in Drumtochty--"With the Lord there is mercy, and with Him is
plenteous redemption."
The minister took the old man's arm and led him into the manse, and
set him in the big chair by the study fire. "Thank God, Lachlan, we
are friends now; tell me about it as if I were your son and Flora's
brother."
The father took a letter out of an inner pocket with a trembling
hand, and this is what Carmichael read by the light of the lamp:--
"DEAR FATHER,--When this reaches you I will be in London, and not
worthy to cross your door. Do not be always angry with me, and try
to forgive me, for you will not be troubled any more by my dancing
or dressing. Do not think that I will be blaming you, for you have
been a good father to me, and said what you would be considering
right, but it is not easy for a man to understand a girl. Oh, if I
had had my mother, then she would have understood me, and I would
not have crossed you. Forget poor Flora's foolishness, but you will
not forget her, and maybe you will still pray for me. Take care of
the geraniums for my sake, and give milk to the lamb that you called
after me. I will never see you again, in this world or the next nor
my mother ... (here the letter was much blotted). When I think that
there will be no one to look after you, and have the fire burning
for you on winter nights, I will be rising to come back. But it is
too late, too late. Oh, the disgrace I will be bringing on you in
the glen.--Your unworthy daughter,
FLORA CAMPBELL."
"This is a fiery trial, Lachlan, and I cannot even imagine what you
are suffering. But do not despair, for that is not the letter of a
bad girl. Perhaps she was impatient, and has been led astray. But
Flora is good at heart, and you must not think she is gone forever."
Lachlan groaned, the first moan he had made, and then he tottered to
his feet.
"You are fery kind, Maister Carmichael, and so wass Burnbrae, and I
will be thankful you all, but you do not understand. Oh no, you do
not understand." Lachlan caught hold of a chair and looked the
minister in the face.
"She hass gone, and there will be no coming back. You would not take
her name from the roll of the church, and I will not be meddling
with that book. But I hef blotted out her name from my Bible, where
her mother's name iss written and mine. She has wrought confusion in
Israel and in an elder's house, and I ... I hef no danghter. But I
loved her; she nefer knew how I loved her, for her mother would be
looking at me from her eyes."
The minister walked with Lachlan to the foot of the hill on which
his cottage stood, and after they had shaken hands in silence, he
watched the old man's figure in the cold moonlight till he
disappeared into the forsaken home, where the fire had gone out on
the hearth, and neither love nor hope were waiting for a broken
heart.
The railway did not think it worth while to come to Drumtochty, and
we, were cut off from the lowlands by miles of forest, so our
manners retained the fashion of the former age. Six elders, besides
the minister, knew the tragedy of Flora Campbell, and never opened
their lips. Mrs. Macfadyen, who was our newspaper, and understood
her duty, refused to pry into this secret. The pity of the glen went
out to Lachlan, but no one even looked a question as he sat alone in
his pew or came down on a Saturday afternoon to the village shop for
his week's provisions. London friends thought me foolish about my
adopted home, but I asked them whether they could find such perfect
good manners in Belgravia, and they were silent. My Drumtochty
neighbours would have played an awkward part in a drawing-room, but
never have I seen in all my wanderings men and women of truer
courtesy or tenderer heart.
"It gars ma hert greet tae see him," Mrs. Macfadyen said to me one
day, "sae booed an' disjackit, him that wes that snod (tidy) and
firm. His hair's turned white in a month, and he's awa' tae naething
in his claithes. But least said is sunest mended. It's no richt tae
interfere wi' another's sorrow, an' it wad be an awfu' sin tae
misca' a young lassie. We maun juist houp that Flora 'll sune come
back, for if she disna Lachlan 'ill no be lang wi's. He's sayin'
naethin', and a' respeck him for't; but onybody can see that his
hert is breakin'."
We were helpless till Marget Howe met Lachlan in the shop and read
his sorrow at a glance. She went home to Whinnie Knowe in great
distress.
"It wes waesome tae see the auld man githerin' his bit things wi' a
shakin' hand, and speakin' tae me aboot the weather, and a' the time
his eyes were sayin', 'Flora, Flora.'"
"Whar div ye think the young hizzie is, Marget?"
"Naebody needs tae know, Weelum, an' ye maunna speak that way, for
whatever's come ower her, she's dear to Lachlan and tae God.
"It's laid on me tae veesit Lachlan, for a'm thinking oor Father
didna comfort us withoot expeckin' that we wud comfort other fouk."
