"It was awfu' work the next twa years, but the Doctor stood

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BESIDE THE BONNIE BRIER BUSH

By IAN MACLAREN

TO MY WIFE

'There grows a bonnie brier bush in our kail-yard,

And white are the blossoms on't in our kail-yard.'

CONTENTS

I. DOMSIE.

1. A LAD O' PAIRTS,

2. HOW WE CARRIED THE NEWS TO WHINNIE KNOWE

3. IN MARGET'S GARDEN

4. A SCHOLAR'S FUNERAL

II. A HIGHLAND MYSTIC.

1. WHAT EYE HATH NOT SEEN,

2. AGAINST PRINCIPALITIES AND POWERS,

III. HIS MOTHER'S SERMON,

IV. THE TRANSFORMATION OF LACHLAN CAMPBELL.

1. A GRAND INQUISITOR,

2. HIS BITTER SHAME,

3. LIKE AS A FATHER,

4. AS A LITTLE CHILD,

V. THE CUNNING SPEECH OF DRUMTOCHTY

VI. A WISE WOMAN.

1. OUR SERMON TASTER

2. THE COLLAPSE OF MRS. MACFADYEN

VII. A DOCTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL

1. A GENERAL PRACTITIONER

2. THROUGH THE FLOOD

3. A FIGHT WITH DEATH

4. THE DOCTOR'S LAST JOURNEY

5. THE MOURNING OF THE GLEN

DOMSIE

I

A LAD O' PAIRTS

The Revolution reached our parish years ago, and Drumtochty has a

School Board, with a chairman and a clerk, besides a treasurer and

an officer. Young Hillocks, who had two years in a lawyer's office,

is clerk, and summons meetings by post, although he sees every

member at the market or the kirk. Minutes are read with much

solemnity, and motions to expend ten shillings upon a coal-cellar

door passed, on the motion of Hillocks, seconded by Drumsheugh, who

are both severely prompted for the occasion, and move uneasily

before speaking.

Drumsheugh was at first greatly exalted by his poll, and referred

freely on market days to his "plumpers," but as time went on the

irony of the situation laid hold upon him.

"Think o' you and me, Hillocks, veesitin' the schule and sittin' wi'

bukes in oor hands watchin' the Inspector. Keep's a', it's eneuch to

mak' the auld Dominie turn in his grave. Twa meenisters cam' in his

time, and Domsie put Geordie Hoo or some ither gleg laddie, that was

makin' for college, thro' his facin's, and maybe some bit lassie

brocht her copybuke. Syne they had their dinner, and Domsie tae, wi'

the Doctor. Man, a've often thocht it was the prospeck o' the Schule

Board and its weary bit rules that feenished Domsie. He wasna maybe

sae shairp at the elements as this pirjinct body we hae noo, but

a'body kent he was a terrible scholar and a credit tae the parish.

Drumtochty was a name in thae days wi' the lads he sent tae college.

It was maybe juist as weel he slippit awa' when he did, for he wud

hae taen ill with thae new fikes, and nae college lad to warm his

hert."

The present school-house stands in an open place beside the main

road to Muirtown, treeless and comfortless, built of red, staring

stone, with a playground for the boys and another for the girls, and

a trim, smug-looking teacher's house, all very neat and symmetrical,

and well regulated. The local paper had a paragraph headed

"Drumtochty," written by the Muirtown architect, describing the

whole premises in technical language that seemed to compensate the

ratepayers for the cost, mentioning the contractor's name, and

concluding that "this handsome building of the Scoto-Grecian style

was one of the finest works that had ever come from the accomplished

architect's hands." It has pitch-pine benches and map-cases, and a

thermometer to be kept at not less than 58° and not more than 62°,

and ventilators which the Inspector is careful to examine. When I

stumbled in last week the teacher was drilling the children in Tonic

Sol-fa with a little harmonium, and I left on tiptoe.

It is difficult to live up to this kind of thing, and my thoughts

drift to the auld schule-house and Domsie. Some one with the love of

God in his heart had built it long ago, and chose a site for the

bairns in the sweet pine-woods at the foot of the cart road to

Whinnie Knowe and the upland farms. It stood in a clearing with the

tall Scotch firs round three sides, and on the fourth a brake of

gorse and bramble bushes, through which there was an opening to the

road. The clearing was the playground, and in summer the bairns

annexed as much wood as they liked, playing tig among the trees, or

sitting down at dinner-time on the soft, dry spines that made an

elastic carpet everywhere. Domsie used to say there were two

pleasant sights for his old eyes every day. One was to stand in the

open at dinner-time and see the flitting forms of the healthy, rosy

sonsie bairns in the wood, and from the door in the afternoon to

watch the schule skail till each group was lost in the kindly shadow,

and the merry shouts died away in this quiet place. Then the Dominie

took a pinch of snuff and locked the door, and went to his house

beside the school. One evening I came on him listening bare-headed

to the voices, and he showed so kindly that I shall take him as he

stands. A man of middle height, but stooping below it, with sandy

hair turning to grey, and bushy eye-brow covering keen, shrewd

grey eyes. You will notice that his linen is coarse but spotless,

and that, though his clothes are worn almost threadbare, they are

well brushed and orderly. But you will be chiefly arrested by the

Dominie's coat, for the like of it was not in the parish. It was a

black dress coat, and no man knew when it had begun its history; in

its origin and its continuance it resembled Melchisedek. Many were

the myths that gathered round that coat, but on this all were agreed,

that without it we could not have realised the Dominie, and it

became to us the sign and trappings of learning. He had taken a

high place at the University, and won a good degree, and I've heard

the Doctor say that he had a career before him. But something

happened in his life, and Domsie buried himself among the woods with

the bairns of Drumtochty. No one knew the story, but after he died I

found a locket on his breast, with a proud, beautiful face within,

and I have fancied it was a tragedy. It may have been in substitution

that he gave all his love to the children, and nearly all his money

too, helping lads to college, and affording an inexhaustible store

of peppermints for the little ones.

