LIGHT AT EVENTIDE.
The Rabbi had been careful to send an abstract of his speech to
Carmichael, with a letter enough to melt the heart even of a
self-sufficient young clerical; and Carmichael had considered how he
should bear himself at the Presbytery. His intention had been to meet
the Rabbi with public cordiality and escort him to a seat, so that all
men should see that he was too magnanimous to be offended by this
latest eccentricity of their friend. This calculated plan was upset by
the Rabbi coming in late and taking the first seat that offered, and
when he would have gone afterwards to thank him for his generosity the
Rabbi had disappeared. It was evident that the old man's love was as
deep as ever, but that he was much hurt, and would not risk another
repulse. Very likely he had walked in from Kilbogie, perhaps without
breakfast, and had now started to return to his cheerless manse. It
was a wetting spring rain, and he remembered that the Rabbi had no
coat. A fit of remorse overtook Carmichael, and he scoured the streets
of Muirtown to find the Rabbi, imagining deeds of attention--how he
would capture him unawares mooning along some side street hopelessly
astray; how he would accuse him of characteristic cunning and deep
plotting, how he would carry him by force to the Kilspindie Arms and
insist upon their dining in state; how the Rabbi would wish to
discharge the account and find twopence in his pockets--having given
all his silver to an ex-Presbyterian minister stranded in Muirtown
through peculiar circumstances; how he would speak gravely to the Rabbi
on the lack of common honesty, and threaten a real prosecution, when
the charge would be "obtaining a dinner on false pretences," how they
would journey to Kildrummie in high content, and--the engine having
whistled for a dog-cart--they would drive to Drumtochty manse, the sun
shining through the rain as they entered the garden; how he would
compass the Rabbi with observances, and the old man would sit again in
the big chair full of joy and peace. Ah, the kindly jests that have
not come off in life, the gracious deeds that never were done, the
reparations that were too late! When Carmichael reached the station
the Rabbi was already half way to Kilbogie, trudging along wet and
weary and very sad, because, although he had obeyed his conscience at a
cost, it seemed to him as if he had simply alienated the boy whom God
had given him as a son in his old age, for even the guileless Rabbi
suspected that the ecclesiastics considered his action foolishness and
of no service to the Church of God. Barbara's language on his arrival
was vituperative to a degree, she gave him food grudgingly, and when,
in the early morning, he fell asleep over an open Father, he was
repeating Carmichael's name, and the thick old paper was soaked with
tears.
His nemesis seized Carmichael so soon as he reached the Dunleith train
in the shape of the Free Kirk minister of Kildrummie, who had purchased
six pounds of prize seed potatoes, and was carrying the treasure home
in a paper bag. This bag had done after its kind, and as the
distinguished agriculturist had not seen his feet for years, and could
only have stooped at the risk of apoplexy, he watched the dispersion of
his potatoes with dismay, and hailed the arrival of Carmichael with
exclamations of thankfulness. It is wonderful over what an area six
pounds of (prize) potatoes can deploy on a railway platform, and how
the feet of passengers will carry them unto far distances. Some might
never have been restored to the bag had it not been for Kildrummie's
comprehensive eye and the physical skill with which he guided
Carmichael, till even prodigals that had strayed over to the
neighbourhood of the Aberdeen express were restored to the extemporised
fold in the minister's top-coat pockets. Carmichael had knelt on that
very platform six months or so before, but then he stooped in the
service of two most agreeable dogs and under the approving eyes of Miss
Carnegie; that was a different experience from hunting after single
potatoes on all fours among the feet of unsympathetic passengers, and
being prodded to duty by the umbrella of an obese Free Kirk minister.
As a reward for this service of the aged, he was obliged to travel to
Kildrummie with his neighbour--in whom for the native humour that was
in him he had often rejoiced, but whose company was not congenial that
day--and Kildrummie laid himself out for a pleasant talk. After the
roots had been secured and their pedigree stated, Kildrummie fell back
on the proceedings of Presbytery, expressing much admiration for the
guidance of Doctor Dowbiggin and denouncing Saunderson as "fair
dottle," in proof of which judgment Kildrummie adduced the fact that
the Rabbi had allowed a very happily situated pigsty to sink into ruin.
Kildrummie, still in search of agreeable themes to pass the time,
mentioned a pleasant tale he had gathered at the seed shop.