When Marget came round the corner of Lachlan's cottage, she found
Flora's plants laid out in the sun, and her father watering them on
his knees. One was ready to die, and for it he had made a shelter
with his plaid.
He was taken unawares, but in a minute he was leading Marget in with
hospitable words.
"It iss kind of you to come to an old man's house, Mistress Howe,
and it iss a fery warm day. You will not care for speerits, but I am
fery goot at making tea."
Marget was not as other women, and she spoke at once.
"Maister Campbell, ye will believe that I hev come in the love of
God, and because we hev baith been afflickit. I had ae son, and he
is gone; ye had a dochter, and she is gone. A' ken where George is,
and am sateesfied. A' doot sairly yir sorrow is deeper than mine."
"Would to God that she wass lying in the kirkyard; but I will not
speak of her. She iss not anything to me this day. See, I will show
you what I hef done, for she hass been a black shame to her name."
He opened the Bible, and there was Flora's name scored with wavering
strokes, but the ink had run as if it had been mingled with tears.
Marget's heart burned within her at the sight, and perhaps she could
hardly make allowance for Lachlan's blood and theology.
"This is what ye hev dune, and ye let a woman see yir wark. Ye are
an auld man, and in sore travail, but a' tell ye before God ye hae
the greater shame. Juist twenty years o' age this spring, and her
mither dead. Nae woman to watch over her, and she wandered frae the
fold, and a' ye can dae is to tak her oot o' yir Bible. Waes me if
oor Father had blotted out oor names frae the Book o' Life when we
left His hoose. But He sent His ain Son to seek us, an' a weary road
He cam. A' tell ye, a man wudna leave a sheep tae perish as ye hae
cast aff yir ain bairn. Yir worse than Simon the Pharisee, for Mary
was nae kin tae him. Puir Flora, tae hae sic a father."
"Who will be telling you that I wass a Pharisee?" cried Lachlan,
quivering in every limb, and grasping Marget's arm.
"Forgie me, Lachlan, forgie me. It was the thocht o' the misguided
lassie carried me, for a' didna come tae upbraid ye."
But Lachlan had sunk into a chair and had forgotten her.
"She hass the word, and God will hef smitten the pride of my heart,
for it iss Simon that I am. I wass hard on my child, and I wass hard
on the minister, and there wass none like me. The Lord has laid my
name in the dust, and I will be angry with her. But she iss the
scapegoat for my sins, and hass gone into the desert. God be
merciful to me a sinner." And then Marget understood no more, for
the rest was in Gaelic, but she heard Flora's name with another she
took to be her mother's twined together.
So Marget knew it would be well with Lachlan yet, and she wrote this
letter:
"MY DEAR LASSIE,--Ye ken that I wes aye yir freend, and I am writing
this tae say that yir father luves ye mair than ever, and is wearing
oot his hert for the sicht o' yir face. Come back, or he'll dee
thro' want o' his bairn. The glen is bright and bonny noo, for the
purple heather is on the hills, and doon below the gowden corn, wi'
bluebell and poppy flowers between. Naebody 'ill ask ye where ye've
been, or onything else; there's no a bairn in the place that's no
wearying tae see ye; and, Flora, lassie, if there will be sic
gledness in oor wee glen when ye come hame, what think ye o' the joy
in the Father's Hoose? Start the verra meenute that ye get this
letter; yir father bids ye come, and I'm writing this in place o'
yir mother.
MARGET HOWE."
Marget went out to tend the flowers while Lachlan read the letter,
and when he gave it back the address was written in his own hand.
He went as far as the crest of the hill with Marget, and watched her
on the way to the post office till she was only a speck upon the
road.
When he entered his cottage the shadows were beginning to fall, and
he remembered it would soon be night.
"It iss in the dark that Flora will be coming, and she must know
that her father iss waiting for her."
He cleaned and trimmed with anxious hand a lamp that was kept for
show, and had never been used. Then he selected from his books
Edwards' "Sinners in the Hands of an angry God," and "Coles on the
Divine Sovereignty," and on them he laid the large family Bible out
of which Flora's name had been blotted. This was the stand on which
he set the lamp in the window, and every night till Flora returned
its light shone down the steep path that ascended to her home, like
the Divine Love from the open door of our Father's House.
III
LIKE AS A FATHER
It was only by physical force and a free use of personalities that
the Kildrummie passengers could be entrained at the Junction, and
the Drumtochty men were always the last to capitulate.
They watched the main line train that had brought them from Muirtown
disappear in the distance, and then broke into groups to discuss the
cattle sale at leisure, while Peter, the factotum of the little
Kildrummie branch, drove his way through their midst with offensive
pieces of luggage, and abused them by name without respect of
persons.