Perhaps one ought to have been ashamed of that school-house, but yet

it had its own distinction, for scholars were born there, and now

and then to this day some famous man will come and stand in the

deserted playground for a space. The door was at one end, and stood

open in summer, so that the boys saw the rabbits come out from their

holes on the edge of the wood, and birds sometimes flew in unheeded.

The fireplace was at the other end, and was fed in winter with the

sticks and peats brought by the scholars. On one side Domsie sat

with the half-dozen lads he hoped to send to college, to whom he

grudged no labour, and on the other gathered the very little ones,

who used to warm their bare feet at the fire, while down the sides

of the room the other scholars sat at their rough old desks, working

sums and copying. Now and then a class came up and did some task,

and at times a boy got the tawse for his negligence, but never a

girl. He kept the girls in as their punishment, with a brother to

take them home, and both had tea in Domsie's house, with a bit of

his best honey, departing much torn between an honest wish to please

Domsie and a pardonable longing for another tea.

"Domsie," as we called the schoolmaster, behind his back in

Drumtochty, because we loved him, was true to the tradition of his

kind, and had an unerring scent for "pairts" in his laddies. He

could detect a scholar in the egg, and prophesied Latinity from a

boy that seemed fit only to be a cowherd. It was believed that he

had never made a mistake in judgment, and it was not his blame if

the embryo scholar did not come to birth. "Five and thirty years

have I been minister at Drumtochty," the Doctor used to say at

school examinations, "and we have never wanted a student at the

University, and while Dominie Jamieson lives we never shall."

Whereupon Domsie took snuff, and assigned his share of credit to the

Doctor, "who gave the finish in Greek to every lad of them, without

money and without price, to make no mention of the higher mathematics."

Seven ministers, four schoolmasters, four doctors, one professor,

and three civil service men had been sent out by the auld schule

in Domsie's time, besides many that "had given themselves to

mercantile pursuits."

He had a leaning to classics and the professions, but Domsie was

catholic in his recognition of "pairts," and when the son of

Hillocks' foreman made a collection of the insects of Drumtochty,

there was a council at the manse. "Bumbee Willie," as he had been

pleasantly called by his companions, was rescued from ridicule and

encouraged to fulfil his bent. Once a year a long letter came to Mr.

Patrick Jamieson, M.A., Schoolmaster, Drumtochty, N.B., and the

address within was the British Museum. When Domsie read this letter

to the school, he was always careful to explain that "Dr. Graham is

the greatest living authority on beetles," and, generally speaking,

if any clever lad did not care for Latin, he had the alternative of

beetles.

But it was Latin Domsie hunted for as for fine gold, and when he

found the smack of it in a lad he rejoiced openly. He counted it a

day in his life when he knew certainly that he had hit on another

scholar, and the whole school saw the identification of George Howe.

For a winter Domsie had been "at point," racing George through

Caesar, stalking him behind irregular verbs, baiting traps with

tit-bits of Virgil. During these exercises Domsie surveyed George

from above his spectacles with a hope that grew every day in assurance,

and came to its height over a bit of Latin prose. Domsie tasted it

visibly, and read it again in the shadow of the firs at meal-time,

slapping his leg twice.

"He'll dae! he'll dae!" cried Domsie aloud, ladling in the snuff.

"George, ma mannie, tell yir father that I am comin' up to Whinnie

Knowe the nicht on a bit o' business."

Then the "schule" knew that Geordie Hoo was marked for college, and

pelted him with fir cones in great gladness of heart.

"Whinnie" was full of curiosity over the Dominie's visit, and vexed

Marget sorely, to whom Geordie had told wondrous things in the

milk-house. "It canna be coals 'at he's wantin' frae the station,

for there's a fell puckle left."

"And it'll no be seed taties," she said, pursuing the principle of

exhaustion, "for he hes some Perthshire reds himsel'. I doot it's

somethin' wrang with Geordie," and Whinnie started on a new track.

"He's been playin' truant maybe. A' mind gettin' ma paiks for

birdnestin' masel. I'll wager that's the verra thing."

"Weel, yir wrang, Weelum," broke in Marget, Whinnie's wife, a tall,

silent woman, with a speaking face; "it's naither the ae thing nor

the ither, but something I've been prayin' for since Geordie was a

wee bairn. Clean yirsel and meet Domsie on the road, for nae man

deserves more honour in Drumtochty, naither laird nor farmer."

Conversation with us was a leisurely game, with slow movements and

many pauses, and it was our custom to handle all the pawns before we

brought the queen into action.

Domsie and Whinnie discussed the weather with much detail before

they came in sight of George, but it was clear that Domsie was

charged with something weighty, and even Whinnie felt that his own

treatment of the turnip crop was wanting in repose.

At last Domsie cleared his throat and looked at Marget, who had been

in and out, but ever within hearing.

"George is a fine laddie, Mrs. Howe."

An ordinary Drumtochty mother, although bursting with pride, would

have responded, "He's weel eneuch, if he hed grace in his heart," in

a tone that implied it was extremely unlikely, and that her laddie

led the reprobates of the parish. As it was, Marget's face

lightened, and she waited.

"What do you think of making him?" and the Dominie dropped the words

slowly, for this was a moment in Drumtochty.

There was just a single ambition in those humble homes, to have one

of its members at college, and if Domsie approved a lad, then his

brothers and sisters would give their wages, and the family would

live on skim milk and oat cake, to let him have his chance.

Whinnie glanced at his wife and turned to Domsie.

"Marget's set on seein' Geordie a minister, Dominie."

"If he's worthy o't, no otherwise. We haena the means though; the

farm is highly rented, and there's barely a penny over at the end o'

the year."

