I looked down at him in surprise.

"Robert, why are you so troubled about this woman's bairns?" I asked.

He did not answer for a while, lying fallen in upon himself in his great

armchair of worn horse-hair, as if the strain had been too great for his

weak body. When he did reply it was in a curiously far-away voice like

a man speaking in a dream.

"They are Jessie Loudon's bairns," he said, "and a' the comfort she has

in life!"

I sat down on the hearthrug beside him--a habit I had when we were alone

together. It was thus that I used to read Homer and Horace to him in

the long winter forenights, and wrangle for happy hours over a

construction or the turning of a phrase in the translation. So now I

simply sat and was silent, touching his knee lightly with my shoulder.

I knew that in time he would tell me all he wished me to hear. The old

eight-day clock in the corner (with "_John Grey, Kilmaurs, 1791_" in

italics across the brass face of it), ticked on interminably through ten

minutes, and I heard the feet of the men come in from suppering the

horse, before Robert said another word. Then he spoke: "Alec," he said,

very quietly--he could hardly say or do anything otherwise (or rather I

thought so before that night). "I have this on my spirit--it is heavy

like a load. When I broke it to Jessie Loudon that I could never marry

her, as I told you, I did not tell you that she took it hard and high,

speaking bitter words that are best forgotten. And then in a week or

two she married Gib Barbour, a good-for-nothing, good-looking young

ploughman, a great don at parish dances--no meet mate for her. And that

I count the heaviest part of my punishment.

"And since that day I have not passed word or salutation with Jessie

Loudon--that is, with Jessie Barbour. But on a Sabbath day, just before

I was laid down last year--a bonnie day in June--I met her as I passed

though a bourock fresh with the gowden broom, and the 'shilfies' and

Jennie Wrens singing on every brier. I had been lookin' for a sheep

that had broken bounds. And there she sat wi' a youngling on ilka knee.

There passed but ae blink o' the e'en between us--ane and nae mair. But

oh, Alec, as I am a sinful man--married wife though she was, I kenned

that she loved me, and she kenned that I loved her wi' the love that has

nae ending!"

There was a long pause here, and the clock struck with a long

preparatory _g-r-r-r_, as if it were clearing its throat in order to

apologise for the coming interruption.

"And that," said Robert Fraser, "was the reason why Jessie Loudon would

not come up to the Dullarg this nicht--no, not even for her bairns'

sake!"

*THE STICKIT MINISTER WINS THROUGH*

Yet Jessie Loudon did come to the Dullarg that night--and that for her

children's sake.

Strangely enough, in writing of an evening so fruitful in incident, I

cannot for the life of me remember what happened during the next two

hours. The lads and lasses came in for the "Taking of the Book." So

much I do recall. But that was an exercise never omitted on any pretext

in the house of the ex-divinity student. I remember this also, because

after the brief prelude of the psalm-singing (it was the 103rd), the

Stickit Minister pushed the Bible across to me, open at the

thirty-eighth chapter of Job. The envelope was still there. Though it

was turned sideways I could see the faintly written address:

_MR. ROBERT FRASER,_

_Student in Divinity,_

_50, St. Leonard's Street,_

_Edinburgh._

Even as I looked I seemed to hear again the woman's voice in the dark

loaning--"I canna gang in _there_!" And in a lightning flash of

illumination it came to me what the answer to that letter had meant to

Jessie Loudon, and the knowledge somehow made me older and sadder.

Then with a shaking voice I read the mighty words before me: "When the

morning stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy"....

But when I came to the verse which says: "Have the gates of death been

opened unto thee? Or hast thou seen the doors of the shadow of death?"

I saw the Stickit Minister nod his head three times very slightly, and a

strange subtle smile came over his face as though he could have

answered: "Yea, Lord, verily I have seen them--they have been opened to

me!"

And as the lads and lasses filed out in a kind of wondering silence

after Robert Fraser had prayed--not kneeling down, but sitting erect in

his chair and looking out before him with wide-open eyes--we in the

little sitting-room became conscious of a low knocking, persistent and

remote, somewhere about the house of Dullarg. We could hear Bell

Gregory open and then immediately close the kitchen door, having

evidently found no one there. The knocking still continued.

"I believe it is somebody at the front door," I said, turning in that

direction.

And then the Stickit Minister cried out in a curious excited voice:

"Open to them--open, Alec! Quick, man!"

And his voice went through me with a kind of thrill, for I knew not who

it was he expected to enter, whether sheriff's officer or angry

creditor--or as it might be the Angel of the Presence Himself come to

summon his soul to follow.

Nevertheless, with quaking heart enough, and resolving in future to be a

more religious man, I made bold to undo the door.

The woman I had seen in the lane stood before me, as it were, projected

out of the dense darkness behind, her shawl fallen back from her face,

and her features all pale and changeful in the flicker of the candle I

had snatched up to take with me into the little hall. For the front

door was only used on state occasions, as when the parish minister came

to call, and at funerals.

"He has not come--and the bairns are dying! So I had to come back!" she

cried, more hoarsely and breathlessly than I had ever heard woman speak.

But her eyes fairly blazed and her lips were parted wide for my answer.

"Dr. Fraser left here more than an hour ago," I stammered. "Has he not

been to see the children?"

"No--no, I tell you, no. And they are choking--dying--it is the trouble

in the throat. They will die if he does not come----"

I heard a noise behind me, and the next moment I found myself put aside

like a child, and Robert Fraser stood face to face with her that had

been Jessie Loudon.

"Come in," he said. And when she drew back from him with a kind of

shudder, and felt uncertainly for her shawl, he stepped aside and

motioned her to enter with a certain large and commanding gesture I had

never seen him use before. And as if accustomed to obey, the woman came

slowly within the lighted room. Even then, however, she would not sit

down, but stood facing us both, a girl prematurely old, her lips nearly

as pale as her worn cheeks, her blown hair disordered and wispy about

her forehead, and only the dark and tragic flashing of her splendid eyes

telling of a bygone beauty.

The Stickit Minister stood up also, and as he leaned his hand upon the

table, I noticed that he gently shut the Bible which I had left open,

that the woman's eye might not fall upon the faded envelope which marked

the thirty-eighth of Job.

"Do I understand you to say," he began, in a voice clear, resonant, and

full, not at all the voice of a stricken man, "that my brother has not

yet visited your children?"

"He had not come when I ran out--they are much worse--dying, I think!"

she answered, also in another voice and another mode of speech--yet a

little stiffly, as if the more correct method had grown unfamiliar by

disuse.

For almost the only time in his life I saw a look, stern and hard, come

over the countenance of the Stickit Minister.

"Go home, Jessie," he said; "I will see that he is there as fast as

horses can bring him!"

She hesitated a moment.

"Is he not here?" she faltered. "Oh, tell me if he is--I meant to fetch

him back. I dare not go back without him!"

The Stickit Minister went to the door with firm step, the woman

following without question or argument.

"Fear not, but go, Jessie," he said; "my brother is not here, but he

will be at the bairns' bedside almost as soon as you. I promise you."

"Thank you, Robin," she stammered, adjusting the shawl over her head and

instantly disappearing into the darkness. The old sweethearting name

had risen unconsciously to her lips in the hour of her utmost need. I

think neither of them noticed it.

"And now help me on with my coat," said Robert Fraser, turning to me.

"I am going over to the village."

"You must not," I cried, taking him by the arm; "let _me_ go--let me put

in the pony; I will be there in ten minutes!"

"I have no pony now," he said gently and a little sadly, "I have no need

of one. And besides, the quickest way is across the fields."

It was true. The nearest way to the village, by a great deal, was by a

narrow foot-track that wound across the meadows. But, fearing for his

life, I still tried to prevent him.

"It will be your death!" I said, endeavouring to keep him back. "Let me

go alone!"

"If Henry is where I fear he is," he answered, calmly, "he would not

stir for you. But he will for me. And besides, I have passed my word

to--to Jessie!"

The details of that terrible night journey I will not enter upon. It is

sufficient to say that I bade him lean on me, and go slowly, but do what

I would I could not keep him back. Indeed, he went faster than I could

accompany him--for, in order to support him a little, I had to walk

unevenly along the ragged edges of the little field-path. All was dark

gray above, beneath, and to the right of us. Only on the left hand a

rough whinstone dyke stood up solidly black against the monotone of the

sky. The wind came in cold swirls, with now and then a fleck of snow

that stung the face like hail. I had insisted on the Stickit Minister

taking his plaid about him in addition to his overcoat, and the ends of

it flicking into my eyes increased the difficulty.

I have hardly ever been so thankful in my life, as when at last I saw

the lights of the village gleam across the little bridge, as we emerged

from the water-meadows and felt our feet firm themselves on the turnpike

road.

From that point the Stickit Minister went faster than ever. Indeed, he

rushed forward, in spite of my restraining arm, with some remaining

flicker of the vigour which in youth had made him first on the hillside

at the fox-hunt and first on the haystacks upon the great day of the

inbringing of the winter's fodder.

It seemed hardly a moment before we were at the door of the inn--the Red

Lion the name of it, at that time in the possession of one "Jeems"

Carter. Yes, Henry Fraser was there. His horse was tethered to an iron

ring which was fixed in the whitewashed wall, and his voice could be

heard at that very moment leading a rollicking chorus. Then I

remembered. It was a "Cronies'" night. This was a kind of informal club

recruited from the more jovial of the younger horsebreeding farmers of

the neighbourhood. It included the local "vet.," a bonnet laird or two

grown lonesome and thirsty by prolonged residence upon the edges of the

hills, and was on all occasions proud and glad to welcome a guest so

distinguished and popular as the young doctor of Cairn Edward.

"Loose the beast and be ready to hand me the reins when I come out!"

commanded the Stickit Minister, squaring his stooped shoulders like the

leader of a forlorn hope.

So thus it happened that I did not see with my own eyes what happened

when Robert Fraser opened the door of the "Cronies'" club-room. But I

have heard it so often recounted that I know as well as if I had seen.

It was the Laird of Butterhole who told me, and he always said that it

made a sober man of him from that day forth. It was (he said) like

Lazarus looking out of the sepulchre after they had rolled away the

stone.

Suddenly in the midst of their jovial chorus some one said

"_Hush_!"--some one of themselves--and instinctively all turned towards

the door.

