LOVE IS LORD.
It could not be said with a steady face that the proceedings of the
Free Kirk Presbytery of Muirtown increased the gaiety of nations, and
there might be persons--far left to themselves, of course--who would
describe its members as wearisome ecclesiastics. Carmichael himself,
in a mood of gay irresponsibility, had once sketched a meeting of this
reverend court, in which the names were skilfully adapted, after the
ancient fashion, to represent character, and the incidents, if not
_vero_, were certainly ben trovato, and had the article ready for
transmission to _Ferrier's Journal_. 'A Sederunt' did not, however,
add to the miseries of a most courteous editor, for Jenkins, having
come up for an all-night conference, and having heard the article with
unfeigned delight, pointed out that, if it were accepted, which
Carmichael's experience did not certify, the writer would be run down
within fourteen days, and that, so unreasonable a thing is human
nature, some of the Presbytery might be less than pleased with their
own likenesses. "It 's in the waste-paper basket," Carmichael said
next morning, which, as the author was twenty-five years of age, and
not conspicuously modest, is a conclusive testimonial to the goodness
of one Presbytery, and its hold on the affection of its members.
Scots take their pleasures sadly, and no one can imagine from what arid
soil they may not draw their nutriment, but it was not for motions of
ponderous ambiguity and pragmatical points of order, that the minister
of Kincairney rose before daybreak on a winter's morning, and worked
his way to the nearest station, with the stars still overhead, and the
snow below his feet, so that when the clerk made a sign to the
Moderator punctually at one minute past eleven to "constitute the
Presbytery," he might not be missing from his place. It was the
longing of a lonely man, across whose front door no visitor had come
for weeks, for friendly company; of a weary minister, discouraged by
narrow circumstances, monotonous routine, unexpected disappointments
among his people, for a word of good cheer. A cynical stranger might
discover various stupidities, peculiarities, provincialisms in the
Presbytery--he knew himself who had a temper, and who was a trifle
sensitive about his rights--but this middle-aged, hard-working,
simple-living man saw twenty faithful brethren--the elders did not
count in this connection, for they did not understand--who stood beside
him on occasion at the Holy Table, and gave him advice in his
perplexities, and would bury him with honest regret when he died, and
fight like wild cats that his widow and children should have their due.
His toilsome journey was forgotten when Doctor Dowbiggin, in an
interstice of motions, came across the floor and sat down beside him,
and whispered confidentially, "Well, how are things going on at
Kincairney?"--Dowbiggin really deserved his leadership--or when the
clerk, suddenly wheeling round in his seat, would pass his snuff-box
across to him without a word, for the clerk had a way of handing his
box, which, being interpreted, ran as follows:--"You suppose that I am
lifted above all ordinary affairs in my clerkly isolation, and that I
do not know what a solid work you are doing for God and man in the
obscure parish of Kincairney, but you are wrong. You have a very warm
corner in my memory, and in sign thereof accept my box." And the said
minister, trudging home that evening, and being met at a certain turn
of the road by his wife--sentimental at fifty, you see, after a quarter
of a century's toiling and preaching--would enlarge on Doctor
Dowbiggin's cordiality, and the marked courtesy of the clerk, and when
they were alone in the manse, his wife would kiss him--incredible to
our cynic--and say, "You see, Tom, more people than I know what a good
work you are doing," and Tom would start his twenty-first lecture on
the Ephesians next morning with new spirit. Such is the power of
comradeship, such is the thirst for sympathy; and indeed there is no
dog either so big or so little that it does not appreciate a pat, and
go down the street afterwards with better heart.
The Presbytery had always a tender regard for the Free Kirk of
Drumtochty, and happened to treat Carmichael with much favour. When
the "call" to him was signed at once by every member of the
congregation, the clerk--who had been obliged to summon Donald Menzies
from Gaelic by the intimation that Drumtochty was by the law of the
Church "uni-lingual, and that all proceedings must be conducted in the
English language"--arose and declared that "such unanimous attention to
their ecclesiastical duties was unexampled in his experience;" and when
at Carmichael's ordination a certain certificate was wanting, the
clerk, whose intervention was regarded with awe, proposed that the
court should anticipate its arrival, dealing with the matter
"proleptically," and the court saw in the very word another proof of
the clerk's masterly official genius. It was he also--expressing the
mind of the Presbytery--who proposed that the Court should send
Carmichael as a commissioner to the General Assembly in the first year
of his ministry, and took occasion to remark that Mr. Carmichael,
according to "reliable information at his disposal," was rendering
important service to the Free Church in his sphere at Drumtochty.
Carmichael was very happy in those days, and was so petted by his
ecclesiastical superiors that he never missed a meeting of court, where
he either sat in a demure silence, which commended him greatly to the
old men, or conversed with his friends on a back bench about general
affairs.