"But you are willing George should go and see what he can do. If he

disappoint you, then I dinna know a lad o' pairts when I see him,

and the Doctor is with me."

"Maister Jamieson," said Marget, with great solemnity, "ma hert's

desire is to see George a minister, and if the Almichty spared me to

hear ma only bairn open his mooth in the Evangel, I wud hae naething

mair to ask ... but I doot sair it canna be managed."

Domsie had got all he asked, and he rose in his strength.

"If George Howe disna get to college, then he's the first scholar

I've lost in Drumtochty ... ye 'ill manage his keep and sic like?"

"Nae fear o' that," for Whinnie was warming, "tho' I haena a steek

(stitch) o' new claithes for four years. But what aboot his fees and

ither ootgaeins?"

"There's ae man in the parish can pay George's fees without missing

a penny, and I'll warrant he 'ill dae it."

"Are ye meanin' Drumsheugh?" said Whinnie, "for ye 'ill never get a

penny piece oot o' him. Did ye no hear hoo the Frees wiled him intae

their kirk, Sabbath past a week, when Netherton's sister's son frae

Edinboro' wes preaching the missionary sermon, expectin' a note, and

if he didna change a shillin' at the public-hoose and pit in a

penny. Sall, he's a lad Drumsheugh; a'm thinking ye may save yir

journey, Dominie."

But Marget looked away from her into the past, and her eyes had a

tender light. "He hed the best hert in the pairish aince."

Domsie found Drumsheugh inclined for company, and assisted at an

exhaustive and caustic treatment of local affairs. When the conduct

of Piggie Walker, who bought Drumsheugh's potatoes and went into

bankruptcy without paying for a single tuber, had been characterized

in language that left nothing to be desired, Drumsheugh began to

soften and show signs of reciprocity.

"Hoo's yir laddies, Dominie?" whom the farmers regarded as a risky

turnip crop in a stiff clay that Domsie had "to fecht awa in." "Are

ony o' them shaping weel?"

Drumsheugh had given himself away, and Domsie laid his first

parallel with a glowing account of George Howe's Latinity, which was

well received.

"Weel, I'm gled tae hear sic accoonts o' Marget Hoo's son; there's

naething in Whinnie but what the spune puts in."

But at the next move Drumsheugh scented danger and stood at guard.

"Na, na, Dominie, I see what yir aifter fine; ye mind hoo ye got

three notes oot o' me at Perth market Martinmas a year past for ane

o' yir college laddies. Five punds for four years; my word, yir no

blate (modest). And what for sud I educat Marget Hoo's bairn? If ye

kent a' ye wudna ask me; it's no reasonable, Dominie. So there's an

end o't."

Domsie was only a pedantic old parish schoolmaster, and he knew

little beyond his craft, but the spirit of the Humanists awoke

within him, and he smote with all his might, bidding goodbye to his

English as one flings away the scabbard of a sword.

"Ye think that a'm asking a great thing when I plead for a pickle

notes to give a puir laddie a college education. I tell ye, man, a'm

honourin' ye and givin' ye the fairest chance ye'll ever hae o'

winning wealth. Gin ye store the money ye hae scrapit by mony a hard

bargain, some heir ye never saw 'ill gar it flee in chambering and

wantonness. Gin ye hed the heart to spend it on a lad o' pairts like

Geordie Hoo, ye wud hae twa rewards nae man could tak fra ye. Ane

wud be the honest gratitude o' a laddie whose desire for knowledge

ye hed sateesfied, and the second wud be this--anither scholar in

the land; and a'm thinking with auld John Knox that ilka scholar is

something added to the riches of the commonwealth. And what 'ill it

cost ye? Little mair than the price o' a cattle beast. Man, Drumsheugh,

ye poverty-stricken cratur, I've naethin' in this world but a handfu'

o' books and a ten-pund note for my funeral, and yet, if it wasna I

have all my brither's bairns tae keep, I wud pay every penny mysel'.

But I'll no see Geordie sent to the plough, tho' I gang frae door

to door. Na, na, the grass 'ill no grow on the road atween the

college and the schule-hoose o' Drumtochty till they lay me in the

auld kirkyard."

"Sall, Domsie was roosed," Drumsheugh explained in the Muirtown inn

next market. "'Miserly wratch' was the ceevilest word on his tongue.

He wud naither sit nor taste, and was half way doon the yaird afore

I cud quiet him. An' a'm no sayin' he hed na reason if I'd been

meanin' a' I said. It wud be a scan'al to the pairish if a likely

lad cudna win tae college for the want o' siller. Na, na, neeburs,

we hae oor faults, but we're no sae dune mean as that in

Drumtochty."

As it was, when Domsie did depart he could only grip Drumsheugh's

hand, and say Maecenas, and was so intoxicated, but not with strong

drink, that he explained to Hillocks on the way home that Drumsheugh

would be a credit to Drumtochty, and that his Latin style reminded

him of Cicero. He added as an afterthought that Whinnie Knowe had

promised to pay Drumsheugh's fees for four years at the University

of Edinburgh.

II

HOW WE CARRIED THE NEWS TO WHINNIE KNOWE

Domsie was an artist, and prepared the way for George's University

achievement with much cunning. Once every Sabbath in the kirk-yard,

where he laid down the law beneath an old elm tree, and twice

between Sabbaths, at the post-office and by the wayside, he adjured

us not to expect beyond measure, and gave us reasons.

"Ye see, he has a natural talent for learning, and took to Latin

like a duck to water. What could be done in Drumtochty was done for

him, and he's working night and day, but he'll have a sore fight

with the lads from the town schools. Na, na, neighbours," said the

Dominie, lapsing into dialect, "we daurna luik for a prize. No the

first year, at ony rate."