And lo! there in the doorway, framed in the outer dark, his broad blue

bonnet in his hand, his checked plaid waving back from his shoulders,

stood a man, pale as if he had come to them up through the Valley of the

Shadow of Death. With a hand white as bone, he beckoned to his brother,

who stood with his hands on the table smiling and swaying a little with

tipsy gravity.

"Why, Robert, what are you doing here----?" he was beginning. But the

Stickit Minister broke in.

"Come!" he said, sternly and coldly, "the children you have neglected

are dying--if they die through your carelessness you will be their

murderer!"

And to the surprise of all, the tall and florid younger brother quailed

before the eye of this austere shade.

"Yes, I will come, Robert--I was coming in a moment anyway!"

And so the Stickit Minister led him out. There was no great merriment

after that in the "Cronies'" club that night. The members conferred

chiefly in whispers, and presently emptying their glasses, they stole

away home.

But no mortal knows what Robert Fraser said to his brother during that

drive--something mightily sobering at all events. For when the two

reached the small cluster of cothouses lying under the lee of Earmark

wood, the young man, though not trusting himself to articulate speech,

and somewhat over-tremulous of hand, was yet in other respects

completely master of himself. I was not present at the arrival, just as

I had not seen the startling apparition which broke up the "Cronies'"

club. The doctor's gig held only two, and as soon as I handed Robert

Fraser the reins, the beast sprang forward. But I was limber and a good

runner in those days, and though the gray did his best I was not far

behind.

There is no ceremony at such a house in time of sickness. The door

stood open to the wall. A bright light streamed through and revealed

the inequalities of the little apron of causewayed cobblestones. I

entered and saw Henry Fraser bending over a bed on which a bairn was

lying. Robert held a candle at his elbow. The mother paced restlessly

to and fro with another child in her arms. I could see the doctor touch

again and again the back of the little girl's throat with a brush which

he continually replenished from a phial in his left hand.

Upon the other side of the hearthstone from the child's bed a strong

country lout sat, sullenly "becking" his darned stocking feet at the

clear embers of the fire. Then the mother laid the first child on the

opposite bed, and turned to where the doctor was still operating.

Suddenly Henry Fraser stood erect. There was not a trace of dissipation

about him now. The tradition of his guild was as a mantle of dignity

about him.

"It is all right," he said as he took his brother's hand in a long

clasp. "Thank you, Robert, thank you a thousand times--that you brought

me here in time!"

"Nay, rather, thank God!" said Robert Fraser, solemnly.

And even as he stood there the Stickit Minister swayed sidelong, but the

next moment he had recovered himself with a hand on the bed-post. Then

very swiftly he drew a handkerchief from his pocket and set it to his

lips.

His brother and I went towards him with a quick apprehension. But the

Stickit Minister turned from us both to the woman, who took two swift

steps towards him with her arms outstretched, and such a yearning of

love on her face as I never saw before or since. The sullen lout by the

fire, drowsed on unheeding.

"_Jessie!_" cried the Stickit Minister, and with that fell into her

arms. She held him there a long moment as it had been jealously, her

head bent down upon his. Then she delivered him up to me, slowly and

reluctantly.

Henry Fraser put his hand on his heart and gave a great sob.

"My brother is dead!" he said.

But Jessie Loudon did not utter a word.

*GIBBY THE EEL, STUDENT IN DIVINITY*

Naturalists have often remarked how little resemblance there is between

the young of certain animals and the adult specimen. Yonder tottering

quadrangular arrangement of chewed string, remotely and inadequately

connected at the upper corners, is certainly the young of the horse.

But it does not even remotely suggest the war-horse sniffing up the

battle from afar. This irregular yellow ball of feathers, with the

steel-blue mask set beneath its half-opened eyelids, is most

ridiculously unlike the magnificent eagle, which (in books) stares

unblinded into the very eye of the noonday sun.

In like manner the young of the learned professions are by no means like

the full-fledged expert of the mysteries. If in such cases the child is

the father of the man, the parentage is by no means apparent.

To how many medical students would you willingly entrust the application

of one square inch of sticking-plaster to a cut finger, or the care of a

half-guinea umbrella? What surgeon would you not, in an emergency,

trust with all you hold dear? You may cherish preferences and even

prejudices, but as a whole the repute of the profession is above cavil.

There is, perhaps, more continuity above the legal profession, but even

there it is a notable fact that the older and more successful a lawyer

is, the more modest you find him, and the more diffident of his own

infallibility. Indeed, several of the most eminent judges are in this

matter quite as other men.

But of all others, the divinity student is perhaps the most

misunderstood. He is wilfully misrepresented by those who ought to know

him best. Nay, he misrepresents himself, and when he doffs tweeds and

takes to collars which fasten behind and a long-skirted clerical coat,

he is apt to disown his past self; and often succeeds in persuading

himself that as he is now, diligent, sedate, zealous of good works, so

was he ever.

Only sometimes, when he has got his Sunday sermons off his mind and two

or three of the augurs are gathered together, will the adult clerk in

holy orders venture to lift the veil and chew the cud of ancient jest

and prank not wholly sanctified.

Now there ought to be room, in a gallery which contains so many

portraits of ministers, for one or two Students of Divinity, faithfully

portrayed.[#]

[#] These studies I wrote down during certain winters, when, to please

my mother, I made a futile attempt to prepare myself "to wag my head in

a pulpit." Saving a certain prolixity of statement (which the

ill-affected call long-windedness), they were all I carried away with me

when I resolved to devote myself to the medical profession.--A. McQ.

And of these the first and chief is Mr. Gilbert Denholm, Master of Arts,

Scholar in Theology--to his class-fellows more colloquially and

generally known as "Gibby the Eel."

At college we all loved Gilbert. He was a merry-hearted youth, and his

mere bodily presence was enough to make glad the countenances of his

friends. His father was a minister in the West with a large family to

bring up, which he effected with success upon a stipend of surprising

tenuity. So it behoved Gilbert to keep himself at college by means of

scholarships and private tuition. His pupils had a lively time of it.

Yet his only fault obvious to the world was a certain light-headed but

winsome gaiety, and a tendency to jokes of the practical kind. I used

often to restrain Gilbert's ardour by telling him that if he did not

behave himself and walk more seemly, he would get his bursary taken from

him by the Senatus.

This would recall Gilbert to himself when almost everything else had

failed.

Part of Gilbert's personal equipment was the certain lithe slimness of

figure which gained him the title of "Gibby the Eel," and enabled him to

practise many amusing pranks in the class-room. He would have made an

exceptionally fine burglar, for few holes were too small and no window

too secure for Gilbert to make his exits and entrances by. Without

going so far as to say that he could wriggle himself through an ordinary

keyhole, I will affirm that if anybody ever could, that person was

Gilbert Denholm.

One of the most ordinary of his habits was that of wandering here and

there throughout the classroom during the hour of lecture, presuming

upon the professor's purblindness or lack of attention. You would be

sitting calmly writing a letter, drawing caricatures in your note-book,

or otherwise improving your mind with the most laudable imitation of

attention, when suddenly, out of the black and dusty depths about your

feet would arise the startling apparition of Gibby the Eel. He would

nod, casually inquire how you found yourself this morning, and inform

you that he only dropped in on his way up to Bench Seventeen to see

Balhaldie, who owed him a shilling.

"Well, so long!" Again he would nod pleasantly, and sink into the

unknown abyss beneath the benches as noiselessly and unobtrusively as a

smile fades from a face.

Sometimes, however, when in wanton mood, his progress Balhaldie-wards

could be guessed at by the chain of "_Ouchs_" and "_Ohs_" which

indicated his subterranean career. The suddenness with which Gilbert

could awaken to lively interest the most somnolent and indifferent

student, by means of a long brass pin in the calf of the leg, had to be

felt to be appreciated. Thereupon ensued the sound of vigorous kicking,

but generally by the time the injured got the range of his unseen foe,

Gilbert could be observed two or three forms above intently studying a

Greek Testament wrong side up, and looking the picture of meek

reproachful innocence.

In no class could Gilbert use so much freedom of errancy as in that of

the venerable Professor Galbraith. Every afternoon this fine old

gentleman undertook to direct our studies in New Testament exegesis, and

incidentally afforded his students an hour of undisturbed repose after

the more exciting labours of the day.

No one who ever studied under Dr. Simeon Galbraith will forget that

gentle droning voice overhead, that full-orbed moon-like countenance,

over which two smaller moons of beamy spectacle seemed to be in

perpetual transit, and in especial he will remember that blessed word

"Hermeneutics," of which (it is said) there was once one student who

could remember the meaning. He died young, much respected by all who

knew him. Dreamily the great word came to you, soothing and grateful as

mother's lullaby, recurrent as the wash of a quiet sea upon a beach of

softest sand. "Gentlemen, I will now proceed to call your attention ...

to the study of Hermeneutics ... Hermeneut ... Gegenbauer has affirmed

... but in my opeenion, gentlemen ... Hermeneutics...!" (Here you

passed from the subconscious state into Nirvana.)

And so on, and so on, till the college bell clanged in the quadrangle,

and it was time to file out for a wash and brush-up before dinner in

hall.

Upon one afternoon every week, Professor Galbraith read with his

students the "Greek Oreeginal." He prescribed half-a-dozen chapters of

"Romans" or "Hebrews," and expected us to prepare them carefully. I

verily believe that he imagined we did. This shows what a sanguine and

amiable old gentlemen he was. The beamy spectacle belied him not.

The fact was that we stumbled through our portions by the light of

nature, aided considerably by a class copy of an ingenious work known by

the name of "Bagster," in which every Greek word had the English

equivalent marked in plain figures underneath, and all the verbs fully

parsed at the foot of the page.

The use of this was not considered wicked, because, like the early

Christians, in Professor Galbraith's class we had all things common.

This was our one point of resemblance to the primitive Church.

One day the Doctor, peering over his brown leather folio, discerned the

meek face and beaming smile of Gilbert the Eel in the centre of Bench

One, immediately beneath him.

"Ah! Mr. Denholm, will you read for us this morning--beginning at the

29th verse--of the chapter under consideration?"

And he subsided expectantly into his lecture.

Up rose Gilbert, signalling wildly with one hand for the class "Bagster"

to be passed to him, and meantime grasping at the first Testament he

could see about him. By the time he had read the Greek of half-a-dozen

verses, the sharpness of the trouble was overpast. He held in his hands

the Key of Knowledge, and translated and parsed like a Cunningham

Fellow--or any other fellow.

