When it came to the question of starting out again, he found it less easy than he had anticipated.
"Ye'll nae think o' leavin' this hoose the nicht!" the old man declared, when, after his supper and a pipe, Bonar touched on the subject.
"It's an impossibeelity for ony mon as disna' ken the hill yon to find his wye up or doon in siclike weather," Jock added grimly.
Bonar knew how true was Jock's remark. Nevertheless, he felt very uncomfortable at the prospect of remaining there for the night, as Davie had proposed. Did they know who he was? It seemed most unlikely, with the kindness they had shown him! Yet he could not stay, he told himself, under false pretences.
"It's more than kind of you to treat me like this," he said. "I could never have expected such a friendly welcome to one who is a perfect stranger to you all."
"Nae altogither a stranger, whateever," returned Davie—and for a moment there was ever so slight a suspicion of a twinkle in his kindly old eyes. "Ye're the new gauger we've haird sae muckle aboot, I'm thinkin'."
"Quite so," stammered Bonar, rather shamefacedly, "and—it's really very good of you to show me so much kindness."
"Na, na, sir," said the old man warmly. "I should be wantin' in human feelin' if I wes to turn a dog oot sic a nicht—still mair a fellow-creetur. Na, na, sir! Juist ye sit still, and Maggie Jean'll redd up the bed for ye beyont for y'r nicht's rest!"
So in the smuggler's very house the smuggler's natural enemy was bound to rest for the night, having been warmed at the smuggler's hearth and cheered and invigorated by whiskey that had paid no duty!
It was with changed mien that Bonar trod his downward path next morning under Peter's guidance.
Be sure he lost no time in applying for removal to a new sphere of labor! Let others tackle Davie Forbes and his sons if they wished; as for himself, he could never so repay the fearless generosity to which he owed—as he firmly believed—the saving of his life!
"This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him." ("Hamlet" Act I, Sc. 1.)
Strolling across the little stableyard one day to have a look at Tim, our pony, I heard from the open door of the kitchen Penny's voice, raised in expostulation.
"Ghost, indeed!" And withering scorn was expressed in the very tone of her ejaculation. "When you're my _h_age you'll have learned to take no 'eed of such nonsense! There's no such a thing; and I'm surprised as a Catholic girl, born and bred, should be that superstitious! You mustn't believe such rubbish!"
I scented entertainment, for Penny dogmatizing on spiritualism was likely to prove interesting.
"What's up, Penny?" I inquired with an air of innocence, as she suddenly emerged from the kitchen, wrathfully brandishing a huge knife—as who should say, in Hamlet's words:
"I'll make a ghost of him that lets me!"
had she not been bent upon the more peaceful, if prosaic, slaughter of a lettuce for the luncheon salad.
Penny was just in the mood to give vent to her theological opinions concerning the possibility of visits from another world, and at once seized the opportunity of imparting a little wholesome instruction to any audience obtainable.
"The nonsense that folks get into their 'eads nowadays, Mr. Edmund—what with these trashy novels and 'apenny papers—is something past belief! Not but what Elsie is a good, quiet girl enough, and reg'lar at her duties every first Sunday in the month; but she's young, and I suppose we 'ave to make allowance for young folk."
I murmured in token of acquiescence.
"I let her off for the afternoon yesterday, to take tea with her _h_aunt from America, and back she comes with a cock-and-bull story of a _h_apparition her youngest brother Aleck imagined he saw the night before last."
"An apparition!" I cried. "That's strange! Where did the boy see it?"
"He couldn't have seen it, Mr. Edmund, as you must know very well, with your _h_education and experience. He was running home in the moonlight and thought he saw some figure in the old mill, which, of course, he says must have been a ghost."
"A ghost at the old mill!" I laughed heartily myself at the notion. "It couldn't have been poor old Archie. It's not like him to terrify his neighbors in that way."
"I gave the girl a good talking to," continued Penny. (I did not doubt it!) "'Read your Penny Catechism,' I said, 'and see how strong it is against dealing with the Devil by consulting spiritualists, and don't let me hear another word about it.'"
It seemed rather hard on poor Elsie, who was, beyond doubt, innocent of any such forbidden practices. But I refrained from comment, for I wanted to hear more about the _h_apparition.
But Penny could not be drawn out. She professed herself so disgusted at Elsie's "superstition" that I could get no coherent account of what Aleck was supposed to have seen. So I left her to vent her wrath on the defenceless vegetables, and determined to seek a more copious source of information.
Willy and Bell would be capable of second-hand descriptions only, so I resolved to approach the fountain-head and interrogate Aleck in person. I found the youth in the garden of Fanellan farm, evidently just passing the time by a cursory pruning of berry bushes. He had on his Sunday suit, and was unusually smartened up for a weekday; for it was but natural that neighbors might be expected to drop in for information as to the supernatural manifestations he had experienced, and it was well to be prepared. He was a fresh-looking, fair-haired lad of eighteen or thereabouts. I had often noticed him on Sundays among the gathering under the pine-trees near the church door, but had never spoken to him.
Aleck had not expected so illustrious a visitor as "the priest's brother," and, though evidently gratified by my interest, was so painfully shy that it would have needed an expert barrister to draw out any satisfactory information from so bashful a witness. Luckily his mother had espied me from the window, and promptly appeared on the scene, and by means of her judicious prompting the youth was induced to tell his tale.
It appeared that Aleck was out on the night in question at the unusual hour of twelve. He had been "bidden," as his mother explained, to a marriage in the neighborhood, and his father had allowed him to accept the invitation on the condition of his return home by midnight. As is not unusual in such cases, the attractions of the dance had led the youth to postpone his departure, minute by minute, until it was questionable whether he could possibly reach home by the appointed time, even if he ran his best. Consequently he took all the short cuts he knew, and one of them led him by the old mill.
I was well aware, from an anecdote related to me by Penny, that John Farquhar, the lad's father, was a stern disciplinarian. Elsie's elder sister, Jean, a lass of nineteen, had once happened to return home from confession rather later than usual one Saturday evening, owing to the exceptionally large number awaiting their turn in the church. On reaching home about half-past eight on a spring evening, she became aware of her father standing in the dusk at the garden gate, holding an ominously slender walking-stick in his hand. With this he proceeded to deal several far from gentle strokes upon the girl's shoulders, regardless of her frightened remonstrances and explanations.
"I dinna' care wha ye come frae, chaipel or nae chaipel; ye'll nae be alloowed oot at sic an hoor!"
In the light of this circumstance it was not difficult to understand Aleck's desire to reach Fanellan punctually. But to return to his adventure.