"Yir neebur upbye, the General's dochter, is cairryin' on an awfu' rig
the noo at the Castle"--Kildrummie fell into dialect in private life,
often with much richness--"an' the sough o' her ongaeins hes come the
length o' Muirtown. The place is foo' o' men--tae say naethin' o'
weemin; but it's little she hes tae dae wi' them or them wi'
her--officers frae Edinburgh an' writin' men frae London, as weel as
half a dozen coonty birkies."
"Well?" said Carmichael, despising himself for his curiosity.
"She hes a wy, there 's nae doot o' that, an' gin the trimmie hesna
turned the heads o' half the men in the Castle, till they say she hes
the pick of twa lords, five honourables, and a poet. But the lassie
kens what's what; it's Lord Hay she 's settin' her cap for, an' as sure
as ye 're sittin' there, Drum, she 'll hae him.
"Ma word"--and Kildrummie pursued his way--"it 'll be a match, the
dochter o' a puir Hielant laird, wi' naethin' but his half pay and a
few pounds frae a fairm or twa. She 's a clever ane; French songs,
dancin', shootin', ridin', actin', there's nae deevilry that's beyond
her. They say upbye that she's been a bonnie handfu' tae her
father--General though he be--an' a' peety her man."
"They say a lot of . . . lies, and I don't see what call a minister has
to slander . . . ," and then Carmichael saw the folly of quarrelling
with a veteran gossip over a young woman that would have nothing to say
to him. What two Free Kirk ministers or their people thought of her
would never affect Miss Carnegie.
"Truth's nae slander," and Kildrummie watched Carmichael with relish;
"a' thocht ye wud hae got a taste o' her in the Glen. Didna a' heer
frae Piggie Walker that ye ca'd her Jezebel frae yir ain pulpit, an'
that ma lady whuppit oot o' the kirk in the middle o' the sermon?"
"I did nothing of the kind, and Walker is a . . ."
"Piggie 's no very particular at a time," admitted Kildrummie; "maybe
it's a makup the story aboot Miss Carnegie an' yirsel'.
"Accordin' to the wratch," for Carmichael would deign no reply, "she
wes threatenin' tae mak a fule o' the Free Kirk minister o' Drumtochty
juist for practice, but a' said, 'Na, na, Piggie, Maister Carmichael is
ower quiet and sensible a lad. He kens as weel as onybody that a
Carnegie wud never dae for a minister's wife. Gin ye said a Bailie's
dochter frae Muirtown 'at hes some money comin' tae her and kens the
principles o' the Free Kirk.'
"Noo a' can speak frae experience, having been terrible fortunate wi'
a' ma wives. . . . Ye 'll come up tae tea; we killed a pig yesterday,
and . . . Weel, weel, a wilfu' man maun hae his wy," and Carmichael,
as he made his way up the hill, felt that the hand of Providence was
heavy upon him, and that any highmindedness was being severely
chastened.
Two days Carmichael tramped the moors, returning each evening wet,
weary, hungry, to sleep ten hours without turning, and on the morning
of the third day he came down in such heart that Sarah wondered whether
he could have received a letter by special messenger; and he
congratulated himself, as he walked round his garden, that he had
overcome by sheer will-power the first real infatuation of his life.
He was so lifted above all sentiment as to review his temporary folly
from the bare, serene heights of common-sense. Miss Carnegie was
certainly not an heiress, and she was a young woman of very decided
character, but her blood was better than the Hays', and she was . . .
attractive--yes, attractive. Most likely she was engaged to Lord Hay,
or if he did not please her--she was . . . whimsical and . . .
self-willed--there was Lord Invermay's son. Fancy Kate . . . Miss
Carnegie in a Free Kirk manse--Kildrummie was a very . . . homely old
man, but he touched the point there--receiving Doctor Dowbiggin with
becoming ceremony and hearing him on the payment of probationers, or
taking tea at Kildrummie Manse--where he had, however, feasted royally
many a time after the Presbytery, but. . . . This daughter of a
Jacobite house, and brought up amid the romance of war, settling down
in the narrowest circle of Scottish life--as soon imagine an eagle
domesticated among barn-door poultry. This image amused Carmichael so
much that he could have laughed aloud, but . . . the village might have
heard him. He only stretched himself like one awaking, and felt so
strong that he resolved to drop in on Janet to see how it fared with
the old woman and . . . to have Miss Carnegie's engagement confirmed.
The Carnegies might return any day from the South, and it would be well
that he should know how to meet them.