"Vairy well, Mr. Denholm; vairy well indeed. You may now sit down while

I proceed to expound the passage!"

Whereupon Gibby the Eel ungratefully pitched the faithful "Bagster" on

the bench and disappeared under the same himself on a visit to Nicholson

McFeat, who sat in the middle of the class-room.

For five minutes--ten--fifteen, the gentle voice droned on from the

rostrum, the word "Hermeneutics" discharging itself at intervals with

the pleasing gurgle of an intermittent spring. Then the Professor

returned suddenly to his Greek Testament.

"Mr. Denholm, you construed _vairy_ well last time. Be good enough to

continue at the place you left off. Mr. Denholm--where is

Mister--Mister Den--holm?"

And the moon-like countenance rose from its eclipse behind six volumes

of Owen (folio edition), while the two smaller moons in permanent

transit directed themselves upon the vacant place in Bench One, from

which Gibby the Eel had construed so glibly with the efficient aid of

"Bagster."

"Mister--Mist--er Denholm?"

The Professor knew that he was absent-minded, but (if the expression be

allowable) he could have sworn----.

"I am here, sir!"

Gibby the Eel, a little shame-faced and rumpled as to hair, was standing

plump in the very middle of the class-room, in the place where he had

been endeavouring to persuade Nick McFeat to lend him his dress clothes

"to go to a conversazione in," which request Nick cruelly persisted in

refusing, alleging first, that he needed the garments himself, and

secondly, that the Eel desired to go to no "conversazione," but

contrariwise to take a certain Madge Robertson to the theatre.

At this moment the fateful voice of the Professor broke in upon them

just as they were rising to the height of their great argument.

"Mister--Den--holm, will you go on where you left off?"

Gibby rose, signalling wildly for "Bagster," and endeavouring to look as

if he had been a plant of grace rooted and grounded on that very spot.

Professor Galbraith gazed at Gibby _in situ_, then at the place formerly

occupied by him, tried hard to orient the matter in his head, gave it

up, and bade the translation proceed.

But "Bagster" came not, and Gilbert did not distinguish himself this

time. Indeed, far from it.

"Will you parse the first verb, Mr. Denholm--no, not that word! That

has usually been considered a substantive, Mr. Denholm--the next word,

ah, yes!"

"The first aorist, active of--_confound you fellows, where's that

'Bagster'? I call it dashed mean--*yes, sir, it is connected with the

former clause by the particle--*have you not found that book yet? Oh,

you beasts!_"

(The italics, it is hardly necessary to say, were also spoken in

italics, and were not an integral part of Gibby's examination as it

reached the ear of Professor Galbraith.)

"Ah, that will do, Mr. Denholm--not so well--not quite so well,

sir--yet" (kindly) "not so vairy ill either."

And Gilbert sat down to resume the discussion of the dress clothes. By

this time, of course, he considered himself quite safe from further

molestation. The Professor had never been known to call up a man thrice

in one day. So, finding Nick McFeat obdurate in the matter of the dress

suit, Gilbert announced his intention of visiting Kenneth Kennedy, who,

he said pointedly, was not a selfish and unclean animal of the kind

abhorred by Jews, but, contrariwise, a gentleman--one who would lend

dress clothes for the asking. And Kennedy's were better clothes, any

way, and had silk linings. Furthermore, Nick need not think it, he (Mr.

Gilbert Denholm) would not demean himself to put on his (Mr. McFeat's)

dirty "blacks," which had been feloniously filched from a last year's

scarecrow that had been left out all the winter. And furthermore, he

(the said Gilbert) would take Madge Robertson to the theatre in spite of

him, and what was more, cut Nick McFeat out as clean as a leek.

At this the latter laughed scornfully, affirming that the grapes had a

faintly sub-acid flavour, and bade Gibby go his way.

Gibby went, tortuously and subterraneously worming his way to the

highest seats in the synagogue, where Kenneth Kennedy, M.A., reposed at

full length upon a vacant seat, having artistically bent a Highland

cloak over a walking-stick to represent scholastic meditation, if

perchance the kindly spectacle of the Professor should turn in his

direction. Gibby gazed rapturously on his friend's sleep, contemplating

him, as once in the Latmian cave Diana gazed upon Endymion. He was

proceeding to ink his friend's face preparatory to upsetting him on the

floor, when he remembered the dress suit just in time to desist.

"Eel, you are a most infamous pest--can't you let a fellow alone? What

in the world do you want now?"

Whereupon, with countenance of triple brass, Gibby entered into the

question of the dress suit with subtlety and tact. There never was so

good a chap as Kennedy, never one so generous. He (G.D.) would do as

much for him again, and he would bring it back the next day, pressed by

a tailor.

Kennedy, however, was not quite so enthusiastic. There are several

points of view in matters of this kind. Kenneth Kennedy did not, of

course, care "a dump" about Madge Robertson, but he had the best

interests of his silk-lined dress coat at heart.

"That's all very well, Eel," he said, raising himself reluctantly to the

perpendicular; "but you know as well as I do that the last time I lent

it to you, you let some wax drop on the waistcoat, right on the pocket,

and I have never been able to get it out since----"

Suddenly the pair became conscious that the gentle hum of exegetical

divinity from the rostrum had ceased. The word "Hermeneutics" no longer

soothed and punctuated their converse at intervals of five minutes, like

the look-out's "All's well" on a ship at sea.

"Ah, Mis--ter Den--holm, perhaps you have recovered yourself by this

time. Be good enough to continue where you left off--Mis--ter

Den--holm--Mister Denholm--where in the world is Mr. Denholm?"

The spectacles were hardly beaming now. A certain shrewd suspicion

mixed with the wonder in their expression, as Dr. Galbraith gazed from

the Eel's position One to position Two, and back again to position One.

Both were empty as the cloudless empyrean. His wonder culminated when

Gilbert was finally discovered in position Three, high on the sky-line

of Bench Twenty-four!

How Gilbert acquitted himself on this occasion it is perhaps better not

to relate. I will draw a kindly veil over the lamentable tragedy. It

is sufficient to say that he lost his head completely--as completely

even as the aforesaid Miss Madge Robertson could have wished.

And all though the disastrous exhibition the Professor did not withdraw

his gaze from the wretched Eel, but continued to rebuke him, as it

seemed, for the astral and insubstantial nature of his body.

No better proof can be adduced that the Eel had become temporarily

deranged, than the fact that even now, when it was obvious that the long

latent suspicions of the Gentle Hermeneut were at last aroused, he

refused to abide in his breaches; but, scorning all entreaty, and even

Kennedy's unconditioned promise of the dress suit, he proceeded to crawl

down the gallery steps, in order to regain position Number One, in the

front seat under the Professor's very nose.

_Quos Deus vult perdere, prius dementat._

Meanwhile the class, at first raised to a state of ecstatic enjoyment by

the Eel's misfortunes, then growing a little anxious lest he should go

too far, was again subsiding to its wonted peaceful hum, like that of a

vast and well-contented bumble-bee.

Suddenly we became aware that the Professor was on his feet in the midst

of a stern and awful silence.

"My eye has fallen," he began solemnly, "on what I do not expect to see.

I hope the--gentleman will remember where he is--and who I am!"

During the pronouncement of this awful allocution the professorial arm

was extended, and a finger, steady as the finger of Fate, pointed

directly at the unhappy Gibby, who, prone in the dust, appeared to be

meditating a discourse upon the text, "I am a worm and no man!"

His head was almost on the level of the floor and his limbs extended far

up the gallery stairs. To say that his face was fiery-red gives but a

faint idea of its colour, while a black streak upon his nose proved that

the charwomen of the college were not a whit more diligent than the

students thereof.

What happened after this is a kind of maze. I suppose that Gibby

regained a seat somewhere, and that the lecture proceeded after a

fashion; but I do not know for certain. Bursts of unholy mirth forced

their way through the best linen handkerchiefs, rolled hard and used as

gags.

But there grew up a feeling among many that though doubtless there was

humour in the case, the Eel had gone a little too far, and if Professor

Galbraith were genuinely angered he might bring the matter before the

Senatus, with the result that Gilbert would not only lose his bursary,

but be sent down as well, to his father's sorrow and his own loss.

So when the class was at last over, half-a-dozen of us gathered round

Gibby and represented to him that he must go at once to the

retiring-room and ask the Professor's pardon.

At first and for long the Eel was recalcitrant. He would not go. What

was he to say? We instructed him. We used argument, appeal,

persuasion. We threatened torture. Finally, yielding to those heavier

battalions on the side of which Providence is said to fight, Gibby was

led to the door with a captor at each elbow. We knocked; he entered.

The door was shut behind him, but not wholly. Half-a-dozen ears lined

the crack at intervals, like limpets clinging to a smooth streak on a

tidal rock. We could not hear the Eel's words. Only a vague murmur

reached us, and I doubt if much more reached Professor Galbraith. The

Eel stopped and there was a pause. We feared its ill omen.

"Poor Eel, the old man's going to report him!" we whispered to each

other.

And then we heard the words of the Angelical Scholiast.

"Shake hands, Mr. Denholm. If, as ye say, this has been a lesson to

you, it has been no less a lesson to me. Let us both endeavour to

profit by it, unto greater diligence and seemliness in our walk and

conversation. We will say no more about the matter, if you please, Mr.

Denholm."

* * * * *

We cheered the old man as he went out, till he waved a kindly and

tolerant hand back at us, and there was more than a gleam of humour in

the kindly spectacles, as if our gentle Hermeneut were neither so blind

nor yet so dull in the uptake as we had been accustomed to think him.

As for the Eel, he became a man from that day, and, to a limited extent,

put away childish things--though his heart will remain ever young and

fresh. His story is another story, and so far as this little study goes

it is enough to say that when at last the aged Professor of Hermeneutics

passed to the region where all things are to be finally explicated, it

was Gilbert Denholm who got up the memorial to his memory, which was

subscribed to by every student without exception he had ever had. And

it was he who wrote Dr. Galbraith's epitaph, of which the last line

runs:

"GENTLE, A PEACE-MAKER, A LOVER OF GOOD AND OF GOD."