As he approached the old mill he became aware of a light shining from one of the windows. Thinking that some traveling tinkers had taken up free lodgings there, he was preparing to pass as quickly and quietly as possible, to avoid drawing attention upon himself and delaying his progress. But, to his astonishment, the light suddenly went out, and by the time he reached the house it was wrapped in darkness. There was little moonlight (spite of Penny's indignant insinuations), for it was a cloudy night, and the lad would have had difficulty in finding his way had it not been so familiar. Curiosity urged Aleck to investigate the mystery of the light, and, forgetful for the moment of his father's injunction, he crept quietly to the unglazed window and looked through the opening. Not a sound revealed the presence of any human being within. A silence, accentuated no doubt by his startled imagination, seemed to hang over the place. He was starting on again when a strange sight met his eyes. Suddenly out of the darkness of the cottage shone out the figure of a human hand! It seemed to glow with a faint greenish light, and it held a long pointed knife, which burned with the same pale hue. Nothing else could be seen except a kind of gauzy floating sleeve, from which the mysterious hand emerged. Aleck had no wish to investigate further, but promptly took to his heels, and made for home with all speed, frightened out of his wits.
As luck would have it, the clock by which he had started was fast, and he was home in good time. The circumstance tended to render his story more worthy of credence than it might otherwise have proved. But his evident terror, and the very incoherence of his narrative, told in his favor.
"He's been a truthful lad all his days," his mother proudly testified; "while as to drink—not a drop of spirits has passed his lips sin' I gev' him a wee drop for the spasms when he wes a wean!"
And Aleck's blushing approval of the maternal statement bore witness to its truth.
I confess that the story did not in the least rouse any superstitious credence in my mind. Luminous paint was not such an unknown quantity to me as it would be to this country-bred lad and his family. I took care, however, to breathe no word of my suspicions; for I meant to make a few investigations on my own account. So with the looked-for expressions of astonishment, I took my leave.
I had been asked to dine at Ardmuir House that evening, and as it was a matter of eight miles distant, I was to stay the night. Accordingly, I started in good time in the pony cart, old Willy by my side to bring back the trap. Colonel Ashol was by way of being civil to Val and myself, and frequently invited us; my brother, however, seldom accepted, and was always glad when I undertook to represent the Flemings there. The Ashols, though a family of a feeble type of Protestants, showed no decided bigotry. They had a few Catholics in their employ on the estate, and were cordial enough with us.
Ardmuir House and some of its land had been Church property before the Reformation. Val looked the matter up once, and discovered that it had been a dependency upon one of the larger abbeys, and was itself a place of no little importance.
The mansion itself was rather picturesque; it had been rebuilt in a later century on the site and from the materials of the former church and monastery. You drove for some distance up a stately avenue of beeches before sighting the house. It was a big, roomy place, with fine large windows and handsome moldings round them—probably portions of the spoils of the ancient erection. A wide portico, supported on stone pillars, stood in front of the chief entrance, and carriages might drive under its shelter to set down the occupants at the doorstep. An air of gloom seemed to hang about it, owing to the huge trees which grew pretty close to it in places.
The one striking feature about the house was the parapet, which ran round the entire roof. This was pierced in such a way as to form the letters composing a text of Scripture. The inscription, in huge characters, ran thus:
The idea of such a decoration doubtless originated with the desire of some pious Presbyterian ancestor of the present owners to emphasize the fact that the ancient builders had not made pure Gospel teaching their sure foundation. But, by the irony of fate, the text had become a striking commentary upon the fortunes of later possessors of sacrilegious spoils; for it was a tradition—upon which the family kept a discreet silence—that three male heirs in direct succession had never lived to inherit the property. At the very time of which I am writing, Colonel Ashol's only son was suffering from what doctors had pronounced to be incipient spinal disease, which, should it develop, would render him a helpless cripple for life—should life be granted to him.
I was rather more keen than usual about that particular visit, as I expected to meet a young Catholic priest, who was to stay with the Ashols for a day or two in company with his mother, an old friend of the hostess. For that reason Val would have accompanied me that evening, in spite of his aversion to such "inanities," as he chose to call dinner parties, had he not been otherwise engaged. He had already made an appointment to interview for the first time a girl who lived some distance away and could not be easily postponed; moreover, the occasion was important, being the commencement of a series of instructions preparatory to her reception into the Church. For the lassie in question—to use the terminology of Ardmuirland—"had gotten a Catholic man"; in other words, was engaged to be married to a Catholic, who had inspired her with the desire of sharing his faith as well as his worldly goods.
It was early when I arrived. The Colonel and some of the men were still out on the moors, but a few guests were sitting about in the big, cool entrance hall, waiting for tea. Among them were Mrs. Vansome and her son, to both of whom I was at once presented. They happened to be the only Catholics of the house party. We chatted amicably for some time, until the dressing-bell broke up the gathering for the nonce.
I happened to remain for a few minutes in the hall after the rest had left; I wanted to look into a paper which was there, and I knew my room from previous visits. The staircase ran along two sides of the hall and led to a broad corridor, upon which the rooms opened. Another passage at right angles joined this corridor, and to reach my room I had to pass by the end of it.
It was just between daylight and dusk, on a September evening, and no lamps were yet needed. As I passed the passage on my way I saw an elderly lady coming toward the main corridor. I am no great observer of feminine costume—perhaps because I am not much in ladies' company, or, it may be, because I never had a sister to instruct me; I can only say of this lady's dress, therefore, that it struck me as differing from those I had lately seen in the hall, both in fashion and material. I remember hearing a rustling as of silk, and I think there was some white lace about the neck and hair.
But what struck me most was the woman's face. I had looked in her direction, lest I might seem discourteous to some acquaintance; but this was a stranger. The face was that of a woman in an agony of suffering! The wide-open eyes were full of trouble; the whole countenance expressed pain and something like terror. (I am describing the impression made upon me at the moment, for the incident passed more quickly than it takes to tell, however brief the narration.)
As my eyes met hers, the woman stretched out her hands with an appealing gesture, and seemed to be hastening swiftly toward me. But just as she was almost near enough to touch me, she suddenly disappeared—having turned, as it seemed to me, into a door close by.
For a moment I stood bewildered. Then that look of appeal for help came back to mind; it was evident something was wrong. I at once entered the open door into which the figure had passed, determined to do what I could to assist one in such unmistakable need of help. To my astonishment I found that the place was a mere housemaid's closet, for the keeping of brooms, dusting appliances, and the like. It was but a tiny room, too; a glance from the threshold was enough to convince me that no human being was there!
It was not so much surprise as terror that seized me at such a discovery. I found myself wiping from my brow the cold sweat that stood there in great drops. I felt certain that I had been face to face with something unexplainable by the ordinary laws of nature. I was as well as usual. I had read nothing of late that could have conjured up such a figure. As to preternatural manifestations of such a kind—I had but that very day, and but an hour or two ago, passed supercilious judgment on what I thought the credulity of ignorant rustics. And yet here I was, the victim to some such hallucination—unless it was possible that I had really seen the figure with my bodily eyes! My knees were shaking under me as I managed to reach my room, my whole being agitated by an unaccountable sense of fear.