"You will be hearing that they hef come back to the Lodge yesterday
morning, and it iss myself that will be glad to see Miss Kate again;
and very pretty iss she looking, with peautiful dresses and bonnets,
for I hef seen them all, maybe twelve or ten.
"Oh yes, my dear, Donald will be talking about her marriage to Lord
Kilspindie's son, who iss a very handsome young man and good at the
shooting; and he will be blowing that they will live at the Lodge in
great state, with many gillies and a piper.
"No, it iss not Janet Macpherson, my dear, that will be believing
Donald Cameron, or any Cameron--although I am not saying that the
Camerons are not men of their hands--for Donald will be always making
great stories and telling me wonderful things. He wass a brave man in
the battle, and iss very clever at the doctrine too, and will be strong
against human himes (hymns), but he iss a most awful liar iss Donald
Cameron, and you must not be believing a word that comes out of his
mouth.
"She will be asking many questions in her room as soon as Donald had
brought up her boxes and the door was shut. Some will be about the
Glen, and some about the garden, and some will be about people--whether
you ever will be visiting me, and whether you asked for her after the
day she left the kirk. But I will say, 'No; Mr. Carmichael does not
speak about anything but the religion when he comes to my cottage.'
"That iss nothing. I will be saying more, that I am hearing that the
minister iss to be married to a fery rich young lady in Muirtown who
hass been courting him for two years, and that her father will be
giving the minister twenty thousand pounds the day they are married.
And I will say she iss very beautiful, with blue eyes and gold hair,
and that her temper iss so sweet they are calling her the Angel of
Muirtown.
"Toot, toot, my dear, you are not to be speaking about lies, for that
iss not a pretty word among friends, and you will not be meddling with
me, for you will be better at the preaching and the singing than
dealing with women. It iss not good to be making yourself too common,
and Miss Kate will be thinking the more of you if you be holding your
head high and letting her see that you are not a poor lowland body, but
a Farquharson by your mother's side, and maybe of the chief's blood,
though twenty or fifteen times removed.
"She will be very pleased to hear such good news of you, and be saying
that it iss a mercy you are getting somebody to dress you properly.
But her temper will not be at all good, and I did not ask her about
Lord Hay, and she said nothing to me, nor about any other lord. It iss
not often I hef seen as great a liar as Donald Cameron.
"Last evening Miss Kate will come down before dinner and talk about
many things, and then she will say at the door, 'Donald tells me that
Mister Carmichael does not believe in the Bible, and that his minister,
Doctor Saunderson, has cast him off, and that he has been punished by
his Bishop or somebody at Muirtown.'
"'Donald will be knowing more doctrine and telling more lies every
month,' I said to her. 'Doctor Saunderson--who is a very fine preacher
and can put the fear of God upon the people most wonderful--and our
minister had a little feud, and they will fight it out before some
chiefs at Muirtown like gentlemen, and now they are good friends again.'
"Miss Kate had gone off for a long walk, and I am not saying that she
will be calling at Kilbogie Manse before she comes back. She is very
fond of Doctor Saunderson, and maybe he will be telling her of the
feud. It iss more than an hour through the woods to Kilbogie,"
concluded Janet, "but you will be having a glass of milk first."
Kate reviewed her reasons for the expedition to Kilbogie, and settled
they were the pleasures of a walk through Tochty woods when the spring
flowers were in their glory, and a visit to one of the dearest
curiosities she had ever seen. It was within the bounds of possibility
that Doctor Saunderson might refer to his friend, but on her part she
would certainly not refer to the Free Church minister of Drumtochty.
Her reception by that conscientious professor Barbara could not be
called encouraging.
"Ay, he 's in, but ye canna see him, for he's in his bed, and gin he
disna mend faster than he wes daein' the last time a' gied him a cry,
he 's no like to be in the pulpit on Sabbath. A' wes juist thinkin' he
wudna be the waur o' a doctor."
[Illustration: "Ay, he 's in, but ye canna see him.]
"Do you mean to say that Doctor Saunderson is lying ill and no one
nursing him?" and Kate eyed the housekeeper in a very unappreciative
fashion.
"Gin he wants a nurse she 'll hae tae be brocht frae Muirtown
Infirmary, for a 've eneuch withoot ony fyke (delicate work) o' that
kind. For twal year hev a' been hoosekeeper in this manse, an' gin it
hedna been for peety a' wad hae flung up the place.