"Man, Dominie. A'm clean astonished at ye," Drumsheugh used to break

in, who, since he had given to George's support, outran us all in

his faith, and had no patience with Domsie's devices, "a' tell ye if

Geordie disna get a first in every class he's entered for, the

judges 'ill be a puir lot," with a fine confusion of circumstances.

"Losh, Drumsheugh, be quiet, or ye'll dae the laddie an injury,"

said Domsie, with genuine alarm. "We maunna mention prizes, and

first is fair madness, A certificate of honour now, that will be

aboot it, may be next to the prizemen."

Coming home from market he might open his heart. "George 'ill be

amang the first sax, or my name is no Jamieson," but generally he

prophesied a moderate success. There were times when he affected

indifference, and talked cattle. We then regarded him with awe,

because this was more than mortal.

It was my luck to carry the bulletin to Domsie, and I learned what

he had been enduring. It was good manners in Drumtochty to feign

amazement at the sight of a letter, and to insist that it must be

intended for some other person. When it was finally forced upon one,

you examined the handwriting at various angles and speculated about

the writer. Some felt emboldened, after these precautions, to open

the letter, but this haste was considered indecent. When Posty

handed Drumsheugh the factor's letter, with the answer to his offer

for the farm, he only remarked, "It'll be frae the factor," and

harked back to a polled Angus bull he had seen at the show. "Sall,"

said Posty in the kirkyard with keen relish, "ye'll never flurry

Drumsheugh." Ordinary letters were read in leisurely retirement,

and, in case of urgency, answered within the week.

Domsie clutched the letter, and would have torn off the envelope.

But he could not; his hand was shaking like an aspen. He could only

look, and I read:

"Dear Mr. Jamieson,--The class honour lists are just out, and you

will be pleased to know that I have got the medal both in the

Humanity and the Greek."

There was something about telling his mother, and his gratitude to

his schoolmaster, but Domsie heard no more. He tried to speak and

could not, for a rain of tears was on his hard old face. Domsie was

far more a pagan than a saint, but somehow he seemed to me that day

as Simeon, who had at last seen his heart's desire, and was

satisfied.

When the school had dispersed with a joyful shout, and disappeared

in the pine woods, he said, "Ye'll come too," and I knew he was

going to Whinnie Knowe. He did not speak one word upon the way, but

twice he stood and read the letter which he held fast in his hand.

His face was set as he climbed the cart track. I saw it set again as

we came down that road one day, but it was well that we could not

pierce beyond the present.

Whinnie left his plough in the furrow, and came to meet us, taking

two drills at a stride, and shouting remarks on the weather yards

off.

Domsie only lifted the letter. "Frae George."

"Ay, ay, and what's he gotten noo?"

Domsie solemnly unfolded the letter, and brought down his spectacles.

"Edinburgh, April 7th." Then he looked at Whinnie, and closed his

mouth.

"We'll tell it first to his mither."

"Yer richt, Dominie. She weel deserves it. A'm thinking she's seen

us by this time." So we fell into a procession, Dominie leading by

two yards; and then a strange thing happened. For the first and last

time in his life Domsie whistled, and the tune was "A hundred pipers

and a' and a'," and as he whistled he seemed to dilate before our

eyes, and he struck down thistles with his stick--a thistle at every

stroke.

"Domsie's fair carried," whispered Whinnie, "it cowes a'."

Marget met us at the end of the house beside the brier bush, where

George was to sit on summer afternoons before he died, and a flash

passed between Domsie and the lad's mother. Then she knew that it

was well, and fixed her eyes on the letter, but Whinnie, his thumbs

in his armholes, watched the wife.

Domsie now essayed to read the news, but between the shaking of his

hands and his voice he could not.

"It's nae use," he cried, "he's first in the Humanity oot o' a

hundred and seeventy lads, first o' them a', and he's first in the

Greek too; the like o' this is hardly known, and it has na been seen

in Drumtochty since there was a schule. That's the word he's sent,

and he bade me tell his mother without delay, and I am here as fast

as my old feet could carry me."

I glanced round, although I did not myself see very clearly.

Marget was silent for the space of five seconds; she was a good

woman, and I knew that better afterwards. She took the Dominie's

hand, and said to him, "Under God this was your doing, Maister

Jamieson, and for your reward ye'ill get naither silver nor gold,

but ye hae a mither's gratitude."

Whinnie gave a hoarse chuckle and said to his wife, "It was frae

you, Marget, he got it a'."

When we settled in the parlour Domsie's tongue was loosed, and he

lifted up his voice and sang the victory of Geordie Hoo.

"It's ten years ago at the brak up o' the winter ye brought him down

to me, Mrs. Hoo, and ye said at the schule-hoose door, 'Dinna be

hard on him, Maister Jamieson, he's my only bairn, and a wee thingie

quiet.' Div ye mind what I said, 'There's something ahint that

face,' and my heart warmed to George that hour. Two years after the

Doctor examined the schule, and he looks at George. 'That's a likely

lad, Dominie. What think ye?' And he was only eight years auld, and

no big for his size. 'Doctor, I daurna prophesy till we turn him

into the Latin, but a've my thoughts.' So I had a' the time, but I

never boasted, na, na, that's dangerous. Didna I say, 'Ye hev a

promisin' laddie, Whinnie,' ae day in the market?"

"It's a fac'," said Whinnie, "it wes the day I bocht the white coo."

But Domsie swept on.

"The first year o' Latin was enough for me. He juist nippet up his

verbs. Cæsar could na keep him going; he wes into Virgil afore he

wes eleven, and the Latin prose, man, as sure as a'm living, it

tasted o' Cicero frae the beginning."

Whinnie wagged his head in amazement.

"It was the verra nicht o' the Latin prose I cam up to speak aboot

the college, and ye thocht Geordie hed been playing truant."

Whinnie laughed uproariously, but Domsie heeded not.