Luckily we were allowed an unusually long time for dressing, and I was able to get a smoke and take a bath; by dinner-time I was more like myself.
I tried hard at first to persuade myself that the entire scene had been imaginary; but I could not succeed. I was too firmly convinced that I had actually seen such a figure to entertain the idea.
Dinner passed without particular incident. I had an interesting chat after with young Father Vansome. I discovered that he was a Benedictine attached to one of the English monasteries, and had been permitted, as a relief from a long spell of heavy teaching work, to spend a few days at Ardmuir House, where his mother was then staying. He was dressed like an ordinary priest; this, as he explained, was out of consideration for the Ashols, who were entertaining among their guests that day some of ultra-Protestant views, who might have resented the intrusion into their midst of a real live monk, "in habit as he lived."
More than once during our conversation the extraordinary occurrence which had disturbed my peace of mind kept intruding itself upon my mental vision, and again and again it was almost divulged to my companion; but I shrank from being laughed at as a victim to superstitious imaginings. I had a priest for a brother, and no one knew better than I how sceptical were our own clergy with regard to any supernatural happenings that had not been corroborated by the testimony of reliable authority.
There was the usual smoke, with the usual billiards, and bedtime arrived without any disclosure on my part of the mysterious incident. I did not fear further revelations, for my bedroom was nowhere near the scene of the apparition. I must confess to a momentary creepy sensation as I passed, in company with other men, the corridor of the adventure; but nothing happened to disturb my rest materially.
I like to be stirring at a pretty early hour, to get a morning pipe of peace. But in a strange house it is not always convenient to prowl about too soon; however, I could not interfere with any one in the garden, so to the garden I promptly betook myself. It wanted an hour until breakfast, and I was rather surprised to find the Benedictine already pacing the broad walk under the terrace, which was out of view of the windows. He was not smoking, though, and when I accosted him it seemed to me that he looked somewhat disturbed and embarrassed. We passed a few desultory remarks, and then he asked whether I intended to leave early after breakfast or stay for lunch. As it happened, I had arranged for Willy to bring the cart in time to start soon after ten; for Val had to drive somewhere in the afternoon, and it was as well to give Tim a rest before starting out again. This I explained to Father Vansome.
"I wonder whether you could give me a lift," was his remark. "I should very much like to consult Father Fleming upon a certain matter, and if you could take me, it would avoid a fuss here. I shall enjoy the tramp back again."
Of course I was delighted to give him a lift. So we set off in due time with Willy on the back seat. I had been rejoicing in the prospect of an agreeable drive with a pleasant companion, for I had been greatly attracted by the young monk; but I was doomed to disappointment. My constant efforts at conversation fell flat; for the priest seemed preoccupied, and his responses were evidently merely mechanical.
Father Vansome was closeted with Val up to lunch time. He sat down to table with us, and after the meal he and Val drove off together in the trap; they had arranged that Father Vansome should get down at a point where their roads diverged. I was rather astonished to learn, when I took leave of him, that he hoped to return that same evening, as he had a particular reason for wishing to say Mass next day.
Left to myself, I turned my steps in the direction of Archie's former dwelling at the old mill; for I hoped to light upon some evidence which would clear up to my own satisfaction at least the apparent mystery of Aleck Farquhar's ghost story. Although I could not account by any natural means for the event which had startled me at Ardmuir House, I was nevertheless still sceptical with regard to the supposed apparition at the mill-house. Indeed, I felt more certain than ever that a living person had been playing pranks in the latter case, to serve some purpose of his own; the impossibility of fraud in my regard contrasted strongly with its probability at the old mill.
I was not deceived in my expectation. I found that the boards that usually covered the window opening had been carefully removed, and were standing in a corner awaiting replacement, probably. Here was a sign that the midnight visitor had been surprised, and had not dared to wait to cover up the window again—unless, indeed, it meant that another "apparition" was intended. But a more close investigation convinced me of trickery. Flung away into a corner was a small brush bearing traces of luminous paint, and in a heap of rubbish I discerned the very lid of a small tin of that effective spiritualistic medium. No further proof was needed. By lucky chance I discovered what appeared to be a clue to the reason of all this mystification. Loosened stones in the chimney and by the hearth suggested that a search had been made for something supposed to be hidden in the hut. The spiritual visitor had evidently been bent upon seizing the material riches which rumor had doubtless located in the dwelling of one whom those not in his confidence would have reason to regard as a miser. Here then was one illusion dissipated by my discoveries.
Father Vansome was driven over again in time for dinner. During the progress of the meal I was inclined to make merry over my find; but I had little success in gaining the interest either of Val or our guest, who both seemed to shun the topic.
When dinner was over, it occurred to me to introduce the subject of my own ghostly experience, for I was curious to hear what the priests would think of it. As I led up to it by degrees I saw the dark eyes of Father Vansome light up with expectation. Both he and Val listened with keen interest, neither attempting to interrupt the narration. Then they looked spontaneously at each other.
"I am quite as convinced as yourself," said the Benedictine to me as I finished my relation, "that what you saw was neither an hallucination nor a human figure. I have seen it also, and that is why I am here now."
He then gave, in turn, his experience. During the early part of the night he had been unusually restless. When he did at last fall asleep he had a strange dream. He saw the figure of an elderly woman, clad in antique garb, holding by the hand a young man, who wore the habit of his own Order. The woman fixed upon him eyes full of entreaty, and implored him in piteous accents to offer Mass for her soul, for it was in his power to release her from grievous torments. Father Vansome then awoke, the impression made by his dream still vivid. He struck a light and looked at his watch. It was two o'clock only; but his nerves were too highly strung to suffer him to sleep again, and he lay wondering what the dream could signify.
Suddenly, while still wide awake, he was aware of the figure of the woman of his dream standing by his bed. Her eyes were full of intense supplication, and her hands stretched out to him in eager entreaty. Yielding to a sudden, irresistible impulse, he exclaimed:
"Tell me, in God's name, who you are and what you want of me?"
The answer came in a clear, distinct voice:
"I am Elizabeth Ashol. I am suffering for a wrong done to my stepson, Gilbert, a monk of your Order. Say Mass for my soul and I shall have rest."
Then the figure vanished.
Father Vansome naturally had no more sleep that morning. Very early, indeed, he was summoned to his mother's bedside by her maid, and found her as agitated as himself. From her lips he learned that she too had been visited by the figure he had himself seen. The woman, answering to the description of his ghostly visitor, had approached Mrs. Vansome's bed, when she was still wide awake, with outstretched hands and entreating eyes, but no voice had been heard.