"It's maist aggravatin', Drumsheugh, 'at ye 'ill stand there girnin'
at the prices, as if ye were a puir cottar body that hed selt her ae
coo, and us twal meenutes late. Man, get intae yer kerridge; he 'ill
no be fat that buys frae you, a'll wager."
"Peter's in an awfu' feery-farry (excitement) the nicht, neeburs,"
Drumsheugh would respond, after a long pause; "ye wud think he wes a
mail gaird tae hear him speak. Mind ye, a'm no gain' tae shove ahint
if the engine sticks, for I hae na time. He needs a bit nip," and
Drumsheugh settles himself in his seat, "or else there wud be nae
leevin' wi' him."
Peter escaped this winged shaft, for he had detected a woman in the
remote darkness.
"Keep's a', wumman, what are ye stravagin' about there for out o' a
body's sicht? a' near set aff withoot ye."
Then Peter recognised her face, and his manner softened of a sudden.
"Come awa', lassie, come awa'; a' didna ken ye at the moment, but a'
heard ye hed been veesitin' in the sooth.
"The third is terrible full wi' thae Drumtochty lads, and ye 'ill
hear naething but Drumsheugh's stirks; ye 'ill maybe be as handy in
oor second." And Flora Campbell stepped in unseen.
Between the Junction and Kildrummie Peter was accustomed to wander
along the footboard, collecting tickets and identifying passengers.
He was generally in fine trim on the way up, and took ample revenge
for the insults of the departure. But it was supposed that Peter had
taken Drumsheugh's withering sarcasm to heart, for he attached
himself to the second that night, and was invisible to the expectant
third till the last moment.
"Ye've hed a lang journey, Miss Cammil, and ye maun be nearly dune
wi' tire; juist ye sit still till the fouk get awa', and the guid
wife and me wud be prood if ye took a cup o' tea wi's afore ye
stairted hame. A'll come for ye as sune as a' get the van emptied
and ma little trokes feenished."
Peter hurried up to his cottage in such hot haste that his wife came
out in great alarm.
"Na, their's naethin' wrang; it's the opposite way this nicht. Ye
mind o' Flora Cammil that left her father, and name o' the
Drumtochty fouk wud say onything aboot her. Weel, she's in the
train, and a've asked her up tae rest, and she was gled tae come,
puir thing. Sae gie her a couthy welcome, wumman, and the best in
the hoose, for oors 'ill be the first roof she 'ill be under on her
way hame."
Our women do not kiss one another like the city ladies; but the
motherly grip of Mary Bruce's hand sent a thrill to Flora's heart.
"Noo a' ca' this rael kind o' ye, Miss Cammil, tae come in withoot
ceremony, and a'd be terrible pleased if ye would dae it ony time
yer traivellin'. The rail is by ordinar' fateegin', and a cup o' tea
'ill set ye up," and Mary had Flora in the best chair, and was
loading her plate with homely dainties.
Peter would speak of nothing but the new engine that was coming, and
was to place the Kildrummie branch beyond ridicule for ever, and on
this great event he continued without intermission till he parted
with Flora on the edge of the pine woods that divided Drumtochty
from Kildrummie.
"Gude nicht tae ye, Miss Cammil, and thank ye again for yir veesit.
Bring the auld man wi' ye next time ye're passing, though a'm feared
ye've been deived (deafened) wi' the engine."
Flora took Peter's hand, that was callous and rough with the turning
of brakes and the coupling of chains.
"It wass not your new engine you wass thinking about this night,
Peter Bruce, but a poor girl that iss in trouble. I hef not the
words, but I will be remembering your house, oh yes, as long as I
live."
Twice Peter stood on his way home; the first time he slapped his leg
and chuckled:
"Sall, it was gey clever o' me; a hale kerridge o' Drumtochty lads,
and no ane o' them ever hed a glint o' her."
At the second stoppage he drew his hand across his eyes.
"Puir lassie, a' houp her father 'ill be kind tae her, for she's
sair broken, and looks liker deith than life."