"It was awfu' work the next twa years, but the Doctor stood in weel

wi' the Greek. Ye mind hoo Geordie tramped ower the muir to the

manse thro' the weet an' the snaw, and there wes aye dry stockings

for him in the kitchen afore he had his Greek in the Doctor's

study."

"And a warm drink tae," put in Marget, "and that's the window I pit the

licht in to guide him hame in the dark winter nichts, and mony a time

when the sleet played swish on the glass I wes near wishin'--" Domsie

waved his hand.

"But that's dune wi' noo, and he was worth a' the toil and trouble.

First in the Humanity and first in the Greek, sweepit the field,

Lord preserve us. A' can hardly believe it. Eh, I was feared o' thae

High School lads. They had terrible advantages. Maisters frae

England, and tutors, and whatna', but Drumtochty carried aff the

croon. It'll be fine reading in the papers--

_Humanity_.--First Prize (and Medal), George Howe, Drumtochty,

Perthshire.

_Greek_.--First Prize (and Medal), George Howe, Drumtochty,

Perthshire."

"It'll be michty," cried Whinnie, now fairly on fire.

"And Philosophy and Mathematics to come. Geordie's no bad at Euclid,

I'll wager he'll be first there too. When he gets his hand in

there's naething he's no fit for wi' time. My ain laddie--and the

Doctor's--we maunna forget him--it's his classics he hes, every book

o' them. The Doctor 'ill be lifted when he comes back on Saturday.

A'm thinkin' we'll hear o't on Sabbath. And Drumsheugh, he'll be

naither to had nor bind in the kirk-yard. As for me, I wad na change

places wi' the Duke o' Athole," and Domsie shook the table to its

foundation.

Then he awoke, as from a dream, and the shame of boasting that shuts

the mouths of self-respecting Scots descended upon him.

"But this is fair nonsense. Ye'll no mind the havers o' an auld

dominie."

He fell back on a recent roup, and would not again break away,

although sorely tempted by certain of Whinnie's speculations.

When I saw him last, his coat-tails were waving victoriously as he

leaped a dyke on his way to tell our Drumtochty Maecenas that the

judges knew their business.

III

IN MARGET'S GARDEN

The cart track to Whinnie Knowe was commanded by a gable window, and

Whinnie boasted that Marget had never been taken unawares. Tramps,

finding every door locked, and no sign of life anywhere, used to

express their mind in the "close," and return by the way they came,

while ladies from Kildrummie, fearful lest they should put Mrs. Howe

out, were met at the garden gate by Marget in her Sabbath dress, and

brought into a set tea as if they had been invited weeks before.

Whinnie gloried most in the discomfiture of the Tory agent, who had

vainly hoped to coerce him in the stack yard without Marget's

presence, as her intellectual contempt for the Conservative party

knew no bounds.

"Sall she saw him slip aff the road afore the last stile, and wheep

roond the fit o' the gairden wa' like a tod (fox) aifter the

chickens.

"'It's a het day, Maister Anderson,' says Marget frae the gairden,

lookin' doon on him as calm as ye like. 'Yir surely no gaein' to

pass oor hoose without a gless o' milk?'

"Wud ye believe it, he wes that upset he left withoot sayin' 'vote,'

and Drumsheugh telt me next market that his langidge aifterwards

cudna be printed."

When George came home for the last time, Marget went back and

forward all afternoon from his bedroom to the window, and hid

herself beneath the laburnum to see his face as the cart stood

before the stile. It told her plain what she had feared, and Marget

passed through her Gethsemane with the gold blossoms falling on her

face. When their eyes met, and before she helped him down, mother

and son understood.

"Ye mind what I told ye, o' the Greek mothers, the day I left. Weel,

I wud hae liked to have carried my shield, but it wasna to be, so

I've come home on it." As they went slowly up the garden walk, "I've

got my degree, a double first, mathematics and classics."

"Ye've been a gude soldier, George, and faithfu'."

"Unto death, a'm dootin, mother."

"Na," said Marget, "unto life."

Drumtochty was not a heartening place in sickness, and Marget, who

did not think our thoughts, endured much consolation at her

neighbour's hands. It is said that in cities visitors congratulate a

patient on his good looks, and deluge his family with instances of

recovery. This would have seemed to us shallow and unfeeling,

besides being a "temptin' o' Providence," which might not have

intended to go to extremities, but on a challenge of this kind had

no alternative. Sickness was regarded as a distinction tempered with

judgment, and favoured people found it difficult to be humble. I

always thought more of Peter MacIntosh when the mysterious "tribble"

that needed the Perth doctor made no difference in his manner, and

he passed his snuff box across the seat before the long prayer as

usual, but in this indifference to privileges Peter was exceptional.

You could never meet Kirsty Stewart on equal terms, although she was

quite affable to any one who knew his place.

"Ay," she said, on my respectful allusion to her experience, "a've

seen mair than most. It doesna become me to boast, but tho' I say it

as sudna, I hae buried a' my ain fouk."

Kirsty had a "way" in sick visiting, consisting in a certain cadence

of the voice and arrangement of the face, which was felt to be

soothing and complimentary.

"Yir aboot again, a'm glad to see," to me after my accident, "but

yir no dune wi' that leg; na, na, Jeems, that was ma second son,

scrapit his shin aince, tho' no so bad as ye've dune a'm hearing

(for I had denied Kirsty the courtesy of an inspection). It's sax

year syne noo, and he got up and wes traivellin' fell hearty like

yersel. But he begood to dwam (sicken) in the end of the year, and

soughed awa' in the spring. Ay, ay, when tribble comes ye never ken

hoo it 'ill end. A' thocht I wud come up and speir for ye. A body

needs comfort gin he's sober (ill)."

When I found George wrapped in his plaid beside the brier bush whose

roses were no whiter than his cheeks, Kirsty was already installed

as comforter in the parlour, and her drone came through the open

window.

