax an' aught sheets,” continued David, warming. “An' the names, they cowe a'thing for length an' leamin'. Wud ye believe it, the Professor tells his mither every article he writes, and a' the wark he dis.
“He wes tellin's laist letter aboot some graund discovery he's feenished, an' they 're threatenin' tae gie him a new title for't. A'm no juist sure what it means, but it disna maitter, gin the laddie dis his duty and keep his health,” and David affected to close the subject. “It's fell warm the day.”
“Ye 'll no hae that letter on ye, Bogie?” inquired Jamie Soutar anxiously. “Gin ye cud pit yir hand on't, the neeburs wud like tae hear whatna honour the Professor's gotten.”
“Na, na, Jamie, it disna dae for a body tae be deavin' (deafening) the countryside wi' clavers aboot his bairns; if it hedna been Drumsheugh speirin' for John a' wudna hae said a word, but a'm muckle obleeged, and sae is the laddie, for a' mind hoo he wrote, 'My respects to the neighbours on Sabbath.'”
“That wes rael handsome,” began Whinnie, much impressed by “respects,” “but a' mind the Professor was aye a douce—”
“Div ye think, Bogleigh, that the Professor belongs tae yersel noo an' the gude wife,” broke in Jamie, “juist as if he were some ordinar' man? Na, na; gin a laddie gaes up frae the Glen tae the University, an' comes oot at the tap o' his classes, bringin' hame three medals ilka spring, an' opens secret things in nature that naebody kent afore, an' is selected by Government tae foond places o' learnin' ayont the sea, that laddie belangs tae Drumtochty.
“Div ye mind the day his life wes in the LondonTimes, and Drumsheugh read it at the Junction? 'This eminent man of science was born at Drumtochty in Perthshire, and received his early education at the parish school.'”
“Ye hae't tae a word, Jamie,” said Drumsheugh, and passed his box, in name of the Glen, as it were, to Domsie.
“Oor standin' measure,” concluded Jamie, “leavin' oot Airchie Moncur and masel, will rin tae aboot sax feet, but a' coontit that we gaed up the hill that nicht wi' fower inches a man tae spare. Whar 's that letter, Bogleigh?”
After a feint of seeking it in his trousers, where he was as likely to carry it as the family Bible, David produced it from an inner breast pocket, wrapped in newspaper, and handed it to Domsie without a word.
“Div ye want me tae read it?”—as if this had not been the schoolmaster's due. “Weel, weel, a 'll dae ma best,” and then Domsie laid himself out to do justice to the Professor's letter, while Drumtochty wagged its head in admiration.
“Fellow of the Royal Society,” and Domsie became solemn to the height of reverence; “this cowes a'thing. A'm credibly informed that this is the highest honour given tae leam-in' in oor land; a 'ill be boond the 'll no be anither F.R.S. in sax coonties; may be no mair than twa or three in braid Scotland.”
“It's the graundest thing the Glen's dune yet,” and Jamie took up the strain; “he 's M.A. already, an' some ither letters; ye cudna rin them ower?”
Then Domsie gave John Ross's degrees one by one. “That comes tae five, makin' nae mention o' ither honours; there's thirty-one degrees in the Glen the noo, and John heads the list, if a' micht call a Professor by a laddie's name.”
“Wha hes a better richt?” said the father, with much spirit; “ye laid the foondation o't a', an' he often said that himsel.”
Opinion differed whether David or Domsie looked prouder in kirk that day, but Jamie inclined to Domsie, whom he had detected counting the degrees over again during the chapter.
Four Sundays after David appeared in the kirkyard with such woe upon his face that Drumsheugh could only imagine one reason, and omitted preliminaries.
“Naethin' wrang wi' the Professor, Bogleigh?” and Domsie held his pinch in mid air.
“John wes deein' when this letter left, an' noo he 'ill maybe... be dead an' buried... his mither an' me were ower prood o' him, but ye ken hoo... gude,” and the old man broke down utterly.
They looked helplessly at one another, averting their gaze from the Professors father, and then Drumsheugh took hold of the situation.
“This is no lichtsome, Dauvid, an' the neeburs share yir tribble, but dinna gie up houp and then Drumsheugh read the letter from Australia, while Hillocks and Whinnie, turning their backs on David, sheltered his grief from public view.
“Dear Mr. Ross,—You will have noticed that the last letter from my friend Dr. Ross was written in a feeble hand. He was laid down about three weeks ago with what has turned out to be typhoid fever, and ought not to have seen paper. But we considered the case a mild one, and he was determined to send his usual letter home. Now the disease has taken a bad turn, and he is quite delirious, mentioning his mother and his old schoolmaster by turns, and thinking that he is again in Drumtochty. His colleagues in medicine are consulting twice a day about him, and everything will be done for one we all admire and love. But he is very low, and I think it right to prepare you for what may be bad news.—Believe me, with much respect, yours faithfully,
“Frederick St. Clair.”