*DOCTOR GIRNIGO'S ASSISTANT*

"Off, ye lendings!" said Gibby the Eel to his heather-mixture

knicker-bocker suit, on the day when his Presbytery of Muirlands

licensed him to preach the gospel.

And within the self-same hour the Reverend Gilbert Denholm, M.A.,

Probationer, in correct ministerial garb, had the honour of dining with

the Presbytery, and of witnessing the remarkable transformation which

overtakes that august body as soon as it dips its collective spoon in

the official soup.

I knew a Presbytery once which tried to lunch on cold coffee and new

bread. The survivors unanimously took to drink.

But the Presbytery of Muirlands were sage fathers and brethren, and they

knew better than that. They dined together in a reasonable manner at

the principal inn of the place. An enthusiast, who suggested that they

should transfer their custom to the new Temperance Hotel up near the

railway station, was asked if he had sent in his returns on Life and

Work--and otherwise severely dealt with.

Gilbert had been remitted to the Presbytery of Muirlands from his own

West Country one of Burnestown, because he had been appointed assistant

to the Reverend Doctor Girnigo of Rescobie; and it was considered more

satisfactory that the Presbytery within whose bounds he was to labour,

should examine him concerning his diligence and zeal.

So they asked him all the old posers which had made the teeth of former

examinees of the Presbytery of Muirlands chatter in their heads. But the

Eel's teeth did not chatter. He had got a rough list from a friend who

had been that way before, and so passed the bar with flying colours. The

modest way in which the new brother (unattached) behaved himself at

dinner completed Gibby's conquest of the Brethren--with the single but

somewhat important exception of the Reverend Doctor Joseph Girnigo of

Rescobie, Gilbert's future chief.

It was the cross of Dr. Girnigo's life that his session compelled him to

engage an assistant. Dr. Girnigo felt that here were three hundred

pieces of silver (or more accurately, L60 sterling) which ought to have

been given to the poor--that is, to the right breeches' pocket of Joseph

Girnigo--instead of being squandered in providing such a thorn in the

flesh within the parish as a licensed assistant.

Dr. Girnigo was in the habit of saying, whenever he had made it too hot

for his acting assistant, that he would rather look after three parishes

than one probationer. At first the engaging and dismission of these

unfortunate young men had been placed unreservedly in the Doctor's

hands; but as the affair assumed more and more the appearance and

proportions of a mere procession to and from the railway station, the

members of Session were compelled to assume the responsibility

themselves. So long as the Doctor's sway continued unchallenged, the new

assistant usually arrived in Nether Balhaldie's "machine" on Saturday

night, and departed on Tuesday morning very early in the gig belonging

to Upper Balhaldie. He preached on Sabbath, and Monday was spent in Dr.

Girnigo's study, where it was explained to him: first, that he knew

nothing; secondly, that what he thought he knew was worse than nothing;

thirdly, that there is nothing more hateful than a vain pretence of

earthly learning; and fourthly, that Paul and Silas knew nothing of

"Creeticism." No, they were better employed--aye, and it would be

telling the young men of the day--the conclusion of the whole matter

being that the present victim would never do at all for the parish of

Rescobie and had better go.

He went, in Upper Balhaldie's gig, and Watty Learmont, the tenant

thereof, who could be trusted to know, said that the rejected

probationers very seldom engaged in prayer (to call prayer) on the road

to the station. I do not know what Watty meant to insinuate, but that

is what he said. He had that mode of speech to perfection which

consists in saying one thing and giving the impression that the speaker

means another.

But it was felt that this was a state of affairs which could not

continue. It amounted, indeed, to nothing less than a scandal that the

Session should be paying L60 for an assistant, and that at the end of

the year eight of these should only have spent exactly twenty-seven days

in the parish, while the remaining three hundred and thirty-eight days

had been occupied by the Doctor in filling the vacancies he had himself

created. Besides, since he always insisted on a week's trial without

salary when he engaged his man (in order, as he said, to discover where

there was a likelihood of the parties being mutually satisfied), the

shrewd business men of the Session saw more than a probability of their

good and hardly gathered sixty "notes" still remaining intact in the

possession of their minister.

It was, however, the affair of the prayer-meeting which brought the

matter to a head. For after all, such hard-headed bargain-makers as

Learmont, Senior of Balhaldie, and his coadjutors on the Session, could

not help having a sort of respect for the Doctor's business qualities.

But they could not bear to be made a laughing stock of in the market of

Drumfern.

"What's this I hear aboot your new helper's prayer-meetin' up at

Rescobie?" Cochrane of Tatierigs cried one Wednesday across the mart

ring to Upper Balhaldie. "Is't true that that minister o' yours broke

it up wi' a horse-whup?"

No, it was not true. But there was enough of truth in it to make the

members of Rescobie Session nervous of public appearances for a long

time, indeed till the affair was forgotten.

The truth was that during the Doctor's absence at the house of his

married son in Drumfern, Mr. Killigrew, a soft-voiced young man, who,

being exceedingly meek, had been left in charge of the parish, thought

it would be a surprise for his chief if he started a prayer-meeting on

Wednesday evenings in the village schoolhouse. He pictured to himself

his principal's delight when he should hand over the new departure as a

going concern. So he made a house-to-house visitation of Rescobie

village and neighbourhood, this young man with the soft voice. The

popular appeal was favourable. He went round and saw the

school-mistress. She was fond of young men with soft voices (and hats).

She readily consented to lend her harmonium, and to lead the singing

from a certain popular hymn-book.

The first meeting was an unqualified success, and the young man promptly

began a series of rousing addresses on the "Pilgrim's Progress." There

were to be thirty in all. But alas, for the vanity of human schemes,

the second address (on the Slough of Despond) was scarcely under weigh

when, like an avenging host, or Cromwell entering the Long Parliament,

the Doctor strode into the midst, booted and spurred, as he had ridden

over all the way from Drumfern. He had a riding-whip in his hand, which

was the foundation of the Tatierigs story, but there is no record that

he used it on any in the meeting.

The services closed without the benediction, and as the Doctor wrath

fully clicked the key in the lock, he said that he would see the

school-mistress in the morning.

Then he turned to the young man in the soft hat. The remains left

Rescobie early next morning in Upper Balhaldie's gig.

Since this date it was enough to call out to a Rescobie man, "Ony mair

Pilgrims up your way?" in order to have him set his dogs on you or

wrathfully bring down his herd's crook upon your crown.

Being thus stirred to action, the Session wrestled with Dr. Girnigo, and

prevailing by the unanswerable argument of the purse-strings, it took

the appointment and dismission of the "helpers" into its own hands.

So Dr. Girnigo had to try other tactics. Usually he gave the

unfortunate "helper" delivered into his hands no peace night nor day,

till in despair he threw up his appointment, and shook the Rescobie dust

off the soles of his feet.

First (under the new regime) came Alexander Fairbody, a thoughtful,

studious lad, whom the Doctor set to digging top-dressing into his

garden till his hands were blistered. He would not allow him to preach,

and as to praying, if he wanted to do that he could go to his bedroom.

So Mr. Fairbody endured hardness for ten days, and then resigned in a

written communication, alleging as a reason that he had come to Rescobie

as to work in a spiritual and not in a material vineyard. The Doctor

burked the document, and the Reverend Robert Begg reigned in the stead

of Alexander Fairbody, resigned for cause.

Mr. Begg was athletic. Him Dr. Girnigo set to the work of arranging his

old sermons, seven barrels full. He was to catalogue them under

eighteen heads, and be prepared to give his reasons in every case. The

first three classes were--"Sermons Enforcing the Duty of Respect for

Ecclesiastical Superiors," "Sermons upon Christian Giving," and "Sermons

Inculcating Humility in the Young." The Reverend Robert Begg would have

enjoyed the digging of the garden. He stood just one full week of the

sermon-arranging. He declared that sixteen of the eighteen classes were

cross divisions, and that the task of looking through the written matter

permanently enfeebled his intellect. Sympathetic friends consoled him

with the reflection that nobody would ever find out.

On the second Wednesday after his appointment he departed, uttering

sentiments which were a perfect guarantee of good faith (but which were

manifestly not for publication) to Watty Learmont as he journeyed to the

railway station in the Upper Balhaldie gig.

A new sun rose upon Rescobie with the coming of Gibby the Eel. He had

known both of his predecessors at college, and he had pumped them

thoroughly upon the life and doctrine of their former chief. In

addition to which Gilbert had taken to him a suit of tweeds and a

fishing-rod, and with a piece of bread and cheese in his pocket, and

guile in his heart, he had gone up the Rescobie water, asking for drinks

at the farmhouses on the way, much as he used to perambulate Professor

Galbraith's class-room in his old, abandoned, unregenerate,

sans-dog-collar days.

Hitherto the helper, a mere transient bird-of-passage, had lodged with

Mistress Honeytongue, the wife of Hosea Honeytongue, the beadle and

minister's man of Rescobie. This brought the youth, as it were, under

the shadow of the manse, and what was more to the point, under the eye

of the minister. But Gilbert Denholm had other aims.

He took rooms in the village, quite three-quarters of a mile from the

manse, with one Mrs. Tennant, the widow of a medical man in the

neighbourhood who had died without making adequate provision for his

family. She had never taken a lodger before, but since his investiture

in clericals the Eel had filled out to a handsome figure, and he

certainly smiled a most irresistible smile as he stood on the doorstep.

Gilbert arrived late one Friday night in Rescobie, and speculation was

rife in the parish as to whether he would preach on Sabbath or not.

Most were of the negative opinion, but Watty Learmont, for reasons of

his own, offered to wager a new hat that he would.

On Saturday morning Gilbert put on his longest tails and his doggiest

collar and marched boldly up to the front door of the manse, with the

general air of playing himself along the road upon war pipes. Perhaps,

however, he was only whistling silently to keep his courage up.

"Is Miss Girnigo at home?" said he to the somewhat stern-visaged

personage who opened the door.

"_I_ am Miss Girnigo," said a sepulchral voice. (Miss Girnigo was

suffering from the summer cold which used to be called a "hay fever.")

"Indeed--I might have known; how delightful!" said the Eel, now, alas!

transformed into an old serpent; "I am so glad to find you at home!"

"I am always at home!" returned Miss Girnigo, keeping up a semblance of

severity, but secretly mollified by the homage of Gibby's smile.