The apparition to his mother had convinced Father Vansome that what he had experienced was no trick of the imagination. He had, however, taken counsel with Val, who, like himself, was of opinion that the Mass ought to be said. He had found on returning to Ardmuir House that morning that his mother had confided the matter to Mrs. Ashol, and had heard from her that previous visitors had experienced similar apparitions; on further consideration it was discovered—though Mrs. Ashol had not realized it before—that such persons had been invariably Catholics. There was, however, no record of the figure having spoken; this had happened for the first time to the only Benedictine monk who had ever entered the house since Elizabeth Ashol's death, two centuries before.
It appeared that a certain Dame Elizabeth Ashol, second wife of Gilbert Ashol, lived in the latter part of the seventeenth century. She had one son, Laurence, to whom his father left the estate, to the exclusion of his eldest son, Gilbert, the offspring of the first marriage. This youth, to his father's intense indignation, had reverted to the faith of his ancestors; soon after his conversion he had entered a monastery on the continent, with a view to returning, as so many of his religious brethren were then doing, to work for the restoration of his fellow-countrymen to the Church. It was generally thought that Dame Elizabeth, in her ambition for the welfare of her own son, had encouraged her husband in his religious bias, and secured the succession for Laurence. It was held in the family that the disasters which had always befallen the first-born of the house dated from the unjust acquisition of the estate by this Laurence, and the entire disinheriting of Gilbert; it was from a kind of superstitious dread attaching to the name that no Ashol for a long term of years had ever been baptized Laurence.
Father Vansome said the required Mass next morning, and his mother drove over to assist at it. Her prayers and mine were thus united with the supreme Sacrifice on behalf of the soul so greatly in need.
The apparition has never been seen again, though many a Catholic guest has visited Ardmuir House. More wonderful still—the curse seems to have been averted by the laying of the ghost; for young Gilbert Ashol has so greatly improved in health and strength that his doctors predict for him a probably long and useful life.
The family has indeed been thoroughly impressed by the strange circumstances just related. In the light of their increasing interest in all things Catholic, Val is beginning to entertain hopes of the ultimate return of the Ashols to the Faith their fathers abandoned more than three hundred years ago.
"Now Ariel goes a-singing, by the oldenDark yews, where flitter-mice were wont to cling.All the world is turning golden, turning goldenIn the spring."(Nora Hopper—"April")
"Guess the latest news, Ted," said my brother, coming in from parochial visits.
I shook my head.
"I'm no hand at riddles."
"Well, there's a marriage to come off in our parish before long, if matters can be satisfactorily arranged."
"A marriage!" That roused me; it would be the first function of the kind I had seen in Ardmuirland. For our lads usually fetched partners from elsewhere, and maidens being accustomed to migrate to service in the south, found mates there—even as the swallows.
"I thought that would fetch you!" cried Val triumphant. "And now give a guess."
But I racked my brains to no purpose.
"It's not Widow Lamont, and it's not Robina——"
"Why not?" he asked. But I saw he was quizzing.
"It's a widow," he said. "I'll tell you that much."
Even then I was nonplussed.
"Ted, you've no imagination! Is Christian Logan too old?"
"Christian Logan! Of course not! Who's the happy man?"
"He's not altogether happy yet," returned Val. "There are obstacles in the way at present. Do you know the Camerons of Redbank Farm at all?"
"Camerons of Redbank! Why, they're Protestants!"
"Tell me something I don't know already," he retorted.
"I can say very little about them. There are two brothers, I believe—one very middle-aged and the other less so. I may have passed the time of day with one or the other."
"Well, it's the less middle-aged one—Lachlan by name—who wants to marry Christian. It's all right about religion. He's ready to make all the necessary promises, and moreover, remarked quite spontaneously that he intended coming to church with his wife after they were married—a most unusual undertaking in these cases. He's evidently merely ignorant of everything Catholic; not bigoted, really. With a wife like Christian, he is most likely to enter the Church himself eventually."
"But what are these almost insurmountable obstacles?"
"Chiefly financial. It seems that the elder brother is the actual tenant of Redbank, and Lachlan is little better than a farm-servant at present. It would be scarcely possible for the poor chap to support a wife and three of a ready-made family on the wages of a mere plowman—except, of course, in the style of a common laborer, and he is far above that. The best way out of the difficulty would be for Christian to manage the house at Redbank, instead of a paid housekeeper; but the old brother is bitter against Catholics, and more opposed to young children in the house. Hence these tears! Don't you think there are rather respectable obstacles to be overcome?"
"Quite. So what did you suggest?"
"Cameron himself suggested what I think a reasonable solution: to try for some situation as farm bailiff or manager. He is thoroughly up to it all, for he has been practically managing things at Redbank for the last year or two, and has plenty of experience in farm work."
"He ought to be able to find something of the sort. Could the factor at Taskerton do anything for him, do you think? Christian has already lost a husband in the service of the estate, and it would be but restitution to provide her with another."
"The idea struck me, too, though not in precisely the same terms," said Val with an amused laugh. "I am thinking of writing to him about the matter."
"You are really satisfied with the man, then?"
"Decidedly so! He struck me as being a very decent sort of fellow. He has a straight-forward, pleasant manner with him, and is altogether superior to an ordinary crofter. It would be a good match for Christian. Poor soul! She deserves a better lot than she enjoys at present."
"What's his age, do you suppose?"
"Forty-six. Quite a lad, for these parts!"
"Things look all right, certainly," was my summing up.
Val wrote to the factor, but the result was not over-promising. He knew of nothing suitable at present. But he would keep the case in mind, and write at once should he hear of anything available.
Both Val and I were keen on getting the matter settled, and often talked it over together, discussing ways and means. But the weeks slipped by, and we found ourselves no nearer to a solution of the difficulty. We little dreamed of the quarter from which it was eventually to come!
One day as we sat at breakfast Elsie brought in a telegram for Val. It was a somewhat unusual occurrence; for we were a good way from the office, and, porterage being expensive, we had carefully instructed our ordinary correspondents that we preferred the humbler post-card, as a rule. When a telegram did arrive, therefore, it generally presaged something of unusual importance. I saw Val's face change as he read it. He passed it over to me as he rose to write a reply. This is what I saw:
"Gowan dying wants to see you come immediately."
It was signed by a Glasgow doctor, and sent from one of the chief hotels of the city.
I followed Val to his den, where he was writing the answer.
"Would you mind my coming with you?" I asked.
"I should like it of all things," was his reply.
In less than half an hour we had started, and before night had arrived at our destination.