"Ye never cud tell when he wud come in, or when he wud gae oot, or what
he wud be wantin' next. A' the waufies in the countryside come here,
and the best in the hoose is no gude eneuch for them. He's been an
awfu' handfu' tae me, an' noo a'coont him clean dottle. But we maun
juist bear oor burdens," concluded Barbara piously, and proposed to
close the door.
"Your master will not want a nurse a minute longer; show me his room at
once," and Kate was so commanding that Barbara's courage began to fail.
"Who may ye be," raising her voice to rally her heart, "'at wud take
chairge o' a strainger in his ain hoose an' no sae muckle as ask leave?"
"I am Miss Carnegie, of Tochty Lodge; will you stand out of my way?"
and Kate swept past Barbara and went upstairs.
"Weel, a' declare," as soon as she had recovered, "of a' the impudent
hizzies," but Barbara did not follow the intruder upstairs.
Kate had seen various curious hospitals in her day, and had nursed many
sick men,--like the brave girl she was,--but the Rabbi's room was
something quite new. His favourite books had been gathering there for
years, and now lined two walls and overhung the bed after a very
perilous fashion, and had dispossessed the looking-glass,--which had
become a nomad and was at present resting insecurely on John Owen,--and
stood in banks round the bed. During his few days of illness the Rabbi
had accumulated so many volumes round him that he lay in a kind of
tunnel, arched over, as it were, with literature. He had been reading
Calvin's _Commentary on the Psalms_, in Latin, and it still lay open at
the 88th, the saddest of all songs in the Psalter; but as he grew
weaker the heavy folio had slid forward, and he seemed to be feeling
for it. Although Kate spoke to him by name, he did not know any one
was in the room. "Lord, why castest Thou off my soul? . . . I suffer
Thy terror, I am distracted . . . fierce wrath goeth over me . . .
lover and friend hast Thou put far from me . . . friend far from me."
His head fell on his breast, his breath was short and rapid, and he
coughed every few seconds.
"My friend far from me . . ."
At the sorrow in his voice, and the thing which he said, the tears came
to Kate's eyes, and she went forward and spoke to him very gently. "Do
you know me, Dr. Saunderson, Miss Carnegie?"
"Not Saunderson . . . Magor Missabib."
"Rabbi, Rabbi"--so much she knew; and now Kate stroked the bent white
head. "Your friend, Mister Carmichael . . ."
"Yes, yes"--he now looked up, and spoke eagerly--"John Carmichael, of
Drumtochty . . . my friend in my old age . . . and others . . . my
boys . . . but John has left me . . . he would not speak to me . . . I
am alone now . . . he did not understand . . . mine acquaintance into
darkness . . . here we see in a glass darkly . . ." (he turned aside to
expound the Greek word for darkly), "but some day . . . face to face."
And twice he said it, with an indescribable sweetness, "face to face."
Kate hurriedly removed the books from the bed, and wrapt round his
shoulders the old grey plaid that had eked out his covering at night,
and then she went downstairs.
"Bring," she said to Barbara, "hot water, soap, towels, and a sponge to
Doctor Saunderson's bedroom, immediately."
"And gin a' dinna?" inquired Barbara aggressively.
"I 'll shoot you where you stand."
Barbara shows to her cronies how Miss Carnegie drew a pistol from her
pocket at this point and held it to her head, and how at every turn the
pistol was again in evidence; sometimes a dagger is thrown in, but that
is only late in the evening when Barbara is under the influence of
tonics. Kate herself admits that if she had had her little revolver
with her she might have been tempted to outline the housekeeper's face
on the wall, and she still thinks her threat an inspiration.
"Now," said Kate, when Barbara had brought her commands in with
incredible celerity, "bring up some fresh milk and three glasses of
whisky."
"Whisky!" Barbara could hardly compass the unfamiliar word. "The
Doctor never hed sic a thing in the hoose, although mony a time, puir
man . . ." Discipline was softening even that austere spirit.
"No, but you have, for you are blowing a full gale just now; bring up
your private bottle, or I 'll go down for it."
"There's enough," holding the bottle to the light, "to do till evening;
go to the next farm and send a man on horseback to tell Mr. Carmichael
of Drumtochty, that Doctor Saunderson is dying, and another for Dr.
Manley of Muirtown."
Very tenderly did Kate sponge the Rabbi's face and hands, and then she
dressed his hair, till at length he came to himself.