"Then I hope you will let me come here very often. I shall find it

lonely in the village, but I thought it better to be near my work," said

Gilbert; "I am staying with Mrs. Tennant, the doctor's widow. Do you

know Mrs. Tennant?"

"Oh, yes," said Miss Girnigo, smiling for the first time; "she is one of

my dearest friends. I often go there to tea."

"I love tea," said Gilbert, with enthusiasm; "Mrs. Tennant has invited

me to take tea in her parlour in the afternoon as often as I like, but I

was not expecting such a reward as this!"

Miss Girnigo was considerably over forty, but she was even more than

youthfully amenable to flattery and to the Eel's beaming and boyish

face.

"You are the new assistant," she said, "Mister--ah----!"

"Denholm!" said Gilbert, smiling; "it is a nice name. Don't you think

so?"

"I have not thought anything about the matter," said Miss Girnigo,

bridling, yet with the ghost of a blush. "I do not charge my mind with

such things. Have you come to see my father?"

"Yes, after a while. But just at present I would rather see your

plants!" said the Serpent, who had been well coached. (No wonder Watty

Learmont smiled when he asserted that the New Man would preach on

Sunday.)

Now Miss Girnigo lived chiefly for her flowers. The Serpent had a list

of them, roughly but accurately compiled from the lady's seed-merchant's

ledger by a friend in the business. He had also a fund of information

respecting "plants," very recently acquired, on his mind.

"How did you know I was fond of flowers?" asked Miss Girnigo.

"Could any one doubt it?" cried Gilbert, with enthusiasm. "Who was the

Jo----" (he was on the brink of saying "Johnny") "g--gentleman of whom

it was said: 'If you want to see his monument, look around'--Sir

Christopher Wren, wasn't it? Well, I looked around as I came up the

street!"

And Gilbert took in the whole front of the manse with his glance. It

certainly was very pretty, covered from top to bottom with rambler roses

and Virginia cress.

Gilbert entered, and as they passed in front of the minister's study

door Miss Girnigo almost skittishly made a sign for silence, and Gilbert

tip-toed past with an exaggeration of caution which made his companion

laugh. They found themselves presently in the drawing-room, where again

the flower-pots were everywhere, but specially banked round the oriel

window. Gilbert named them one after the other like children at a

baptism, with a sort of easy certainty and familiarity. His friend the

nurseryman's clerk had not failed him. Miss Girnigo was delighted.

"Well," she said, "it _is_ pleasant to have some one who knows Ceterach

Officinarum from a kail-stock. We shall go botanising together!"

"Ye-es," said Gilbert, a little uncertainly, and with less enthusiasm

than might have been expected.

"Good heavens," he was saying, "how shall I grind up the beastly thing

if I have to live up to all this?"

But Miss Girnigo was in high good-humour, though her pleasure was sadly

marred by the incipient cold in her head, which she was conscious

prevented her from doing herself justice. At forty, eyes that water and

a nose tipped with pink do not make for maiden beauty.

"I have a dreadful cold coming on, Mr. Denholm," she said; "I really am

not fit to be seen. I wonder what I was thinking of to ask you in!"

"Try this," said Gilbert, pulling a kind of india-rubber puff-ball out

of his pocket; "it is quite good. It makes you sneeze like the

very--ahem--like anything. Stops a cold in no time--won't be happy till

you get it!"

"I don't dare to--how does it work?" demurred Miss Girnigo.

Gilbert illustrated, and began to sneeze promptly, as the snuff

titillated his air passages.

"Now you try!" he said, and smiled.

Gilbert held it insinuatingly to the lady's nostrils and pumped

vigorously.

"_A-tish--shoo!_" remarked the lady, as if he had touched a spring.

"_A-tish--shoo-oo-ooh!_" replied Gilbert.

After that they responded antiphonally, like Alp answering Alp, till the

door opened and Dr. Girnigo appeared with a half-written sheet of sermon

paper in his hand.

The guilty pair stood rooted to the ground--at least, spasmodically so,

for every other moment a sneeze lifted one of them upon tiptoe.

"What is this, Arabella, what is this? What is this young man doing

here?"

"Don't be--_a-tish--oo_--stupid, papa! You know very well--_shoo_--it

is Mr. Denholm, the new Assist--_aroo_!"

"Sir!" said Dr. Girnigo, turning upon his junior and angrily stamping

his foot.

Gilbert held out his hand, and as the Doctor did not take it he waggled

it feebly in the air with a sort of impotent good-fellowship.

"All right," he said; "better presently--only c-curing Miss--Miss

Girni--_goo-ahoo--arish-chee-hoo_--of a cold!"

"I do not know any one of that name, sir!" thundered the Doctor, not

wholly unreasonably.

"No?" said Gilbert, anxiously; "I understood that this--_a-tishoo_--lady

was Miss Girnigo, though I thought she was too young for a

daughter--your granddaughter, perhaps, Doctor?"

And the smile once more took in Miss Girnigo as if she had been a

beautiful picture.

By this time Miss Girnigo had somewhat recovered.

"Papa," she said, sharply, "Mr. Denholm is going to be such an

acquisition. He is a botanist--a Fellow of the Linnaean Society, I

understand----"

"Of Pittenweem," muttered Gilbert between his teeth.

"And he is going to preach on Sunday. You have had a lot to worry you

this week and need a rest. Besides, your best shirts are not

ironed---not dry indeed. The weather has been so bad!"

"I had made up my mind to preach on Sabbath myself," said Dr. Girnigo,

who, though a tyrant untamed without, was held in considerable

subjection to the higher power within the bounds of his own house.

"Nonsense, papa--I will not allow you to think of such a thing!" cried

Miss Girnigo. "Besides, Mr. Denholm is coming to supper to-night, and

we will talk botany all the time!"

* * * * *

Which was why the Eel, falling off his bicycle at 1.45 p.m. that same

day in front of my house in Cairn Edward (sixteen miles away), burst

into my consulting-room with the following demand, proclaimed in

frenzied accents: "Lend me your Bentley's Botany, or something--not that

beastly jaw-breaking German thing you are so fond of, but something

plain and easy, with the names of all the plants in. I have the whole

thing to get up by eight o'clock to-night, and I'll eat my head if I can

remember what a cotyledon is!"

It is believed that on the way back the Eel studied Bentley, cunningly

adjusted on the handlebar, with loops of string to keep the pages from

fluttering. (He was a trick-rider of repute.) At any rate, he did not

waste his time, and arrived at the manse so full of botanical terms that

he had considerable difficulty in making himself intelligible to the

maid, who on this occasion, being cleaned up, opened the door to him in

state.

This was the beginning of the taming of the tiger. Gilbert preached the

next forenoon, and pleased the Doctor greatly by the excellent taste of

his opening remarks upon his text, which was, "To preach the gospel ...

and not to boast in another man's line of things made ready to our

hand."

The preacher, as a new and original departure, divided his subject into

three heads, as followeth: First, "The Duty of Respect for

Ecclesiastical Superiors"; second, "The Duty of Christian Liberality"

(he had to drag this in neck and crop); and thirdly, "The Supreme Duty

of Humility in the Young with respect to their Elders."

While he was looking it over on Sunday morning Gilbert heartily

confounded his friend Begg for forgetting the other fifteen divisions of

Dr. Girnigo's sermons.

"I could have made a much better appearance if that fellow Begg had had

any sense!" he said to himself. "But" (with a sigh) "I must just do the

best I can with these."

Nevertheless, Dr. Girnigo considered that Gibby had surpassed himself in

his application. He showed how any good that he might do in the parish

must not be set down to his credit, but to that of Another who had so

long laboured among them; and how that he (the preacher), being but "as

one entering upon another man's line of things," it behoved him above

all things not to be boastful.

"A very sound address--quite remarkable in one so young!" was the

Doctor's verdict as he met the Session after the close of Gilbert's

first service.

The Session and congregation, however, did not approve quite so highly,

having had a surfeit of similar teaching during the past forty years.

But Walter Learmont, senior (sad to tell it of an Elder), winked the

sober eye and remarked to his intimates: "Bide a wee--he kens his way

aboot, thon yin. He wad juist be drawin' the auld man's leg!"

At any rate, certain it is that after this auspicious beginning Gibby

the Eel (M.A.) remained longer in Rescobie than all his predecessors put

together.

But it was to Jemima Girnigo that he owed this.

*THE GATE OF THE UPPER GARDEN*

For the first six months that Gibby the Eel, otherwise the Reverend

Gilbert Denholm, M.A., acted as "helper" to Dr. Joseph Girnigo in the

parish of Rescobie, he was much pleased with himself. He laughed with

his friend and classmate, Robertland, over the infatuation of the

doctor's old maid daughter. The parish, reading the situation like a

book, smiled broadly when the "helper" and Miss Jemima Girnigo were

discerned on an opposite braeface, botanising together, or, with heads

bent over some doubtful bloom, stood silhouetted against the sunlit

green of some glade in Knockandrews wood.

During this period Gibby hugged himself upon his cleverness, but the

time came when he began to have his doubts. What to him was a

lightheart prank, an "Eel's trick," like his college jest of squirming

secretly under class-room benches, was obviously no jest to this

pale-eyed, sharp-featured maiden of one-and-forty.

Jemima Girnigo had never been truly young. Repressed and domineered over

as a child, she had been suddenly promoted by her mother's death to the

care of a household and the responsibility of training a bevy of younger

brothers, all now out in the world and doing for themselves. Her life

had grown more and more arid and self-contained. She had nourished her

soul on secret penances, setting herself hard household tasks, and doing

with only one small, untaught, slatternly maid from the village, in

order that her father might be able to assist his sons into careers.

She read dry theology to mortify a liking for novels, and shut up her

soul from intercourse with her equals, conscious, perhaps, that visitors

would infallibly discover and laugh at her father's meannesses and

peculiarities.

Only her flowers kept her soul sweet and a human heart beating within

that buckram-and-whalebone-fenced bosom.

Then, all suddenly came Gilbert Denholm with his merry laugh, his

light-heart ways (which she openly reproved, but secretly loved), his

fair curls clustering about his brow, and his way of throwing back his

head as if to shake them into place. Nothing so young, so winsome, or so

gay had ever set foot within that solemn dreich old manse. It was like a

light-heart city beauty coming to change the life and disturb the

melancholy of some stern woman-despising hermit. But Jemima Girnigo's

case was infinitely worse, in that she was a woman and the disturber of

her peace little better than a foolish boy.