It always seems to me that one feels one's personal insignificance more keenly in a big city than anywhere else. The hurry and bustle on all sides witness to the self-interest which rules every individual of the crowd, to the exclusion of any sincere concern for others. The feeling was accentuated when we reached the hotel. There all was brightness and movement; in the brilliantly lighted dining-room guests were eating, drinking, chatting, and enjoying life; in the hall and on the staircases attendants were moving swiftly about, visitors were coming and going. Each one's pleasures, comforts, and advantages were the business of the hour. Yet in some chamber overhead a momentous crisis was at hand for one poor, lonely man, who had to leave behind him this scene of busy life, to enter upon an eternity of weal or woe. Upon the passing moments everything depended for him; he had to prepare to meet his God. Around him things were taking their usual course; it mattered little to the majority of the people under that roof whether he lived or died, and less still how his soul would fare in that passage. Yet the things which made up the present happiness of the crowd were those which he had labored so strenuously to procure—ease, enjoyment, freedom from care—the companions of wealth. For these he had bartered not only the toil and stress of his best years, but something infinitely more precious; part of the price had been the favour of his God! Now he had to part with all these gains, willing or unwilling; would he have the grace to sue for the mercy which might still be his for the asking?
We had ascertained that Gowan still lived, though there was no hope for his recovery, and were ascending the staircase to our rooms when we encountered a priest coming down. He regarded Val with evident interest, then stopped and accosted him. He proved to be one of the neighboring parochial clergy, who had just been visiting the dying man. Val invited him to our room, and there we learned the circumstances of the case.
Gowan had been in Glasgow about a fortnight, having come thither immediately after landing in Liverpool. He was seriously ill when he arrived at the hotel, and was compelled to take to his bed at once. A doctor was sent for, and found him suffering from heart disease, which had already reached an advanced stage. In spite of every attention the patient became rapidly worse. He would not infrequently fall into fits of unconsciousness, which were the prelude to a state of coma in which he would eventually pass away from life.
To the man's credit, be it said, he at once asked for a priest when he became aware of his danger, and had afterward desired to see Val. All the Sacraments had been administered, and Gowan lay in a weak state, hovering between life and death. I could not but think of the lasting gratitude of Christian Logan and her children, which had led them to remember this man daily in their prayers; who could tell how great a part those prayers had had in securing for him the grace to make his peace with God at the eleventh hour?
Val went in alone to Gowan's room; it was not for me to take any part in such an interview. It was not long before he was back again in our own apartment. Gowan's reception of him had been all that could have been desired. The man expressed sincere sorrow for his ill behavior, and begged Val's forgiveness. But what was still more satisfactory was his message to Christian and her children. He asked pardon for his unkindness in deserting them; they would soon see, he said, how dear they were to him.
"He has made his will in their favor," was Val's summing up of the matter. "He was just explaining that fact when he had another bad attack quite suddenly, and I came away, after summoning the nurse."
That conversation, short as it was, proved to be the last in which the dying man was to take part with my brother. He passed away a short time after, having never recovered consciousness. The Catholic nurse had sent for Val a few minutes after he had rejoined me. We both went to the sick-room, and my brother had said the prayers for the dying, followed by those for the repose of his soul when Gowan ceased to breathe.
The funeral was over and we had been back in Ardmuirland for some weeks before any tidings arrived about the dead man's affairs. All arrangements as to payment of expenses and the like were carried out by a Glasgow lawyer, who had been empowered to act for Gowan's agent in America. The most thorough search had failed to discover anything in the shape of a will among the dead man's effects in Glasgow, and it was supposed to be in the keeping of the American lawyer. When tidings did arrive, they were such as to fill us with consternation. The will in the lawyer's possession was dated more than two years before, after Gowan's return to America from Ardmuirland. Its terms, moreover, by no means tallied with the information given by the dying man to Val; for in it there was no mention of the Logans at all, everything being bequeathed to the Freemason's lodge of which Gowan had been a member.
Val was puzzled, but not convinced.
"It's a mystery, certainly," he said; "but I feel absolutely satisfied that there is another will somewhere. Poor Gowan said so, unmistakably."
"Can you recall his exact words?" I asked.
Val had an idea that Gowan had said: "I have settled everything on Cousin Christian." He fancied that just before the attack occurred he had added: "You will have to see about it," or words to that effect.
We both felt convinced that Gowan had been too good a man of business to make such a remark unless he had made his bequest legally secure.
The obvious thing to do was to cable at once to the lawyer to delay action until the new will should turn up. This we did; a letter followed, detailing circumstances.
Our next communication was from the Glasgow lawyer, who requested Val's presence there to consult about matters, as my brother was the only person to whom Gowan had spoken on the subject of a second will. I was too much interested in the mystery to let Val go alone, and he was delighted to have my company, so once more we set off for the distant city.
Dalziel, the lawyer in question, received us in his private office on the morning after our arrival. He was a small gray man, with keen black eyes that twinkled behind his gold-rimmed spectacles now and again when an ordinary man would have smiled. His statement of affairs was indeed not reassuring. Every scrap of paper left behind by Gowan had been carefully examined by one of his responsible clerks, but nothing in the shape of a will had been discovered. Had there been no previous will, Christian Logan's boy might have claimed the estate as next of kin; but that was now not possible. To bring the matter before the law courts was equally futile; the law took cognizance of a man's wishes expressed in writing, and no evidence of a verbal declaration on his part would suffice to set aside a written document.
"I am afraid, Father Fleming," said the lawyer, summing up his report, "that there is no case to go upon for the Logan family."
"But I am convinced," replied Val, "that Gowan has made another will. He sent for me to tell me so, and to ask me to help the Logans in the matter. The will must be somewhere. The question is: Where?"
"I am inclined to think that he never made a second will," the lawyer went on to say. "Not that I think he meant to deceive you," he added hastily, as he noticed Val's air of protest. "But it has often come within my experience that a man in such a weak state may persuade himself that he has already accomplished something which he has fixed his mind upon doing, while all the time nothing has been actually done."
Val, however, could not be convinced that such was the case in the present instance, and I could not help agreeing with him.
"It would be as well if you would call at Gowan's hotel before you leave Glasgow," said Dalziel, as our interview came to an end. "There are some clothes, traveling-cases, rugs, and such like, which it would be absurd to send to America, and equally absurd to sell. They will be something for the Logons if you think well to take them. I can easily arrange with the legatees on the other side, who will certainly make no difficulty."
It was a good idea, and we resolved to act upon it. The lawyer drove with us to the hotel, to introduce us to the manager, and left us when we ascended to the room occupied by the dead man, which was still being retained by the executor until the property should be removed.
The manager himself very civilly accompanied us, directing us to summon a servant, when we had examined things to our satisfaction, and to give orders about packing and removal.
I must confess that I had not altogether given up hope of discovering the lost document among the clothes and packing-cases. But my anticipations were dispelled when we entered. Everything had been neatly folded and placed on the bed and the two tables; it was evident that no document could have been passed unnoticed. The room, too, was quite clean and in order. Val, like myself, seemed rather depressed at the state of things. There was no receptacle where any paper could have been stowed away that had not been thoroughly ransacked by the lawyer's men, whose interest it was to discover the will. A wardrobe for hanging clothes, a chest of drawers, dressing-table, and washstand were the only articles of furniture besides bed, tables, and chairs; none of them looked like possible receptacles of a hidden paper.