No one can desire a sweeter walk than through a Scottish pine wood
in late September, where you breathe the healing resinous air, and
the ground is crisp and springy beneath your feet, and gentle
animals dart away on every side, and here and there you come on an
open space with a pool, and a brake of gorse. Many a time on market
days Flora had gone singing through these woods, plucking a posy of
wild flowers and finding a mirror in every pool, as young girls
will; but now she trembled and was afraid. The rustling of the trees
in the darkness, the hooting of an owl, the awful purity of the
moonlight in the glades, the cold sheen of the water, were to her
troubled conscience omens of judgment. Had it not been for the
kindness of Peter Bruce, which was a pledge of human forgiveness,
there would have been no heart in her to dare that wood, and it was
with a sob of relief she escaped from the shadow and looked upon the
old glen once more, bathed from end to end in the light of the
harvest moon. Beneath her ran our little river, spanned by its
quaint old bridge; away on the right the Parish Kirk peeped out from
a clump of trees; half way up the glen the clachan lay surrounded by
patches of corn; and beyond were the moors, with a shepherd's
cottage that held her heart. Two hours ago squares of light told of
warmth and welcome within; but now, as Flora passed one house after
another, it seemed as if every one she knew was dead, and she was
forgotten in her misery. Her heart grew cold, and she longed to lie
down and die, when she caught the gleam of a lighted window. Some
one was living still to know she had repented, and she knelt down
among the flowers with her ear to the glass to hear the sound of a
human voice. Archie Moncur had come home late from a far-away job,
but he must needs have worship with his sister before they went to
bed, and well did he choose the psalm that night. Flora's tears
rained upon the mignonette as the two old people sang:
"When Sion's bondage God turned back,
As men that dreamed were we,
Then filled with laughter was our mouth,
Our tongue with melody;"
while the fragrance of the flowers went up as incense unto God.
All the way along the glen the last words of the psalm still rang in
her ears, "Rejoicing shall return," but as she touched the footpath
to her home, courage failed her. Marget had written for her dead
mother, but no one could speak with authority for her father. She
knew the pride of his religion and his iron principles. If he
refused her entrance, then it had been better for her to have died
in London. A turn of the path brought her within sight of the
cottage, and her heart came into her mouth, for the kitchen window
was a blaze of light. One moment she feared Lachlan might be ill,
but in the next she understood, and in the greatness of her joy she
ran the rest of the way. When she reached the door, her strength had
departed, and she was not able to knock. But there was no need, for
the dogs, who never forget nor cast off, were bidding her welcome
with short joyous yelps of delight, and she could hear her father
feeling for the latch, which for once could not be found, and saying
nothing but "Flora, Flora."
She had made up some kind of speech, but the only word she ever said
was "Father," for Lachlan, who had never even kissed her all the
days of her youth, clasped her in his arms and sobbed out blessings
over her head, while the dogs licked her hands with their soft,
kindly tongues.
"It iss a peety you hef not the Gaelic," Flora said to Marget
afterwards; "it iss the best of all languages for loving. There are
fifty words for darling, and my father would be calling me every one
that night I came home."
Lachlan was so carried with joy, and firelight is so hopeful, that
he had not seen the signs of sore sickness on Flora's face, but the
morning light undeceived him, and he was sadly dashed.
"You will be fery tired after your long journey, Flora, and it iss
good for you to rest. There iss a man in the clachan I am wanting to
see, and he will maybe be comin' back with me."
When Lachlan reached his place of prayer, he lay on the ground and
cried, "Have mercy on me, O Lord, and spare her for Thy servant's
sake, and let me not lose her after Thou hast brought her back and
hast opened my heart.... Take her not till she hass seen that I love
her.... Give me time to do her kindness for the past wherein I
oppressed her.... O, turn away Thy judgment on my hardness, and let
not the child suffer for her father's sins." Then he arose and
hastened for the doctor.
It was afternoon before Dr. MacLure could come, but the very sight
of his face, which was as the sun in its strength, let light into
the room where Lachlan sat at the bedside holding Flora's hand, and
making woful pretence that she was not ill.
"Weel, Flora, yeve got back frae yir veesits, and a' tell ye we've
a' missed ye maist terrible. A' doot thae sooth country fouk haena
been feeding ye ower weel, or maybe it was the toon air. It never
agrees wi' me. A'm half chokit a' the time a'm in Glesgie, and as
for London, there's ower mony fouk tae the square yaird for health."
All the time he was busy at his work, and no man could do it better
or quicker, although the outside of him was not encouraging.
"Lachlan, what are ye traivellin' in and oot there for with a face
that wud sour milk? What ails ye, man? ye're surely no imaginin'
Flora's gaein' to leave ye?
"Lord's sake, it's maist provokin' that if a body hes a bit whup o'
illness in Drumtochty, their freends tak tae propheseein' deith."
Lachlan had crept over to Flora's side, and both were waiting.