But Gilbert Denholm, kindly lad though he was, saw no harm. He was

only, he thought, impressing himself upon the parish. He saw himself

daily becoming more popular. No farmer's party was considered to be

anything which wanted his ready wit and contagious merriment. Already

there was talk among the Session of securing him as permanent assistant

and successor. There were fairways and clear sunlit vistas before

Gilbert Denholm; and he liked his professional prospects all the better

that he owed them to his own wit and knowledge of the world. He was a

good preacher. He made what is called an excellent appearance in the

pulpit. He did not "read." His fluency of utterance held sleepy

ploughmen in a state of blinking attention for the better part of an

hour. Even Dr. Girnigo commended, and Gibby who had no more abundant or

direct "spiritual gifts" than are the portion of most kind-hearted,

well-brought-up Scottish youths, was unconscious of his lack of any

higher qualifications for the Christian ministry.

But Gibby was like hundreds, aye, thousands more, who break the bread

and open unto men the Scriptures in all the churches. His office meant

to him a career, not a call. His work was the expression of hearty

human goodwill to all men--and so far helpful and godlike; but he had

never tasted sorrow, never drunken of the cup of remorse as a daily

beverage, never "dreed" the common weird of humanity. Sorely he needed

a downsetting. He must endure hardness, be driven out of self to the

knowledge that self is nowise sufficient for a sinful man.

Even Jemima Girnigo was a far better servant of God than the man who had

spent seven years in preparation for that service. In the shut deeps of

her heart there were locked up infinite treasures of self-sacrifice.

Love was pitifully ready to look forth from those pale eyes at whose

corners the crow's feet were already clutching. And so it came to pass

that, knowing her folly (and yet, in a way, defying it), this old maid

of forty-one loved the handsome youth of four-and-twenty, the only human

love-compelling thing that had ever come into her sombre life.

Yet there were times when Jemima Girnigo's heart was bitter within her,

even as there were seasons when the crowding years fell away and she

seemed almost young and fair. Jemima had never been either very pretty

or remarkably attractive, but now when the starved instincts of her lost

youth awoke untimeously within her, she unconsciously smiled and tossed

her head, to the full as coquettishly as a youthful beauty just becoming

conscious of her own power.

It was all very pitiful. But Gibby passed on his heedless way and saw

not, neither recked of his going.

* * * * *

Yet a time came when his eyes were opened. A new paper-mill had come to

Rescobie, migrating from somewhere in the East country, where the

Messrs. Coxon had had a serious quarrel with their ground landlord.

From being a quiet hamlet the village of Rescobie began rapidly to put

on the airs of a growing town. Tall houses of three storeys, with many

windows and outside stairs, usurped the place of little old-fashioned

"but-and-bens." Red brick oblongs of mill frontage rose along the

valley of the Rescobie Water, which, dammed and weired and carried along

countless lades, changed the cheerful brown limpidity of its youthful

stream for a frothy mud colour below the mills.

The new immigrants were mostly a sedate and sober folk, as indeed,

nearly all paper-makers are. To the easy-going villagers their diligence

seemed phenomenal. They were flocking into the mill gates by six in the

morning. It was well nigh six in the evening before the tide flowed

back toward the village. Among the youths and men there was night-shift

and day-shift, and a new and strange pallor began to pervade the street

and show itself, carefully washed, in the gallery of Rescobie Kirk. The

village girls, finding that they could make themselves early

independent, took their places in the long "finishing saal," while

elderly women, for whom there had been no outlook except the poorhouse,

found easy work and a living wage in Coxon's rag-house.

The increase of the congregation in the second year of Gilbert Denholm's

assistantship compelled the Session to bethink themselves of some more

permanent and satisfactory arrangement. Finally, after many private

meetings they resolved to beard the lion in his den and lay before Dr.

Girnigo the proposal that Gilbert should be officially called and

ordained as the old man's "colleague and successor."

It was the ruling elder, called, after the name of his farm, Upper

Balhaldie, who belled the cat and made the fateful proposition. In so

doing that shrewd and cautious man was considered to have excelled

himself. But Dr. Girnigo was far from being appeased.

"Sirs," he said, "I have been sole minister of the parish of Rescobie

for forty years, and sole minister of it I shall die!"

"Mr. Denholm will be to you as a son!" suggested Balhaldie.

"I have sons of my body," said the old minister, looking full at the

quiet men before him, who sat on the edges of their several chairs

fingering the brims of their hats; "did I make any of them a minister?

Nay, sirs, and for this reason: because the parish of Rescobie has been

so near my heart that I would not risk even the fruit of my body coming

between me and it!"

"We have sounded Mr. Denholm," said Balhaldie, quietly ignoring the

sentimental, "and you may rest assured that you will not be disturbed in

your tenancy of the manse. Mr. Denholm has no thought at present of

changing his condition, and is quite content with his lodging--and an

eident carfu' woman is his landlady the doctor's weedow!"

"Aye, she is that!" concurred several of the Session, speaking for the

first time. It was a relief to have something concrete to which they

could assent.

Dr. Girnigo looked at his Session. They seemed to shrink before him.

Nervousness quivered on their countenances. They tucked their

heavily-booted feet beneath the chairs on which they sat, to be out of

the way. The brims of their hats were rapidly wearing out. Surely such

men could never oppose him.

But Dr. Girnigo knew better. Underneath that awkward exterior, in spite

of those embarrassed manners, that air of anxious self-effacement, Dr.

Girnigo was well aware that there abode inflexible determination, shrewd

common sense and abounding humour--chiefly, however, of the ironic sort.

"Are ye all agreed on this?" he asked.

"I speak in name of the Session!" said Upper Balhaldie succinctly,

looking around the circle. And as he looked each man nodded slightly,

without, however, raising his eyes from the pattern on the worn study

carpet.

The Doctor sighed a long sigh. He knew that at last his trial was come

upon him, and nerved himself to meet it like a man.

"It is well," he said; "I shall offer no objection to the congregation

calling Mr. Denholm, and I can only hope that he will serve you as

faithfully as I have done! I wish you a very good day, gentlemen!"

And with these words the old minister went out, leaving the Session to

find their way into the cold air as best they might.

The day after the interview between the Session and the Doctor, Gilbert

Denholm called at the manse. He came bounding up the little avenue

between the lilac and rhododendron bushes. Jemima Girnigo heard his foot

long ere he had reached the porch. Nay, before he had set foot on the

gravel she caught the click of the gate latch, which was loose and would

only open one way. This Gibby always forgot and rattled it fiercely

till he remembered the trick of it.

Then when she heard the _rat-tat-tat_ of Gibby's ash-plant on the panels

of the door, she caught her hand to her heart and stood still among her

plants.

There was a bell, but Gibby was always in too great a hurry to ring it.

"Perhaps he has come to----" She did not finish the sentence, but the

blood, rising hotly to her poor withered cheeks, finished it for her.

"Oh, Miss Jemima!" cried Gibby, bursting in; "I came up to tell you

first. I owe it all to you--every bit of it. They are going to call me

to be colleague--and--and--we can botanise any amount. Isn't it

glorious?"

He held her hand while he was speaking; and Jemima had been looking with

hope into his frank, enkindled, boyish eyes. Her eyelids fell at his

announcement.

"Yes," she faltered after a pause, "we can botanise!"

"And they wanted to know if I would like to have the manse--as if I

would turn you out, who have been my best friend here ever since I came

to Rescobie! Not very likely!"

Gilbert had an honest liking for Jemima Girnigo, a feeling, however,

which was not in the least akin to love. Indeed, he would as soon have

thought of marrying his grandmother or any other of the relationships in

the table of prohibited degrees printed at the beginning of the

Authorised Version, which he sometimes looked at furtively when Dr.

Girnigo was developing his "fourteenthly."

"You are happy where you are?" said Jemima, smiling a little wistfully.

"Oh, yes," cried Gibby enthusiastically; "my landlady makes me perfectly

comfortable. She thinks I am a lost soul, I am afraid, but in the

meantime she comforts me with apples--first-rate they are in dumplings,

too, I can tell you!"

While he spoke Jemima Girnigo was much absorbed over a plant in a remote

corner, and more than one drop of an alien dew glistened upon its leaves

ere she turned again to the window. Gibby's enthusiasm was a little

damped by her seeming indifference.

"Are you not glad?" he asked anxiously; "I came to tell you first. I

thought what good times we should have. We must go up Barstobrick Hill

for the parsley fern before it gets too late."

"Oh, yes," said Jemima Girnigo, holding out her hand, "I am very glad.

No one is as glad as I--I want you to believe that!"

"Of course I do!" cried Gibby; "you always were a good fellow, Jemima!

We'll go up to Barstobrick to-morrow. Mind you are ready by nine. I

have to be back for a meeting in the afternoon early. It is a hungry

place. Put some 'prog' in the _vasculum_!"

And as from the parlour window she watched him down the gravel, he

turned around and wrote "9 A.M." in large letters on the gravel with his

ash-plant, tossed his hand up at her in a gay salute, and was gone.

* * * * *

But Gilbert Denholm and Jemima Girnigo did not climb Barstobrick for

parsley fern on the morrow, and the "9 A.M." stood long plain upon the

gravel as a monument of the frail and futile intents of man.

For before the morrow's morn had dawned there had fallen upon Rescobie

the dreaded scourge of all paper-making villages. Virulent small-pox

had broken out. There were already four undoubted cases, all emanating

from the rag-house of Coxon's mills.

About the streets and close-mouths stood awe-struck groups of girls,

uncertain whether to go on with their work or return home. There was

none of the usual horse-play among the lads of the day-shift as they

went soberly mill-ward with their cans. Grave elders, machinemen and

engineers, shook their heads and recalled the date at which (a fortnight

before) a large consignment of Russian rags had been received and

immediately put in hand.

It was whispered, on what authority did not appear, that the disease was

of the malignant "black" variety, and that all smitten must surely die.

Fear ran swift and chilly up each outside staircase and entered unbidden

every "land" in Rescobie. It was the first time such a terror had been

in the village, and those who had opposed the settlement of the mills,

staid praisers of ancient quiet, lifted their hands with something of

jubilation mixed with their fear. "Verily, the judgment of God has

fallen," they said, "even as in a night it fell on Babylon--as in fire

and brimstone it came upon the Cities of the Plain."