Scarcely realizing what I did, I began opening one after another the drawers in the chest. Each was neatly lined with paper, but otherwise empty. As though possessed by a mania for searching, I took out each paper and carefully assured myself that nothing had slipped underneath. Val, roused by my action, began to poke into the drawers of the dressing-table; but his search was just as fruitless. There was nothing to be done but to settle as to the packing of the clothes and take our departure.
Suddenly an idea struck me. How often does a small article get lost in a chest of drawers by slipping behind the drawers themselves. At once I acted on the suggestion. I did not watt to consider that others had probably searched as thoroughly as I could do. Out came the drawers, one after the other, and were deposited on the floor. The bottom drawer was rather tight, and would not come out easily; but I got it out with an extra expenditure of muscle. Positively, there was a small folded paper—like a letter—lying behind it; my heart sank, for it was too small for such a document as I was anxious to find. I picked it up listlessly and unfolded it.
"By Jove, Val! Here it is!" I cried exultantly.
He skipped across the room to read the paper over my shoulder.
"That's it, all right!" was his exclamation. "Thank God!"
It was but a sheet of common note-paper, bearing the printed heading of the hotel. Across it was written in shaky characters the following:
"This is the last will and testament of me, Alexander Gowan, of 269Heniker Street, Chicago, U. S. A. I revoke all former testaments, andhereby bequeath the whole of the property of which I die possessed toRev. Valentine Fleming of Ardmuirland, Scotland, in trust for ChristianMcRae, widow of Donald Logan, of Ardmuirland, and her children.
"May 16, 1912."
"Blessed Scottish law!" cried Val, when he had scanned the scrap of paper that meant so much to us. "It's not an imposing document, but it'll stand good in this country. Let's take it to Dalziel at once."
The lawyer corroborated Vat's declaration. It was a holograph will, and therefore needed no witness; Gowan was man of business enough to realize that. He had probably slipped it into the drawer where some of his clothes were, meaning to hand it to Val. The drawer must have been over-full, and the mere opening of it would sweep the bit of paper to the back, where it had fallen behind the other drawers.
* * * * * *
Six months later we had a Catholic wedding in the little church at Ardmuirland. All the congregation flocked up for the ceremony and the nuptial Mass—for the bridegroom had suggested that it would be well to begin his married life in perfect union with his wife, and he had been received into the Church a month before.
The Camerons are very well off; for poor old Gowan, though not a millionaire, had put by pots of money. But it would suit neither Lachlan nor his wife to lead an idle life. They have got Redbank into their own hands and are turning it into quite a model farm.
The children are at school. Jeemsie is said to be able to do everything except talk. Tam is bent on being a priest.
Val got his shinty club and his parish hall, and if he wants anything for the church or for himself he has but to mention it. Indeed, he had almost to use force to prevent Christian handing over half her fortune.
Golden dreams do, now and again, it seems, get realized!
"In sober state,Through the sequestered vale of rural life,The venerable patriarch guileless heldThe tenor of his way."(Porteus—"Death.")
The priest who ministered to the Catholic flock of Ardmuirland in the far-off days when "Bell o' the Burn" was a lassie was known as "Mr. McGillivray"; for the repeal of the penal laws had not yet emancipated the people from the cautious reticence of the days of persecution, and they still spoke of "prayers" instead of "Mass," and of "speaking to the priest" and "going forward" to intimate Confession and Holy Communion.
"He wes a stoot, broad-shouldered gentleman o' middle size," said Bell in one of her reminiscent moods; "when I first knew him he wes gettin' bent wi' age, and his hair wes snow-white and lang on his shoulders like. I couldna' ha' been muckle mair ner five or sax year auld when he took me by the hand and askit me if I'd like to come an' herd his coos an' leeve wi' his niece at the chapel hoose. That wes in 1847, sir, ten years aifter Queen Victoria (God rest her!) cam' to the throne. That's a good bit back, ye ken."
Bell dwelt under the same roof as the priest until she was needed at home, a few years later. Although chiefly employed during the day in looking after the two cows that grazed on the hillside about a mile distant, and driving them out and in, she was sufficiently within doors to be able to gain much knowledge of the daily life of a simple Scottish pastor of the old school.
That life, as her reminiscences witness, was one of extreme homeliness—not to say austerity. The food of the priest was that of the ordinary peasant class among which he lived. "His denner," said Bell, "wes juist tatties, taken in their skins; his supper wes brochan an' sometimes tatties as weel. Some o' the neebors would come an' join him, whiles, an' share the supper wi' him, as they sat roond the hearth." (In answer to my query Bell explained that "brochan" was a kind of soup or gruel, made from oatmeal.)
"My faither an' mither," Bell remarked with some pride, "usit often to tak' denner wi' the priest o' Sundays. They wes bidin' a good bit awa' frae the chapel, ye ken, sir, an' they aye likit a talk wi' me aifter Mass. So Mr. McGillivray wouldna' aloo them to fast till they got hame, but aye pressit them to stay. For they wouldna' break their fast till the priest did, ye ken; it had aye been the custom in their young days, and they keepit it till they wes too weak to fast sae lang."
Besides the Ardmuirland district, the priest had charge of two others at some little distance over the hills in different directions. It was his duty to say Mass at one or other of these stations occasionally, and the Ardmuirland folk who could conveniently manage the journey would generally accompany him on a Sunday. They would walk over the hill in a kind of unorganized procession, reciting the Rosary and litany as they went.
During the week the priest kept daily moving about among his people, and little of interest could happen which did not soon come to his knowledge. "The fowk aye enjoyit a chat wi' the priest," said Bell, "for Mr. McGillivray wes the best oot at tellin' auld-fashioned stories." His figure was a familiar one in all the countryside, as he walked slowly along, leaning on his silver-mounted walking-stick, and wrapped in the ample folds of a well-worn Spanish cloak, buckled at the neck by a silver clasp. Under that same cloak he would often carry tit-bits of oatcake for the horses he might come across in the farms he visited—for he was a lover of all dumb creatures.
Mr. McGillivray's only outdoor recreation was fishing. Children knew his ways, and would shyly steal after him down to the side of the burn and watch him from a distance. When his rod happened to get caught in the branches of the stunted birches which bordered the stream—which was not of infrequent occurrence—they would run to his assistance and help to untangle the hook; they would often search for and carry to him worms to serve as bait. Both kinds of service were sure to be rewarded by a piece of "black sugar," as Bell styled licorice, which he always carried with him for use in such emergencies.