“A 've seen a mair cheerfu' letter,” and Drumsheugh looked at the fathers from above his spectacles; “but it micht be waur. A 'll guarantee the Professor 's no as far through wi 't as Saunders, an' yonder he is alive and livin' like,” nodding in the direction where that brawny man propped up the gable of the kirk with his shoulders and maintained a massive silence with Tammas Mitchell.
“Nae doot, nae doot,” said Hillocks, deriving just encouragement from the study of Saunders's figure; “aifter the wy Weelum Maclure brocht Saunders through a' wud houp for the best gin a' wes Bogleigh.”
“Sae a' wud, neeburs,” and David came forth again, “gin we hed oor laddie at hame an' oor ain man tae guide him. But there's nae Weelum Maclure oot yonder—naebody but strangers.”
“We micht ask the doctor tae pit up a prayer,” suggested Hillocks; “it cudna dae ony mischief, an' it's aye a comfort.”
“He daurna dae't,” cried David, whose mind was quickened by grief; “it 'ill be a' ower lang syne, an' it 's no lawfu' tae pray for... the dead.”
“Dinna be feared, Bogie,” said Jamie; “the doctor'ill tak the responsibeelity himsel, and ye may be sure he 'ill get some road oot o' the wood. It wud be a puir kirk the day gin we cudna plead wi' the Almichty for oor Professor.”
“Ye hae the word, Jamie,” said Drumsheugh, “an' a 'll gang in an' tell the doctor masel;” but Whinnie confessed afterwards that he thought this prayer beyond even the doctor.
It followed the petition for the harvest, and this was how it ran—the Free Kirk people had it word for word by Monday—
“Remember, we beseech Thee, most merciful Father, a father and mother who wait with anxious hearts for tidings of their only son, and grant that, before this week be over, Thy servant who is charged with many messages to this parish may bring to them good news from a far country.”
“Didna a' tell ye?” triumphed Jamie, going down to the gate, while Posty, who had required the whole length of the sermon to recognise himself, departed, much lifted, declaring aloud:
“The 'll be nae black edge in the bag next Friday, or a'm no postman o' Drumtochty.”
Letters for Bogleigh were left about two o'clock in a box on the main road two miles distant, and brought up by the scholars in the evening; but it was agreed early in the week that David and his wife should go down and receive the letter from Posty's own hands on Friday. In order not to be late, Meg rose at four that morning—but indeed she need not have gone to bed—and by eight o'clock was afraid they might be late. Three times she took out and rearranged her treasures, and three times broke down utterly, because she would never see her laddie again. They followed Posty from his start outwards, and were comforted about eleven with the thought that he was on the return journey.
“He's fairly aff for hame noo, wumman,” David would say, “an' wheepin' through Neth-eraird; he's no mair than ten mile awa, a'll warrant, an' he's a terrible walker.”
“He 'ill surely no be tastin' at the Netheraird public-hoose, Dauvid, an' loiterin'; a've kent him no be at the box till half three.”
“Na, na, there's nae fear o' Posty the day; a'll be boond he's savin' every meenut; ye mind hoo prood he wes tae bring the letter wi' the Professor's appintment.”
“Isn't it michty tae think we 're pittin' aff the time here,” and Meg began to get ready, “when he's maybe in the pairish already?”
It was exactly a quarter past twelve when the two old people sat down in the shadow of the firs above the box to wait for the first sight of Posty.
“A' daurna meet him, Dauvid, aifter a',” she said; “we 'ill juist watch him pit the letter in, and slip doon when he's gane, an'... oh! but a' ken what it 'ill be.”
“A'm expeckin tae hear John's on the mend masel,” said David manfully, and he set himself to fortify his wife with Saunders's case and the doctor's prayer, till she lifted her head again and watched.
A summer wind passed over the pines, the wood-pigeons cooed above their heads, rabbits ran out and in beside them, the burn below made a pleasant sound, a sense of the Divine Love descended on their hearts.
“The Aimichty,” whispered Meg, “'ill surely no tak awa oor only bairn... an' him dune sae weel... an' sae gude a son... A' wes coontin' on him comin' hame next year... an' seein' him aince mair... afore a' deed.”
A bread cart from Kildrummie lumbered along the road. Maclure passed on Jess at a sharp trot. A company of tourists returning from Glen Urtach sang “Will ye no come back again?” Donald Menzies also sang as he brought a horse from the smiddy, but it was a psalm—