Dr. Girnigo retired to his study, feeling that if the Session had

allowed him his own way, things would not have been as they were. He

had a sermon to write. So he mended a quill pen, took out his

sermon-paper (small quarto ruled in blue), and set to work to improve

the occasion. He said to himself that since the parish had now a young

and active minister, it was good for Gilbert Denholm to bear the yoke in

his youth.

And, indeed, none was readier for the work than that same Gilbert. He

was shaving when his landlady, the doctor's widow, cried in the

information through the panels of his closed door.

"Thank God," murmured Gibby, "that I have none to mourn for me if I

don't get through this!"

Then he thought of his father, but, as he well knew, that fine old

Spartan was too staunch a fighter in the wars of grace to discourage his

son from any duty, however dangerous. He thought next of--well, one or

two girls he had known--and was glad now that it had gone no further.

He did not know yet what was involved in the outbreak or what might be

demanded of him. Gilbert Denholm may have had few of the peculiar graces

of spiritual religion, but he was a fine, manly, upstanding young

fellow, and he resolved that he would do his duty as if he had been

heading a rush of boarders or standing in the deadly imminent breach.

More exactly, perhaps, he did not resolve at all. It never occurred to

him that he could do anything else.

As soon as he had snatched a hasty breakfast and thrown on his coat, he

hurried up to the house of Dr. Durie. A plain blunt man was John

Durie--slim, pale, with keen dark eyes, and a pointed black beard

slightly touched with gray. The doctor was not at home. He had not been

in all night and the maid did not know where he was to be found.

To the right-about went Gilbert, asking all and sundry as he went where

and when they had seen the doctor. Thomas Kyle, with his back against

the angle of the Railway Inn, averred that he had seen him "an 'oor syne

gangin' gye fast into Betty McGrath's--but they say Betty is deid or

this!" he added, somewhat irrelevantly. Chairles Simson, tilting his

bonnet over his brows in order to scratch his head in a new and

attractive spot, deponed that about ten minutes before he had noticed

"the tails o' the doctor's coat gaun roond the Mill-lands' corner like

stoor on a windy day."

Gibby tried Betty McGrath's first. Yes, Dr. Durie had ordered everybody

out except the sick woman, who was tossing on her truckle bed, calling

on the Virgin and all the saints in a shrill Galway dialect, and her

daughter Bridget, a heavy-featured girl of twenty, who stood

disconsolately looking out at the window as if hope had wholly forsaken

her heart.

Gibby inquired if the doctor had been there recently.

"Oh, yes," said Bridget; "as ye may see if ye'll be troubled lookin' in

the corner. He tore down all thim curtains off the box-bed. It'll

break the ould woman's heart, that it will, if ever the craitur gets

over this."

At the door Gibby met Father Phil Kavannah, a tall young man with honest

peasant's eyes and a humorous mouth.

"You and I, surr, will have to see this through between us," said Father

Phil, grasping his hand.

"It is a bad business," responded Gilbert; "I fear it will run through

the mills."

"Worse than ye think," said the priest very gravely, "ten times

worse--three-fourths of the workers have no relatives here, and there

will be no one to nurse them. They've talked lashin's about the new

village hospital, and raised all Tipperary about where it is to stand

and what it is to cost, but that's all that's done about it yet."

Gilbert whistled a bar of "Annie Laurie," which he kept for emergencies.

"Well," he said slowly, "it will be like serving a Sunday-school picnic

with half a loaf and one jar of marmalade--but we'll just need to see

how far we can make ourselves go round!"

"Right!" said Father Phil with a wave of his hand as he stood with his

fingers on the latch of Betty McGrath's door.

Gilbert found the doctor in the great "saal" at the mills. He had his

coat off and was scraping at bared arms for dear life. At each door

stood a pair of stalwart sentinels, and several hundred mill workers

were grouped about talking in low-voiced clusters. Only here and there

one more diligent than the rest, or with quieter nerves, deftly passed

sheets of white paper from hand to hand as if performing a conjuring

trick.

The doctor spied Gilbert as he entered. They were excellent friends.

"Man," he cried across the great room, looking down again instantly to

his work, "run up to the surgery for another tube of vaccine like this.

It is in B cabinet, shelf 6. And as you come back, wire for

half-a-dozen more. You know where I get them!"

And Gilbert sped upon his first errand. After that he deserted his own

lodgings, and he and Dr. Durie took hasty and informal meals when they

could snatch a moment from work. Sundry cold edibles stood permanently

on the doctor's oaken sideboard, and of these Gilbert and his host

partook without sitting down. Then on a couch, or more often on a few

rugs thrown on the floor, one or the other would snatch a hurried sleep.

There were twenty-six cases on Saturday--fifty-eight by the middle of

the following week. Within the same period nine had terminated fatally,

and there were others who could not possibly recover. Nurses came in

from the great city hospitals, as they could be spared, but the demand

far exceeded the supply, and Gilbert was indefatigable. Yet his laugh

was cheery as ever, and even the delirious would start into some faint

consciousness of pleasure at the sound of his voice.

But one day the young minister awoke with a racking head, a burning

body, a dry throat, and the chill of ice in his bones.

"This is nothing--I will work it off," said Gibby; and, getting up, he

dressed with haste and went out without touching food. The thought of

eating was abhorrent to him. Nevertheless, he did his work all the

forenoon, and went here and there with medicine and necessaries. He

relieved a nurse who had been two nights on duty, while she slept for

six hours. Then after that he set off home to catch Dr. Durie before he

could be out again. For he had heard his host come in and throw himself

down on the couch while he was dressing.

As he passed the front of Rescobie Manse, he looked up to wave a hand to

Jemima, as he never forgot to do. Her father was still "indisposed,"

and Miss Girnigo was understood to be taking care of him. Yes, there

she was among her flowers, and Gibby, hardly knowing what he did--being

light-headed and racked with pain--openly kissed his hand to her within

sight of half-a-score of Rescobie windows.

Then, his feet somehow tangling themselves and his knees failing him, he

fell all his length in the hot dust of the highway.

* * * * *

When Gilbert Denholm came to himself he found a white-capped nurse

sitting by the window of a room he had never before seen. There was a

smell of disinfectants all about, which somehow seemed to have followed

him through all the boundless interstellar spaces across which he had

been wandering.

"Where am I?" said Gibby, as the nurse came toward the bed. "I have not

seen Betty McGrath this morning, and I promised Father Phil that I

would."

"You must not ask questions," said the nurse quietly. "Dr. Durie will

soon be here."

And after that with a curious readiness Gibby slipped back into a drowsy

dream of gathering flowers with Jemima Girnigo; but somehow it was

another Jemima--so young she seemed, so fair. Crisp curls glanced

beneath her hat brim. Young blood mantled in changeful blushes on her

cheeks. Her pale eyes, which had always been a little watery, were now

blue and bright as a mountain tarn on a day without clouds. He had

never seen so fair and joyous a thing.

"Jemima," he said, or seemed to himself to say, "what is the matter with

you? You are different somehow."

"It is all because you love me, Gilbert," she answered, and smiled up at

him. "Ever since you told me that, I have grown younger every hour;

and, do you know, I have found the Grass of Parnassus at last. It grows

by the Gate into the Upper Garden?"

* * * * *

"Hello, Denholm, clothed and in your right mind, eh? That's right!"

It was the cheerful voice of his friend, Dr. Durie, as he stood by

Gibby's bedside.

"What has been the matter with me, Durie?" said Gilbert, though in his

heart he knew.

"You have had bad small-pox, my boy; and have had a hot chance to find

out whether you have been speaking the truth in your sermons."

Gibby could hardly bring his lips to frame the next question. He was

far from vain, but to a young man the thought was a terrible one.

"Shall I be much disfigured?"

"Oh, a dimple or two--nothing to mar you on your marriage day. You have

been well looked after."

"You have saved my life, doctor."

And Gibby strove to reach a feeble hand outward, which, however, the

doctor did not seem to see.

"Not I--you owe that to some one else."

"The nurse who went out just now?" queried Gibby.

"No, she has just been here a few clays, after all danger had passed."

Gilbert strove to rise on his elbow and the red flushed his poor face.

The doctor restrained him with a strong and gentle hand.

"Lie back," he said, "or I will go away and tell you nothing."

He sat down by the bedside, and with a soft sponge touched the

convalescent's brow. As he did so he spoke in a low and meditative tone

as though he had been talking to himself.

"There was once a foolish young man who thought that he could take

twenty shillings out of a purse into which he had only put half a

sovereign. He fell down one day on the street. A woman carried him in

and nursed him through a fortnight's delirium. A woman caught him as he

ran, with only a blanket about him, to drown himself in the Black Pool

of Rescobie Water. Night and day she watched him, sleepless, without

weariness, without murmuring----"

"And this woman--who saved my life--what was--her name?"

Gibby's voice was very hoarse.

"Jemima Girnigo!" said the doctor, sinking his voice also to a whisper.

"Where is she--I want to see her--I want to thank her?" cried Gibby. He

was actually upon his elbow now.

Dr. Dune forced him gently back upon the pillows.

"Yes, yes," he said soothingly, "so you shall--if all tales be true; but

for that you must wait."

"Why--why?" cried impatient Gibby. "Why cannot I see her now? She has

done more for me than ever I deserved----"

"That is the way of women," said the doctor, "but you cannot thank her

now. She is dead."

"Dead--dead!" gasped Gilbert, stricken to the heart; "then she gave her

life for me!"

"Something like it," said the doctor, a trifle grimly. For though he

was a wise man, the ways of women were dark to him. He thought that

Gilbert, though a fine lad, was not worth all this.

"Dead," muttered Gibby, "and I cannot even tell her--make it up to

her----"

"She left you a message," said the doctor very quietly.

"What was it?" cried Gibby, eagerly.

"Oh, nothing much," said Dr. Durie; "there was no hope from the first,

and she knew it. Her mind was clear all the three days, almost to the

last. She may have wandered a little then, for she told me to tell

you----"

"What--what--oh, what? Tell me quickly. I cannot wait."

"That the flowers were blooming in the Upper Garden, and that she would

meet you at the Gate!"

* * * * *

The Reverend Gilbert Denholm never married. He bears a scar or two on

his open face--a face well beloved among his people. There is a grave

in Rescobie kirkyard that he tends with his own hands. None else must

touch it.