It gave him, therefore, a shock to sit with his brethren in the month
of June--when the walk through the woods had been a joy, and Muirtown
lay at her fairest, and the sunshine filled the court-room, and every
man had a summer air, and Doctor Dowbiggin actually wore a rose in his
coat--and to discover that he himself was sick of his old friends, of
his work, of his people, of himself. The reasons were obvious. Was it
not a sin that thirty Christian men should be cooped up in a room
passing schedules when the summer was young and fresh upon the land?
Could any one of the Rabbi's boys sit in that room and see his
accustomed place--a corner next the wall on a back seat--empty, and not
be cast down? Besides, does not a minister's year begin in September
and end in July, and before it closes is not the minister at his
lowest, having given away himself for eleven months? "One begins to
weary for a rest," he whispered to Kincairney, and that worthy man
explained that he and his wife had been planning their triennial
holiday, and hoped to have a fortnight in Carnoustie. Carmichael
realised his hypocrisy in that instant, for he knew perfectly that he
had lost touch with life because of a hopeless love, and a proud face
he had not seen a year ago. He flung himself out of the court with
such impatience that the clerk stayed his hand in the midst of the
sacred words _pro re nata_, and Kincairney mentioned to his wife in the
evening that Carmichael had never got over Doctor Saunderson's death.
Carmichael wandered up one of the meadows which are the glory of
Muirtown, and sat down by the queen of Scottish rivers, which runs deep
and swift, clean and bright, from Loch Tay to the sea, between wooded
banks and overhanging trees, past cornfields and ancient castles; a
river for him who swims, or rows, or fishes, or dreams, in which, if
such were to be his fate, a man might ask to be drowned. Opposite him
began the woods of Muirtown Castle, and he tried to be glad that
Kate . . . Miss Carnegie would one day be their mistress: the formal
announcement of her engagement, he had heard, was to be made next week,
on Lord Kilspindie's birthday. A distant whistle came on the clear air
from Muirtown station, where . . . and all this turmoil of hope and
fear, love and despair, had been packed into a few months. There is a
bend in the river where he sits, and the salmon fishers have dropped
their nets, and are now dragging them to the bank. With a thrill of
sympathy Carmichael watched the fish struggling in the meshes, and his
heart leapt when, through some mishandling, one escaped with a flash of
silver and plunged into the river. He had also been caught quite
suddenly in the joyous current of his life and held in bonds. Why
should he not make a bold plunge for freedom, which he could never have
with the Lodge at his doors, with the Castle only twelve miles away?
He had been asked in his student days to go to the north-west of Canada
and take charge of a parish fifty miles square. The idea had for a
little fired his imagination, and then faded before other ambitions.
It revived with power on the banks of that joyful, forceful river, and
he saw himself beginning life again on the open prairie lands--riding,
camping, shooting, preaching--a free man and an apostle to the Scottish
Dispersion.
With this bracing resolution, that seemed a call of God to deliver him
from bondage, came a longing to visit Kilbogie Manse and the Rabbi's
grave. It was a journey of expiation, for Carmichael followed the road
the Rabbi walked with the hand of death upon him after that lamentable
Presbytery, and he marked the hills where the old man must have stood
and fought for breath. He could see Mains, where he had gone with
Doctor Saunderson to the exposition, and he passed the spot where the
Rabbi had taken farewell of George Pitillo in a figure. What learning,
and simplicity, and unselfishness, and honesty, and affection were
mingled in the character of the Rabbi! What skill, and courage, and
tenderness, and self-sacrifice, and humility there had been also in
William MacLure, who had just died! Carmichael dwelt on the likeness
and unlikeness of the two men, who had each loved the highest he knew
and served his generation according to the will of God, till he found
himself again with the Drumtochty doctor on his heroic journeys, with
the Rabbi in his long vigils. It was a singular means of grace to have
known two such men in the flesh, when he was still young and
impressionable. A spiritual emotion possessed Carmichael. He lifted
his heart to the Eternal, and prayed that if on account of any hardship
he shrank from duty he might remember MacLure, and if in any
intellectual strait he was tempted to palter with truth he might see
the Rabbi pursuing his solitary way. The district was full of the
Rabbi, who could not have gone for ever, who might appear any
moment--buried in a book and proceeding steadily in the wrong
direction. The Rabbi surely was not dead, and Carmichael drifted into
that dear world of romance where what we desire comes to pass, and
facts count for nothing. This was how the Idyll went. From the moment
of the reconciliation the Rabbi's disease began to abate in a quite
unheard of fashion--love wrought a miracle--and with Kate's nursing and
his he speedily recovered. Things came right between Kate and himself
as they shared their task of love, and so . . . of course--it took
place last month--and now he was going to carry off the Rabbi, who
somehow had not come to the Presbytery, to Drumtochty, where his bride
would meet them both beneath the laburnum arch at the gate. He would
be cunning as he approached the door of Kilbogie Manse, and walk on the
grass border lest the Rabbi, poring over some Father, should hear the
crunch of the gravel--he did know his footstep--and so he would take
the old man by surprise. Alas! he need not take such care, for the
walk was now as the border with grass, and the gate was lying open, and
the dead house stared at him with open, unconscious eyes, and knew him
not. The key was in the door, and he crossed the threshold once
more--no need to beware of parcels on the floor now--and turned to the
familiar room. The shelves had been taken down, but he could trace
their lines on the ancient discoloured paper that was now revealed for
the first time; there, where a new shutter was resting against the
wall, used to stand the "seat of the fathers," and exactly in the midst
of that heap of straw the Rabbi had his chair. . . .