"This ministry is . . . grateful to me, Barbara . . . my strength has
gone from me . . . but my eyes fail me. . . . Of a verity you are
not . . ."
"I am Kate Carnegie, whom you were so kind to at Tochty. Will you let
me be your nurse? I learned in India, and know what to do." It was
only wounded soldiers who knew how--soft her voice could be, and hands.
"It is I that . . . should be serving you . . . the first time you have
come to the manse . . . no woman has ever done me . . . such kindness
before. . . ." He followed her as she tried to bring some order out of
chads, and knew not that he spoke aloud. "A gracious maid . . . above
rubies."
His breathing was growing worse, in spite of many wise things she did
for him--Doctor Manley, who paid no compliments, but was a strength
unto every country doctor in Perthshire, praises Kate unto this
day--and the Rabbi did not care to speak. So she sat down by his side
and read to him from the _Pilgrim's Progress_--holding his hand all the
time--and the passage he desired was the story of Mr. Fearing.
"This I took very great notice of, that the valley of the shadow of
Death was as quiet while he went through it as ever I knew it before or
since. I suppose these enemies here had now a special check from our
Lord and a command not to meddle until Mr. Fearing was passed over
it. . . . Here also I took notice of what was very remarkable: the
water of that river was lower at this time than ever I saw it in all my
life. So he went over at last, not much above wet-shod. When he was
going up to the gate. . . ."
The Rabbi listened for an instant.
"It is John's step . . . he hath a sound of his own . . . my only
earthly desire is fulfilled."
"Rabbi," cried Carmichael, and half kneeling, he threw one arm round
the old man, "say that you forgive me. I looked for you everywhere on
Monday, but you could not be found."
"Did you think, John, that I . . . my will was to do you an injury
or . . . vex your soul? Many trials in my life . . . all God's
will . . . but this hardest . . . when I lost you . . . nothing left
here . . . but you . . .--my breath is bad, a little chill--. . .
understand. . . ."
"I always did, and I never respected you more; it was my foolish pride
that made me call you Doctor Saunderson in the study; but my love was
the same, and now you will let me stay and wait on you."
The old man smiled sadly, and laid his hand on his boy's head.
"I cannot let you. . . . Go, John, my son."
"Go and leave you, Rabbi!" Carmichael tried to laugh. "Not till you
are ready to appear at the Presbytery again. We 'll send Barbara away
for a holiday, and Sarah will take her place,--you remember that
cream,--and we shall have a royal time, a meal every four hours, Rabbi,
and the Fathers in between," and Carmichael, springing to his feet and
turning round to hide his tears, came face to face with Miss Carnegie,
who had been unable to escape from the room.
"I happened to call"--Kate was quite calm--"and found Doctor Saunderson
in bed; so I stayed till some friend should come; you must have met the
messenger I sent for you."
"Yes, a mile from the manse; I was on my way . . . Janet said . . .
but I . . . did not remember anything when I saw the Rabbi."
"Will you take a little milk again . . . Rabbi?" and at her bidding and
the name he made a brave effort to swallow, but he was plainly sinking.
"No more," he whispered; "thank you . . . for service . . . to a lonely
man; may God bless you . . . both. . . ." He signed for her hand,
which he kept to the end.
"Satisfied . . . read, John . . . the woman from coasts of--of--"
"I know, Rabbi," and kneeling on the other side of the bed, he read the
story slowly of a Tyrian woman's faith.
"It is not meet to take the children's meat and cast it to dogs."
"Dogs"--they heard the Rabbi appropriate his name--"outside . . . the
covenant."
"And she said, Truth, Lord, yet the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall
from their master's table."
"Lord, I believe . . . help Thou mine . . . unbelief."
He then fell into an agony of soul, during which Carmichael could hear:
"Though . . . He slay . . . me . . . yet will I trust . . . trust . . .
in Him." He drew two or three long breaths and was still. After a
little he was heard again with a new note--"He that believeth . . . in
Him . . . shall not be confounded," and again "A bruised reed . . .
shall He not . . ." Then he opened his eyes and raised his head--but
he saw neither Kate nor Carmichael, for the Rabbi had done with earthly
friends and earthly trials--and he, who had walked in darkness and seen
no light, said in a clear voice full of joy, "My Lord, and my God."
It was Kate that closed his eyes and laid the old scholar's head on the
pillow, and then she left the room, casting one swift glance of pity at
Carmichael, who was weeping bitterly and crying between the sobs,
"Rabbi, Rabbi."