"Ay, ay, Marget, sae it's come to this. Weel, we daurna complain, ye

ken. Be thankfu' ye haena lost your man and five sons, besides twa

sisters and a brither, no to mention cousins. That wud be something

to speak aboot, and Losh keep's, there's nae saying but he micht

hang on a whilie. Ay, ay, it's a sair blow aifter a' that wes in the

papers. I wes feared when I heard o' the papers; 'Lat weel alane,'

says I to the Dominie; 'ye 'ill bring a judgment on the laddie wi'

yir blawing.' But ye micht as weel hae spoken to the hills. Domsie's

a thraun body at the best, and he was clean infatuat' wi' George.

Ay, ay, it's an awfu' lesson, Marget, no to mak' idols o' our

bairns, for that's naethin' else than provokin' the Almichty."

It was at this point that Marget gave way and scandalized

Drumtochty, which held that obtrusive prosperity was an irresistible

provocation to the higher powers, and that a skilful depreciation of

our children was a policy of safety.

"Did ye say the Almichty? I'm thinkin' that's ower grand a name for

your God, Kirsty. What wud ye think o' a faither that brocht hame

some bonnie thing frae the fair for ane o' his bairns, and when the

puir bairn wes pleased wi' it tore it oot o' his hand and flung it

into the fire? Eh, woman, he wud be a meeserable cankered jealous

body. Kirsty, wumman, when the Almichty sees a mither bound up in

her laddie, I tell ye He is sair pleased in His heaven, for mind ye

hoo He loved His ain Son. Besides, a'm judgin' that nane o' us can

love anither withoot lovin' Him, or hurt anither withoot hurtin'

Him.

"Oh, I ken weel that George is gaein' to leave us; but it's no

because the Almichty is jealous o' him or me, no likely. It cam' to

me last nicht that He needs my laddie for some grand wark in the

ither world, and that's hoo George has his bukes brocht oot tae the

garden and studies a' the day. He wants to be ready for his kingdom,

just as he trachled in the bit schule o' Drumtochty for Edinboro'. I

hoped he wud hae been a minister o' Christ's Gospel here, but he

'ill be judge over many cities yonder. A'm no denyin', Kirsty, that

it's a trial, but I hae licht on it, and naethin' but gude thochts

o' the Almichty."

Drumtochty understood that Kirsty had dealt faithfully with Marget

for pride and presumption, but all we heard was, "Losh keep us a'."

When Marget came out and sat down beside her son, her face was

shining. Then she saw the open window.

"I didna ken."

"Never mind, mither, there's nae secrets atween us, and it gar'd my

heart leap to hear ye speak up like yon for God, and to know yir

content. Div ye mind the nicht I called for ye, mother, and ye gave

me the Gospel aboot God?"

Marget slipped her hand into George's, and he let his head rest on

her shoulder. The likeness flashed upon me in that moment, the

earnest deep-set grey eyes, the clean-cut firm jaw, and the tender

mobile lips, that blend of apparent austerity and underlying romance

that make the pathos of a Scottish face.

"There had been a Revival man, here," George explained to me, "and

he was preaching on hell. As it grew dark a candle was lighted, and

I can still see his face as in a picture, a hard-visaged man. He

looked down at us laddies in the front, and asked us if we knew what

like hell was. By this time we were that terrified none of us could

speak, but I whispered 'No.'

"Then he rolled up a piece of paper and held it in the flame, and we

saw it burn and glow and shrivel up and fall in black dust.

"'Think,' said he, and he leaned over the desk, and spoke in a

gruesome whisper which made the cold run down our backs, 'that yon

paper was your finger, one finger only of your hand, and it burned

like that for ever and ever, and think of your hand and your arm and

your whole body all on fire, never to go out.' We shuddered that you

might have heard the form creak. 'That is hell, and that is where

ony laddie will go who does not repent and believe.'

"It was like Dante's Inferno, and I dared not take my eyes off his

face. He blew out the candle, and we crept to the door trembling,

not able to say one word.

"That night I could not sleep, for I thought I might be in the fire

before morning. It was harvest time, and the moon was filling the

room with cold clear light. From my bed I could see the stooks

standing in rows upon the field, and it seemed like the judgment

day.

"I was only a wee laddie, and I did what we all do in trouble, I

cried for my mother.

"Ye hae na forgotten, mither, the fricht that was on me that nicht."

"Never," said Marget, "and never can; it's hard wark for me to keep

frae hating that man, dead or alive. Geordie gripped me wi' baith

his wee airms round my neck, and he cries over and over and over

again, 'Is yon God?'"

"Ay, and ye kissed me, mither, and ye said (it's like yesterday),

'Yir safe with me,' and ye telt me that God micht punish me to mak

me better if I was bad, but that he wud never torture ony puir soul,

for that cud dae nae guid, and was the Devil's wark. Ye asked me:

"'Am I a guid mother tae ye?' and when I could dae naethin' but

hold, ye said, 'Be sure God maun be a hantle kinder.'

"The truth came to me as with a flicker, and I cuddled down into my

bed, and fell asleep in His love as in my mother's arms.

"Mither," and George lifted up his head, "that was my conversion,

and, mither dear, I hae longed a' thro' thae college studies for the

day when ma mooth wud be opened wi' this evangel."

Marget's was an old-fashioned garden, with pinks and daisies and

forget-me-nots, with sweet-scented wall-flower and thyme and moss

roses, where nature had her way, and gracious thoughts could visit

one without any jarring note. As George's voice softened to the

close, I caught her saying, "His servants shall see His face," and

the peace of Paradise fell upon us in the shadow of death.