"Na, na; ye ken a' never tell lees like the graund ceety doctors,
and a'll warrant Flora 'ill be in kirk afore Martinmas, an' kiltin'
up the braes as hardy as a hielan' sheltie by the new year."
Flora puts an arm round her father's neck, and draws down his face
to hers, but the doctor is looking another way.
"Dinna fash wi' medicine; gie her plenty o' fresh milk and plenty o'
air. There's nae leevin' for a doctor wi' that Drumtochty air; it
hasna a marra in Scotland. It starts frae the Moray Firth and sweeps
doon Badenoch, and comes ower the moor o' Rannoch and across the
Grampians. There's the salt o' the sea, and the caller air o' the
hills, and the smell o' the heather, and the bloom o'mony a flower
in't. If there's nae disease in the organs o' the body, a puff o'
Drumtochty air wud bring back a man frae the gates o' deith."
"You hef made two hearts glad this day, Doctor McLure," said
Lachlan, outside the door, "and I am calling you Barnabas."
"Ye've ca'd me waur names than that in yir time," and the doctor
mounted his horse. "It's dune me a warld o' guid tae see Flora in
her hame again, and I'll gie Marget Howe a cry in passin' and send
her up tae hae a crack, for there's no a wiser wumman in the glen."
When Marget came, Flora told her the history of her letter.
"It wass a beautiful night in London, but I will be thinking that
there iss no living person caring whether I die or live, and I wass
considering how I could die, for there iss nothing so hopeless as to
hef no friend in a great city. It iss often that I hef been alone on
the moor, and no man within miles, but I wass never lonely, oh no, I
had plenty of good company. I would sit down beside a burn, and the
trout will swim out from below a stone, and the cattle will come to
drink, and the muirfowl will be crying to each other, and the sheep
will be bleating, oh yes, and there are the bees all round, and a
string of wild ducks above your head. It iss a busy place a moor,
and a safe place too, for there iss not one of the animals will hurt
you. No, the big highlanders will only look at you and go away to
their pasture. But it iss weary to be in London and no one to speak
a kind word to you, and I will be looking at the crowd that iss
always passing, and I will not see one kent face, and when I looked
in at the lighted windows the people were all sitting round the
table, but there wass no place for me. Millions and millions of
people, and not one to say 'Flora,' and not one sore heart if I died
that night. Then a strange thing happened, as you will be
considering, but it iss good to be a Highlander, for we see visions.
You maybe know that a wounded deer will try to hide herself, and I
crept into the shadow of a church, and wept. Then the people and the
noise and the houses passed away like the mist on the hill, and I
wass walking to the kirk with my father, oh yes, and I saw you all
in your places, and I heard the Psalms, and I could see through the
window the green fields and the trees on the edge of the moor. And I
saw my home, with the dogs before the door, and the flowers that I
planted, and the lamb coming for her mik, and I heard myself singing,
and I awoke. But there wass singing, oh yes, and beautiful too, for
the dark church wass open, and the light wass falling over my head
from the face of the Virgin Mary. When I arose she wass looking down
at me in the darkness, and then I knew that there wass service in
the church, and this wass the hymn--
"'There is a fountain filled with blood.'
"So I went in and sat down at the door. The sermon wass on the
Prodigal Son, but there iss only one word I remember. 'You are not
forgotten or cast off,' the preacher said; 'you are missed,' and
then he will come back to it again, and it wass always 'missed,
missed, missed.' Sometimes he will say, 'If you had a plant, and you
had taken great care of it, and it was stolen, would you not miss
it?' And I will be thinking of my geraniums, and saying 'yes' in my
heart. And then he will go on, 'If a shepherd wass counting his
sheep, and there wass one short, does he not go out to the hill and
seek for it?' and I will see my father coming back with that lamb
that lost its mother. My heart wass melting within me, but he will
still be pleading, 'If a father had a child, and she left her home
and lost herself in the wicked city, she will still be remembered in
the old house, and her chair will be there,' and I will be seeing my
father all alone with the Bible before him, and the dogs will lay
their heads on his knee, but there iss no Flora. So I slipped out
into the darkness and cried 'Father,' but I could not go back, and I
knew not what to do. But this wass ever in my ear, 'missed,' and I
wass wondering if God will be thinking of me. 'Perhaps there may be
a sign,' I said, and I went to my room, and I saw the letter. It
wass not long before I will be in the train, and all the night I
held your letter in my hand, and when I wass afraid I will read
'Your father loves you more than efer,' and I will say, 'This is my
warrant.' Oh yes, and God wass very good to me, and I did not want
for friends all the way home.