"We bairns," she explained, "were niver feared o' the priest. I weel remember hoo my mither chided me for usin' sic freedom wi' him—I had lived sae lang in the hoose wi' him, ye ken, that I wes whiles gey familiar in my speech. Well, when he askit me one day—juist as a joke, ye ken—to tak' a snuff oot o' the wee boxie he aye carrit, I tossit my head and said (ill bred as I wes!), 'Fuich!' Mr. McGillivray wesna' angered; he juist laughed oot an' says he: 'Weel, lassie, ye couldna' ha' said worse to a dog!' But I got mair words frae my mither aifter, an' a strappin' as weel, an' to bed wi'oot supper. It learned me to be mair respectful-like to the priest!"
This anecdote recalled another. "I mind weel hoo I got my first bonnet through Mr. McGillivray. In they times, ye ken, sir, it wes aye the fashion to wear large bonnets o' Tuscan straw, an' a lassie o' foorteen wes surely auld enough for siclike—I said to mysel'. So when the priest cam' to oor hoose aince, I made sae bold as to get him to ask my faither to buy me a bonnet for Sundays, next time he went to the toon o' Aberdeen. My faither wouldna' ha' done it for me, but he did when the priest askit him, and I got my bonnet! But I doot I wes a bit o' a favorite with the priest, sin' I herdit his coos sae lang."
However free the children may have been in their intercourse with the old priest, I gathered from Bell's narrative that the grown-ups rather feared him. His methods were certainly such as would be considered unnecessarily severe in these days; still, there is no doubt he managed by them to keep his people well in hand.
"I canna' mind muckle aboot Mr. McGillivray's discoorses," she answered, when I questioned her on that subject. "I wes but a bit lassie, an' I couldna' onderstand weel. He seemed to me to stan' an' drone awa' mostly. Whiles, he wud gi' great scoldin's, an' then I usit to think it wes splendid! He could be eloquent then, I assure ye, sir! I mind weel when there wes a marriage in Advent in a Protestant family, an' Mr. McGillivray warned the fowk that they mightna' attend it; some o' them, in spite o' that, went to the marriage, an' I could niver forget the awfu' way he chided them in the chapel on the Sunday aifter! It wes tarrible!
"If ony o' the fowk cam' to the chapel in their working clothes he would be greatly pit aboot. He would ca' them up to the rail at catechism time an' reprove them before a' the congregation."
"So you said your catechism in public!" I asked.
"There wes aye catechism, atween the Mass an' the preachin'. Aebody had to be prepared to be callit up till they wes marrit, at least! Even aifter that, a body couldna' be sure o' bein' left alane! I mind him callin' a mon o' saxty years o' age ane Sunday! He wes a mon greatly thought of by the congregation, an' maybe the priest wes afeared he wes gettin' prood. Onyways, Mr. McGillivray had him at the rails wi' the bairns. 'Are you ashamed,' he says, 'to learn your Christian Doctrine?' 'Na, na, sir,' says he. 'Then gae back an' sit ye doon,' says the priest."
Such treatment would scarcely be appreciated in these days, but perhaps the reason is that we are less endowed with humility than our fathers in the Faith.
Bell had other anecdotes of a like kind.
"If ony o' the bairns wes restless or trifling-kind, during the preachin', Mr. McGillivray would stop his discoorse an' ca' them up to the rail an' reprove them severely. I mind him summoning a grown man from the choir aince, and mak' him own his fault. Hey! He wer a graund priest, an' nae mistak'—wer Mr. McGillivray!"
On stormy days, when it was difficult for the aged pastor to wade through the deep snow down to the chapel, Mass was said in his own house. The people crowded in at the door of his little living-room, and would fill the kitchen. When he grew old and infirm it was impossible for the greater number to hear anything of the sermon; yet he never omitted to preach.
"An' I mind," naïvely added Bell, "that there wes aye a collection made."
People went to Confession in the house at such times; otherwise the priest heard them in the chapel on Saturdays or Sundays, and on the eves of feasts.
It can not be denied that Mr. McGillivray was a militant churchman, whenever the interests of his flock or of the Catholic Church were at stake. Bell had more than one anecdote to prove it.
A poor woman who was at the point of death had been induced by two good old Catholic spinsters who lived near her to send for the priest to reconcile her to the Church. She was the offspring of a mixed marriage; her mother—the Catholic party—had died when the child was quite young, and the father had at once taken the girl to kirk with him. She had once been to Confession, but had received no other Sacrament except Baptism. When she had grown to womanhood, she married a Presbyterian, and all her family had been brought up in that religion. Yet the grace of her Baptism seemed to cling to her. After her husband's death she would now and again attend at Mass, driven the six miles by her Protestant son; but she was not known to the priest, and so she remained outside the pale. Her intimacy with Jeannie and Katie Ann McGruer was the means of keeping her in touch with Catholic matters, and eventually resulted in her reconciliation.
This was not accomplished, however, without a stiff skirmish between the old priest and the members of her family—not to mention the minister of their particular kirk.
In compliance with the summons conveyed by one of the McGruers (Bell spoke of them as "guid Catholic lassies," but in answer to my query explained that Katie Ann, the younger sister, would be "risin' sixty"!), Mr. McGillivray betook himself to the house of the invalid. The door was opened by her eldest son, Adam Fordyce—a burly, black-browed, bearded man of forty. He had charge of the roads in the district, so that he and the priest were on speaking terms, at least.
Adam held the door in one hand and the door-post in the other, and his portly figure filled up the opening fairly well.
"I am sorry to hear that your mother is unwell," said the priest sympathetically.
"Aye, aye, sir, she's nae weel at all," was the answer.
"I would like to see her, if she's well enough," said Mr. McGillivray.
"Weel, sir, I wouldna' like to say she's nae fit to see a veesitor—but—ye ken, sir——"
"You mean she's not well enough to see me."
"Weel, it's this wye, Mr. McGillivray," answered Adam, lowering his voice; "I'm nae ohjectin' mysel', sin she askit me to let ye come; but the ithers is awfu' set again' it. That's the wye it is, sir."
The fact was, the "Cerberus" was not at all fierce—quite the contrary! He had been deputed by the others to confront the unwelcome visitor, as being the eldest, and therefore responsible for all unpleasant duties; but as far as he was concerned, he had no feeling in the matter. Like any Scotsman who had lived with his mother from childhood to mature manhood, he was deeply attached to her, and willing to agree to anything that might give her satisfaction in her present weak state; that the visit of the priest would be a comfort to her he strongly suspected, and hence the conflict between duty—as he regarded it—and affection.
It took very little persuasion from the priest to overcome Adam's scruples and gain admittance to the sick-room; this accomplished, it might seem that the battle had been won for religion, but the victory was not yet complete!
Adam had relented so far as to admit the priest, but no argument could persuade him to leave him alone with the invalid. He was the agent of the family, and it was his duty to see everything that went on. He would have nothing underhand in the matter!