The night before the end George was carried out to his corner, and

Domsie, whose heart was nigh unto the breaking, sat with him the

afternoon. They used to fight the College battles over again, with

their favourite classics beside them, but this time none of them

spoke of books. Marget was moving about the garden, and she told me

that George looked at Domsie wistfully, as if he had something to

say and knew not how to do it.

After a while he took a book from below his pillow, and began, like

one thinking over his words:

"Maister Jamieson, ye hae been a gude freend tae me, the best I ever

hed aifter my mither and faither. Wull ye tak this buik for a

keepsake o' yir grateful scholar? It's a Latin 'Imitation' Dominie,

and it's bonnie printin'. Ye mind hoo ye gave me yir ain Virgil, and

said he was a kind o' Pagan sanct. Noo here is my sanct, and div ye

ken I've often thocht Virgil saw His day afar off, and was glad.

Wull ye read it, Dominie, for my sake, and maybe ye 'ill come to

see--" and George could not find words for more.

But Domsie understood. "Ma laddie, ma laddie, that I luve better

than onythin' on earth, I'll read it till I die, and, George, I'll

tell ye what livin' man does na ken. When I was your verra age I had

a cruel trial, and ma heart was turned frae faith. The classics hae

been my bible, though I said naethin' to ony man against Christ. He

aye seemed beyond man, and noo the veesion o' Him has come to me in

this gairden. Laddie, ye hae dune far mair for me than I ever did

for you. Wull ye mak a prayer for yir auld dominie afore we pairt?"

There was a thrush singing in the birches and a sound of bees in the

air, when George prayed in a low, soft voice, with a little break in

it.

"Lord Jesus, remember my dear maister, for he's been a kind freend

to me and mony a puir laddie in Drumtochty. Bind up his sair heart

and give him licht at eventide, and may the maister and his scholars

meet some mornin' where the schule never skails, in the kingdom o'

oor Father."

Twice Domsie said Amen, and it seemed as the voice of another man,

and then he kissed George upon the forehead; but what they said

Marget did not wish to hear.

When he passed out at the garden gate, the westering sun was shining

golden, and the face of Domsie was like unto that of a little child.

IV

A SCHOLAR'S FUNERAL

Drumtochty never acquitted itself with credit at a marriage, having

no natural aptitude for gaiety, and being haunted with anxiety lest

any "hicht" should end in a "howe," but the parish had a genius for

funerals. It was long mentioned with a just sense of merit that an

English undertaker, chancing on a "beerial" with us, had no limits

to his admiration. He had been disheartened to despair all his life

by the ghastly efforts of chirpy little Southerners to look solemn

on occasion, but his dreams were satisfied at the sight of men like

Drumsheugh and Hillocks in their Sabbath blacks. Nature lent an

initial advantage in face, but it was an instinct in the blood that

brought our manner to perfection, and nothing could be more awful

than a group of those austere figures, each man gazing into vacancy

without a trace of expression, and refusing to recognise his nearest

neighbour by word or look. Drumtochty gave itself to a "beerial"

with chastened satisfaction, partly because it lay near to the

sorrow of things, and partly because there was nothing of speculation

in it. "Ye can hae little rael pleesure in a merrige," explained our

gravedigger, in whom the serious side had been perhaps abnormally

developed, "for ye never ken hoo it will end; but there's nae risk

about a 'beerial.'"

It came with a shock upon townsmen that the ceremony began with a

"service o' speerits," and that an attempt of the Free Kirk minister

to replace this by the reading of Scripture was resisted as an

"innovation." Yet every one admitted that the seriousness of

Drumtochty pervaded and sanctified this function. A tray of glasses

was placed on a table with great solemnity by the "wricht," who made

no sign and invited none. You might have supposed that the

circumstance had escaped the notice of the company, so abstracted

and unconscious was their manner, had it not been that two graven

images a minute later are standing at the table.

"Ye 'ill taste, Tammas," with settled melancholy.

"Na, na; I've nae incleenation the day; it's an awfu' dispensation

this, Jeems. She wud be barely saxty."

"Ay, ay, but we maun keep up the body sae lang as we're here,

Tammas."

"Weel, puttin' it that way, a'm not sayin' but yir richt," yielding

unwillingly to the force of circumstance.

"We're here the day and there the morn, Tammas. She wes a fine

wumman--Mistress Stirton--a weel-livin' wumman; this 'ill be a

blend, a'm thinkin'."

"She slippit aff sudden in the end; a'm judgin' it's frae the

Muirtown grocer; but a body canna discreeminate on a day like this."

Before the glasses are empty all idea of drinking is dissipated, and

one has a vague impression that he is at church.

It was George Howe's funeral that broke the custom and closed the

"service." When I came into the garden where the neighbours were

gathered, the "wricht" was removing his tray, and not a glass had

been touched. Then I knew that Drumtochty had a sense of the fitness

of things, and was stirred to its depths.

"Ye saw the wricht carry in his tray," said Drumsheugh, as we went

home from the kirkyard. "Weel, yon's the last sicht o't ye 'ill get,

or a'm no Drumsheugh. I've nae objection ma'sel to a nee'bur tastin'

at a funeral, a' the mair if he's come frae the upper end o' the

pairish, and ye ken I dinna hold wi' thae teetotal fouk. A'm ower

auld in the horn to change noo. But there's times and seasons, as

the gude Buik says, and it wud hae been an awfu' like business tae

luik at a gless in Marget's gairden, and puir Domsie standing in

ahent the brier bush as if he cud never lift his heid again. Ye may

get shairper fouk in the uptak', but ye 'ill no get a pairish with

better feelin's. It 'ill be a kind o' sateesfaction tae Marget when

she hears o't. She was aye against tastin', and a'm judgin' her

tribble has ended it at beerials."

"Man, it was hard on some o' yon lads the day, but there wesna ane

o' them made a mudge. I keepit my eye on Posty, but he never lookit

the way it wes. He's a drouthy body, but he hes his feelin's, hes

Posty."