"Ye 've come tae see hoo we 're getting on wi' the repairs"--it was the
joiner of Kilbogie; "it's no a licht job, for there 's nae doot the
hoose hes been awfu' negleckit. The Doctor wes a terrible scholar, but
he wudna hae kent that the slates were aff the roof till the drap cam
intae his bed.
"Ou aye, the manse is tae be papered an' pented for the new minister;
a' cud show ye the papers; juist as ye please; they're verra tasty an'
showy. He's tae be married at once, a 'm hearin', an' this is tae be
the drawin'-room; he wes here ten days syne--the day after he wes
eleckit: they 're aye in a hurry when they 're engaged--an' seleckit a
sma' room upstairs for his study; he didna think he wud need as lairge
a room for bukes, an' he thocht the auld study wud dae fine for
pairties.
"There 's juist ae room feenished, an' ye micht like tae see the paper
on 't; it's a yellow rose on a licht blue grund; a 'm jidgin' it wes
the Doctor's ain room. Weel, it's a gude lang wy tae Drumtochty, an'
ye 'll no be wantin' tae pit aff time, a' daresay."
It was a terrible douche of prose, and Carmichael was still shivering
when he reached the kindly shade of Tochty woods. He had seen the
successful candidate at the Presbytery arranging about his "trial
discourses" with the clerk--who regarded him dubiously--and he had
heard some story about his being a "popular hand," and bewitching the
young people with a sermon on the "good fight," with four heads "the
soldier," "the battle-field," "the battle," and "the crown"--each with
an illustration, an anecdote, and a verse of poetry. Carmichael
recognised the type, and already saw the new minister of Kilbogie, smug
and self-satisfied, handing round cream and sugar in the Rabbi's old
study, while his wife, a stout young woman in gay clothing, pours tea
from a pot of florid design, and bearing a blazing marriage
inscription. There would be a _soirée_ in the kirk, where the Rabbi
had opened the mysteries of God, and his successor would explain how
unworthy he felt to follow Doctor Saunderson, and how he was going to
reorganise the congregation, and there would be many jocose allusions
to his coming marriage; but Carmichael would by that time have left the
district.
No one can walk a mile in Tochty woods, where there are little glades
of mossy turf, and banks of violets and geraniums, and gentle creatures
on ground and branch, and cool shade from the summer sun, and the sound
of running water by your side, without being sweetened and comforted.
Bitter thoughts and cynical criticisms, as well as vain regrets and
peevish complaints, fell away from Carmichael's soul, and gave place to
a gentle melancholy. He came to the heart of the wood, where was the
lovers' grave, and the place seemed to invite his company. A sense of
the tears of things came over him, and he sat down by the river-side to
meditate. It was two hundred years and more since the lassies died,
who were never wedded, and for him there was not even to be love. The
ages were linked together by a long tragedy of disappointment and
vanity, but the Tochty ran now as in the former days. What was any
human life but a drop in the river that flowed without ceasing to the
unknown sea? What could any one do but yield himself to necessity, and
summon his courage to endure? Then at the singing of a bird his mood
lightened and was changed, as if he had heard the Evangel. God was
over all, and life was immortal, and he could not be wrong who did the
will of God. After a day of conflict, peace came to his soul, and in
the soft light of the setting sun he rose to go home.
[Illustration: "He sat down by the river-side to meditate."]
"Miss Carnegie . . . I did not know you were here . . . I thought you
were in London," and Carmichael stood before Kate in great confusion.
"Nor did I see you behind that tree"--Kate herself was startled. "Yes,
the General and I have been visiting some old friends, and only came
home an hour ago.
"Do you know"--Kate was herself again--"the first thing I do on arrival
is to make a pilgrimage to this place. Half an hour here banishes the
dust of a day's journey and of . . .
"Besides, I don't know whether you have heard"--Kate spoke
hurriedly--"that it is now settled that I . . . we will be leaving the
Lodge soon, and one wants to have as much as possible of the old place
in the time remaining."