Mr. McGillivray easily interpreted his action. He was afraid of what the others might say should he desert his post—that was all. Diplomacy was necessary and the priest rose to the occasion.
"Look here, Adam," he said; "I know you are merely carrying out what you feel to be a duty to your family in staying here. We can arrange matters without any difficulty. I must have a few minutes' private talk with your mother on religious matters which concern herself and no one else. Just leave me with her for a bit and you can come back and stay here as long as I do."
But Adam was obstinate. He acknowledged that the others "wouldna' be pleased" should he relinquish his post of watch-dog. He must "bide" in the room as long as the priest remained.
As in many houses of that class, there was what is called a "bed-closet" opening out of the room in which the sick woman lay. It was literally a closet, containing nothing except the bed, and lighted by a tiny window. Without more ado, Mr. McGillivray seized the man by the arm and led him to the closet.
"Just jump onto the bed," he whispered. "No one will know that you have not remained in the room. You shall come out in a few minutes."
So the burly Adam climbed onto the bed, and the priest shut the door upon his prisoner and fastened the "sneck." After hearing the mother's Confession, he released his captive, and Adam stood by while the saving unction was administered to prepare the poor woman for her last journey. It was soon over and the priest took his leave.
Adam was quite relieved to find that his mother had been gladdened by the priest's ministrations—for she had poured forth grateful thanks for his kindness—while he had not been compromised in the eyes of his brothers and sisters. He willingly consented for Mr. McGillivray to return next day to administer Holy Communion for the first—and probably the last—time in the life of the dying woman.
"I've only one more office to do for your mother, Adam," the priest had explained, "and then she will be quite at rest. So I will call to-morrow about this time." And Adam had cordially agreed.
But there were others to be reckoned with. The news of the priest's visit was soon carried to the Free Church minister, and down he swooped upon the luckless Fordyces that very afternoon. Poor Adam was the scapegoat. He it was who had to bear the whole of the blame. The minister congratulated himself, when he took his leave (without venturing into the sick-room, for the present), that he had successfully prevented any further "popish antics" in that house!
Consequently, when Mr. McGillivray returned next day, according to promise, he was met, not by Adam, but by the younger son—a dour Presbyterian, of pronounced type. He absolutely refused to allow the priest to cross the threshold again. His brother was "oot"; but he had left word that he must not be allowed to enter the house. The minister, as the brother explained, "had been sair angered" on account of the proceedings of the previous day. He had threatened to remove Adam from his post of "precentor" should he allow any more intercourse between his mother and any "popish minister."
Remonstrances, persuasions, entreaties were all unavailing. The man declared that his mother "didna' wish to see" Mr. McGillivray. The latter had therefore reluctantly to submit to circumstances and return home with the Blessed Sacrament, leaving the poor woman "unhouselled"—although not "unanointed." He feared that she had given in to the persuasions of the minister to refuse further help. But after her death, which occurred a few days later, the good priest ascertained that she had died in most edifying dispositions. The minister had not visited her, and she had thought it best to wait a little before seeing the priest again, merely on account of her family. The McGruers, who were present at the last, assured him that she had died a good Catholic—-her only regret the deprivation of Holy Communion.
Some remarks dropped by the Free Church minister as to the priest's "interference" with a member of his congregation drew forth so vehement a denial from Mr. McGillivray, and a demand for a public contradiction of the statement from the pulpit on the following Sunday, that the crestfallen minister had to eat his words.
The priest was indeed a match for any of his opponents in whatever way they chose to attack him. Once at a dinner, when three ministers were present as well as Mr. McGillivray, one of them thought to make a butt of the priest, and during the after-dinner toasts proposed suddenly: "The Auld Kirk!" But the priest was too quick for him. Raising his glass, he responded promptly: "The Auld Kirk—the True Kirk!"
"No! No!" cried the entrapped Presbyterian.
"Then I'm sorry foryou!" was the quiet retort.
One feature in Bell's recollections must not be passed over. The priest was renowned as a peacemaker. Anything like family strife was speedily put an end to by his tactful intervention. Even by Protestants his services were not infrequently asked for in this respect, and the result was a great popularity with all classes in the district of Ardmuirland. There was much pathos about the old man's last days; for he hastened his end by his self-denying charity in the cause of peace.
A violent quarrel had taken place some years before between two Protestant farmers, both living some distance away from the priest's house. They had married two sisters, and a dispute had arisen on the subject of a legacy left to one of these nieces by their father's brother, while the other was passed over entirely. Suspicions and insinuations of underhand dealing on the part of the successful legatee had aroused strong feelings, with the result that all communication between the two families had ceased.
At length the wife of one of the belligerents lay upon her deathbed, and under the softening influence of that solemn hour she begged that her sister should be asked to visit her, that they might part as sisters should. The other woman was just as anxious for a reconciliation, but their respective husbands could not be brought to terms.
In her distress the dying woman sent a message to the priest, begging for his intervention. It was the dead of winter, and a severe frost had set in. The old priest had to drive in a friendly farmer's open vehicle for ten miles in a keen wind. He succeeded in persuading one of the men to seek for peace and friendship, then drove on five miles farther to interview the other. Through his earnest remonstrances the strife was entirely brought to an end. But it was at the cost of the life of the aged peacemaker. He caught a severe chill, which he was never able to throw off, and after two or three months he bade farewell to earth.
Mr. McGillivray had desired, when old age should have rendered him incapable of his priestly charge, to be allowed to retire from active work, and end his days in the quiet seclusion of his native district—a strath shut in by hills, many miles to the north of Ardmuirland. But the family from which the priest had sprung were no great favorites there, and his wish, when made known, had not been cordially received by the people. This had been sufficient to excite the wrath of the Ardmuirland folk; they had risen up as one man against any such arrangement. An appeal was made to the Bishop to prevent their beloved pastor from leaving his flock to die among comparative strangers. So it had been settled by authority that Mr. McGillivray should continue his ministrations among them as long as he was able, and should then receive a helper; thus he was never to take leave of Ardmuirland except to receive his heavenly reward. As we have seen, he died in harness, before there could be any question of retirement.
And now another difficulty arose. His own native district naturally laid claim to his mortal remains, and his relatives had speedily made arrangements for his burial in the family grave. Then, indeed, Ardmuirland was stirred.
"They wouldna' tak' him leevin'; they'll nae get him deid!" was the universal cry.
So in the bright springtime, after a late fall of snow had clothed the countryside in dazzling whiteness, his people bore him to the grave. An immense gathering—of both Catholics and Protestants—had assembled; in Bell's expressive phrase—"the country wes full o' men!" Every man took his turn in helping to bear the coffin shoulder-high all the five miles which lay between the priest's house and the ancient burial-ground of St. Michael below the hill. There, surrounded by the flock he had tended so long and so faithfully, the body of the pastor awaits with them the general awakening to life eternal.