Before the Doctor began the prayer, Whinnie took me up to the room.

"There's twa o' Geordie's College freends with Marget, grand

scholars a'm telt, and there's anither I canna weel mak oot. He's

terrible cast doon, and Marget speaks as if she kent him."

It was a low-roofed room, with a box bed and some pieces of humble

furniture, fit only for a labouring man. But the choice treasures of

Greece and Rome lay on the table, and on a shelf beside the bed

College prizes and medals, while everywhere were the roses he loved.

His peasant mother stood beside the body of her scholar son, whose

hopes and thoughts she had shared, and through the window came the

bleating of distant sheep. It was the idyll of Scottish University

life.

George's friends were characteristic men, each of his own type, and

could only have met in the commonwealth of letters. One was of an

ancient Scottish house which had fought for Mary against the Lords

of the Congregation, followed Prince Charlie to Culloden, and were

High Church and Tory to the last drop of their blood. Ludovic Gordon

left Harrow with the reputation of a classic, and had expected to be

first at Edinboro'. It was Gordon, in fact, that Domsie feared in

the great war, but he proved second to Marget's son, and being of

the breed of Prince Jonathan, which is the same the world over, he

came to love our David as his own soul. The other, a dark little

man, with a quick, fiery eye, was a Western Celt, who had worried

his way from a fishing croft in Barra to be an easy first in

Philosophy at Edinboro', and George and Ronald Maclean were as

brothers because there is nothing so different as Scottish and

Highland blood.

"Maister Gordon," said Marget, "this is George's Homer, and he bade

me tell you that he coonted yir freendship ain o' the gifts o' God."

For a brief space Gordon was silent, and, when he spoke, his voice

sounded strange in that room.

"Your son was the finest scholar of my time, and a very perfect

gentleman. He was also my true friend, and I pray God to console his

mother." And Ludovic Gordon bowed low over Marget's worn hand as if

she had been a queen.

Marget lifted Plato, and it seemed to me that day as if the dignity

of our Lady of Sorrows had fallen upon her.

"This is the buik George chose for you, Maister Maclean, for he aye

said to me ye hed been a prophet and shown him mony deep things."

The tears sprang to the Celt's eyes.

"It wass like him to make all other men better than himself," with

the soft, sad Highland accent; "and a proud woman you are to hef

been his mother."

The third man waited at the window till the scholars left, and then

I saw he was none of that kind, but one who had been a slave of sin

and now was free.

"Andra Chaumers, George wished ye tae hev his Bible, and he expecks

ye tae keep the tryst."

"God helping me, I will," said Chalmers, hoarsely; and from the

garden ascended a voice, "O God, who art a very present help in

trouble."

The Doctor's funeral prayer was one of the glories of the parish,

compelling even the Free Kirk to reluctant admiration, although they

hinted that its excellence was rather of the letter than the spirit,

and regarded its indiscriminate charity with suspicion. It opened

with a series of extracts from the Psalms, relieved by two excursions

into the minor prophets, and led up to a sonorous recitation of the

problem of immortality from Job, with its triumphant solution in the

peroration of the fifteenth chapter of I Corinthians. Drumtochty men

held their breath till the Doctor reached the crest of the hill

(Hillocks disgraced himself once by dropping his staff at the very

moment when the Doctor was passing from Job to Paul), and then we

relaxed while the Doctor descended to local detail. It was understood

that it took twenty years to bring the body of this prayer to perfection,

and any change would have been detected and resented.

The Doctor made a good start, and had already sighted Job, when he

was carried out of his course by a sudden current, and began to

speak to God about Marget and her son, after a very simple fashion

that brought a lump to the throat, till at last, as I imagine, the

sight of the laddie working at his Greek in the study of a winter

night came up before him, and the remnants of the great prayer

melted like an iceberg in the Gulf Stream.

"Lord, hae peety upon us, for we a' luved him, and we were a' prood

o' him."

After the Doctor said "Amen" with majesty, one used to look at his

neighbour, and the other would shut his eyes and shake his head,

meaning, "There's no use asking me, for it simply can't be better

done by living man." This time no one remembered his neighbour,

because every eye was fixed on the Doctor. Drumtochty was

identifying its new minister.

"It may be that I hef judged him hardly," said Lachlan Campbell, one

of the Free Kirk Highlanders, and our St. Dominic. "I shall never

again deny that the root of the matter is in the man, although much

choked with the tares of worldliness and Arminianism."

"He is a goot man, Lachlan," replied Donald Menzies, another Celt,

and he was our St. Francis, for "every one that loveth is born of

God."

There was no hearse in Drumtochty, and we carried our dead by relays

of four, who waded every stream unless more than knee deep, the rest

following in straggling, picturesque procession over the moor and

across the stepping stones. Before we started, Marget came out and

arranged George's white silken hood upon the coffin with roses in

its folds.

She swept us into one brief flush of gratitude, from Domsie to

Posty.

"Neeburs, ye were a' his freends, and he wanted ye tae ken hoo yir

trust wes mickle help tae him in his battle."

There was a stir within us, and it came to birth in Drumsheugh of

all men:

"Marget Hoo, this is no the day for mony words, but there's juist ae

heart in Drumtochty, and it's sair."

No one spoke to Domsie as we went down the cart track, with the ripe

corn standing on either side, but he beckoned Chalmers to walk with

him.

"Ye hae heard him speak o' me, then, Maister Jamieson?"

"Ay, oftentimes, and he said once that ye were hard driven, but that

ye had trampled Satan under yir feet."

"He didna tell ye all, for if it hadna been for George Howe I wudna

been worth callin' a man this day. One night when he was workin'

hard for his honours examination and his disease was heavy upon him,

puir fellow, he sought me oot where I was, and wouldna leave till I

cam' wi him.