She gave him this opportunity in kindness, as it seemed, and he
reproached himself because he did not offer his congratulations.
"You will, I . . . the people hope, come often here, Miss Carnegie, and
not cast off Drumtochty, although the Lodge be not your home. You will
always have a place in the hearts of the Glen. Marjorie will never be
grateful enough for your readings," which was bravely said.
"Do you think that I can ever forget the Glen and my . . . friends
here? Not while I live; the Carnegies have their own faults, but
ingratitude is not one. Nor the dear Rabbi's grave." Then there was
silence, which Carmichael found very trying--they had been so near that
day in Kilbogie Manse, with only the Rabbi, who loved them both,
between; but now, although they stood face to face, there was a gulf
dividing them.
"It may not be easy for me to visit Drumtochty often, for you know
there has been a change . . . in our circumstances, and one must suit
oneself to it."
Carmichael flushed uneasily, and Kate supposed that he was sympathising
with their losses.
"I hope to be a busy woman soon, with lots of work, and I shall use
every one of my little scraps of knowledge. How do you think I shall
acquit myself in my new role?"
It was a little hard on Carmichael, who was thinking of a countess,
while Kate meant a governess.
"You need not ask me how I think you will do as . . . in any position,
and I . . . wish you every success, and . . . (with a visible effort)
happiness."
He spoke so stiffly that Kate sought about for reasons, and could only
remember their quarrel and imagine he retained a grudge--which she
thought was rather ungenerous.
"It occurs to me that one man ought to be thankful when we depart, for
then he will be able to call Queen Mary names every Sunday without a
misguided Jacobite girl dropping in to create a disturbance."
"Drumtochty will have to form its own opinion of poor Mary without my
aid," and Carmichael smiled sadly in pardon of the past, "for it is
likely, although no one knows this in the Glen, that I shall soon be
far away."
"Leaving Drumtochty? What will Marjorie do without you, and Dr.
Davidson, and . . . all the people?" Then, remembering Janet's gossip,
and her voice freezing, "I suppose you have got a better or more
convenient living. The Glen is certainly rather inaccessible."
"Have I done anything, Miss Carnegie, to justify you in thinking that I
would leave the Glen, which has been so good to me, for . . . worldly
reasons? There is enough to support an unmarried man, and I am not
likely to . . . to marry," said Carmichael, bitterly; "but there are
times when it is better for a man to change his whole surroundings and
make a new life."
It was clear that the Bailie's daughter was a romance of Janet's Celtic
imagination, and Kate's manner softened.
"The Rabbi's death and . . . your difference of opinion--something
about doctrine, was n't it? we were from home--must have been a great
trial, and, as there was no opportunity before, let me say how much we
sympathised with you and . . . thought of you.
"Do you think, however, Mr. Carmichael"--she spoke with hesitation, but
much kindness--"that you ought to fling up your work here on that
account? Would not the Rabbi himself have wished you to stick to your
post? . . . and all your friends would like to think you had been . . .
brave."
"You are cruel, Miss Carnegie; you try me beyond what I can endure,
although I shall be ashamed to-night for what I am to say. Do you not
know or guess that it is your . . . on account of you, I mean, that I
must leave Drumtochty?"
"On account of me?" Kate looked at him in unaffected amazement.
"Are you blind, or is it that you could not suspect me of such
presumption? Had you no idea that night in Dr. Davidson's
drawing-room? Have you never seen that I . . . Kate--I will say it
once to your face as I say it every hour to myself--you won my heart in
an instant on Muirtown Station, and will hold it till I die.
"Do not speak till I be done, and then order me from your presence as I
deserve, I know that it is unworthy of a gentleman, and . . . a
minister of Christ to say such things to the betrothed of another man;
only one minute more"--for Kate had started as if in anger--"I know
also that if I were stronger I could go on living as before, and meet
you from time to time when you came from the Castle with your husband,
and never allow myself to think of Lady Hay as I felt to Miss Carnegie.
But I am afraid of myself, and . . . this is the last time we shall
meet, Miss Carnegie. Forgive me for my love, and believe that one man
will ever remember and . . . pray for you."
Carmichael bowed low, the last sunshine of the evening playing on his
fair hair, and turned to go.
"One word, if you please," said Kate, and they looked into one
another's eyes, the blue and brown, seeing many things that cannot be
written. "You may be forgiven for . . . loving me, because you could
not help that"--this with a very roguish look, our Kate all over--"and
I suppose you must be forgiven for listening to foolish gossip, since
people will tell lies"--this with a stamp of the foot, our Kate
again--"but I shall never forgive you if you leave me, never"--this was
a new Kate, like to the opening of a flower.
"Why? Tell me plainly," and in the silence Carmichael heard a trout
leap in the river.
"Because I love you."
The Tochty water sang a pleasant song, and the sun set gloriously
behind Ben Urtach.