It is the resting-place of a woman whom love made young and beautiful,

and about whose feet the flowers of Paradise are blooming, as, alone but

not impatient, she waits his coming by the Gate.

*THE TROUBLER OF ISRAEL*

Unless you happen to have made one of a group of five or six young men

who every Sunday morning turned their steps towards the little

meeting-house in Lady Nixon's Wynd, it is safe to say that you did not

know either it or the Doctor of Divinity. That is to say, not unless

you were born in the Purple and expert of the mysteries of the Kirk of

the Covenants.

The denomination was a small one, smaller even and poorer than is the

wont of Scottish sects. By the eternal process of splitting off,

produced by the very faithfulness of the faithful, and the remorseless

way in which they carried out their own logic, by individual pretestings

and testifyings, by the yet sadder losses inflicted by the mammon of

unrighteousness, when some, allured by social wealth and position,

turned aside to worship in some richer or more popular Zion, the Kirk of

the Covenants worshipping in Lady Nixon's Wynd had become but the shadow

of its former self.

Still, however, by two infallible signs you might know the faithful.

They spoke of the "Boady" and of the "Coavenants" with a lengthening of

that _O_ which in itself constituted a shibboleth, and their faces--grim

and set mostly--lit up when you spoke of the "Doctor."

But one--they had but one--Dr. Marcus Lawton of Lady Nixon's Wynd. He

was their joy, their pride, their poetry; the kitchen to their sour

controversial bread, the mellow glory of their denomination. (Again you

must broaden the _a_ indefinitely.) He had once been a professor, but

by the noblest of self-denying ordinances he had extruded himself from

his post for conscience sake.

There was but one fly in their apothecary's ointment-pot when my father

grew too stiff to attend the Kirk of the Covenants even once a year, and

that was that the Doctor, unable to live and bring up a family on a

sadly dwindling stipend (though every man and woman in the little kirk

did almost beyond their possible to increase it), had been compelled to

bind himself to spend part of the day in a secular pursuit.

At least to the average mind his employment could hardly be called

"secular," being nothing more than the Secretaryship of the Association

for the Propagation of Gospel Literature; but to the true covenant man

this sonorous society was composed of mere Erastians, or what was little

better, ex-Erastians and common Voluntaries. They all dated from 1689,

and the mark of the beast was on their forehead--that is to say, the

seal of the third William, the Dutchman, the revolutionary Gallio. Yet

their Doctor, with his silver hair, his faithful tongue, his reverence,

wisdom, and weight of indubitable learning, had to sit silent in the

company of such men, to take his orders from them, and even to record

their profane inanities in black and white. The Doctor's office was at

the corner of Victoria Street as you turn down towards the Grassmarket.

And when any of his flock met him coming or going thither, they turned

away their heads--that is, if he had passed the entrance to Lady Nixon's

Wynd when they met him. So far it was understood that he _might_ be

going to write his sermon in the quiet of the vestry. After that, there

was no escape from the damning conclusion that he was on his way to the

shrine of Baal--and other Erastian divinities. So upon George Fourth

Bridge the Covenant folk turned away their heads and did not see their

minister.

Now this is hardly a story--certainly not a tale. Only my heart being

heavy, I knew it would do me good to turn it upon the Doctor. Dr. Marcus

Lawton was the son of Dr. Marcus Lawton. When first he succeeded his

father, which happened when he was little more than a boy, and long

before I was born, he was called "young Maister Lawton." Then it was

that he lectured on "The Revelation" on Sabbath evenings, his father

sitting proudly behind him. Then the guttering candles of Lady Nixon's

looked down on such an array as had never been seen before within her

borders. College professors were there, ministers whose day's work was

over--as it had been, Cretes and Arabians, heathen men and publicans.

Edward Irving himself came once, in the weariful days before the great

darkness. The little kirk was packed every night, floor and loft, aisle

and pulpit stairs, entrance hall and window-sill, with such a crowd of

stern, grave-visaged men as had never been gathered into any kirk in the

town of Edinburgh, since a certain little fair man called Rutherford

preached there on his way to his place of exile in Aberdeen.

So my father has often told me, and you may be sure he was there more

than once, having made it a duty to do his business with my lord's

factor at a time when his soul also might have dealings with the most

approven factors of Another Lord.

These were great days, and my father (Alexander McQuhirr of Drumwhat),

still kindles when he tells of them. No need of dubious secretaryships

then, or of the turning away of faithful heads at the angle of the

Candlemaker-row. No young family to be provided for, Doctorate coming

at the Session's close from his own university, Professorship on the

horizon, a united Body of the devout to minister to! And up there in

the pulpit a slim young man with drawing power in the eyes of him, and a

voice which even then was mellow as a blackbird's flute, laying down the

law of his Master like unto the great of old who testified from

Cairntable even unto Pentland, and from the Session Stane at

Shalloch-on-Minnoch to where the lion of Loudon Hill looks defiant

across the green flowe of Drumclog.

But when I began to attend Lady Nixon's regularly, things were sorely

otherwise. The kirk was dwindled and dwindling---in membership, in

influence, most of all in finance. But not at all in devotion, not in

enthusiasm, not in the sense of privilege that those who remained were

thought worthy to sit under such faithful ministrations as those of the

Doctor. There was no more any "young Maister Lawton." Nor was a

comparison pointed disparagingly by a reference to "the Auld Doctor,

young Dr. Marcus's faither, ye ken."

From the alert, keen-faced, loyal-hearted precentor (no hireling he) to

the grave and dignified "kirk-officer" there were not two minds in all

that little body of the faithful.

You remember MacHaffie-a steadfast man Haffie--no more of his name ever

used. Indeed, it was but lately that I even knew he owned the prefatory

Mac. He would give you a helpful hint oftentimes (after you had passed

the plate), "It's no himsel' the day!" Or more warningly and

particularly, "It's a student." Then Haffie would cover your retreat,

sometimes going the length of making a pretence of conversation with you

as far as the door, or on urgent occasions (as when the Doctor was so

far left to himself as to exchange with a certain "popular preacher")

even taking you downstairs and letting you out secretly by a postern

door which led, in the approven manner of romances, into a side street

down which, all unseen, you could escape from your fate. But Haffie

always kept an eye on you to see that you did not abstract your penny

from the plate. That was the payment he exacted for his good offices;

and as I could not afford two pennies on one Sunday morning, Haffie's

"private information" usually drove me to Arthur's Seat, or down to

Granton for a smell of the salt water; and I can only hope that this is

set down to Haffie's account in the books of the recording angel.

But all this was before the advent of Gullibrand. You have heard of him,

I doubt not--Gullibrand of Barker, Barker, & Gullibrand, provision

merchants, with branches all over the three kingdoms. His name is on

every blank wall.

Gullibrand was not an Edinburgh man. He came, they say, from Leicester

or some Midland English town, and brought a great reputation with him.

He had been Mayor of his own city, a philanthropist almost by

profession, and the light and law-giver of his own particular sect

always. I have often wondered what brought him to Lady Nixon's Wynd.

Perhaps he was attracted by the smallness of our numbers, and by the

thought that, in default of any congregation of his own peculiar sect in

the northern metropolis, he could "boss" the Kirk of the Covenants as he

had of a long season "bossed" the Company of Apocalyptic Believers.

It was said, with I know not what truth, that the first time Mr.

Gullibrand came to the Kirk of the Covenants, the Doctor was lecturing

in his ordinary way upon Daniel's Beast with Ten Horns. And, if that be

so, our angelical Doctor had reason to rue to the end of his life that

the discourse had been so faithful and soul-searching. Though

Gullibrand thought his interpretation of the ninth horn very deficient,

and told him so. But he was so far satisfied that he intimated his

intention of "sending in his lines" next week.

At first it was thought to be a great thing that the Kirk of the

Covenants in Lady Nixon's Wynd should receive so wealthy and

distinguished an adherent.

"Quite an acquisition, my dear," said the hard-pressed treasurer,

thinking of the ever increasing difficulty of collecting the stipend,

and of the church expenses, which had a way of totalling up beyond all

expectation.

"Bide a wee, Henry," said his more cautious wife; "to see the colour o'

the man's siller is no to ken the colour o' his heart."

And to this she added a thoughtful rider.

"And after a', what does a bursen Englishy craitur like yon ken aboot

the Kirk o' the Co-a-venants?"

And as good Mistress Walker prophesied as she took her douce way

homeward with her husband (honorary treasurer and unpaid precentor) down

the Middle Meadow Walk, even so in the fulness of time it fell out.

Mr. Jacob Gullibrand gave liberally, at which the kindly heart of the

treasurer was elate within him. Mr. Jacob Gullibrand got a vacant seat

in the front of the gallery which had once belonged to a great family

from which, the faithful dying out, the refuse had declined upon a

certain Sadducean opinon calling itself Episcopacy; and from this

highest seat in the synagogue Mr. Jacob blinked with a pair of fishy

eyes at the Doctor.

Then in the fulness of time Mr. Jacob became a "manager," because it was

considered right that he should have a say in the disposition of the

temporalities of which he provided so great a part. Entry to the Session

was more difficult. For the Session is a select and conservative

body--an inner court, a defenced place set about with thorns and not to

be lightly approached; but to such a man as Gullibrand all doors in the

religious world open too easily. Whence cometh upon the Church of God

mockings and scorn, the strife of tongues--and after the vials have been

poured out, at the door One with the sharp sword in His hand, the sword

that hath two edges.

So after presiding at many Revival meetings and heading the lists of

many subscriptions, Jacob Gullibrand became an elder in the Kirk of the

Covenants and a power in Lady Nixon's Wynd.

He had for some time been a leading Director of the Association for the

Propagation of Gospel Literature; and so in both capacities he was the

Doctor's master. Then, having gathered to him a party, recruited

chiefly from the busybodies in other men's matters and other women's

characters, Jacob Gullibrand turned him about, and set himself to drive

the minister and folk of the Kirk of the Covenant as he had been wont to

drive his clerks and shop-assistants.

He went every Sabbath into the vestry after service to reprove and

instruct Dr. Marcus Lawton. His sermons (so he told him) were too

old-fashioned. They did not "grip the people." They did not "take hold

of the man on the street." They were not "in line with the present

great movement." In short, they "lacked modernity."

Dr. Marcus answered meekly. Man more modest than our dear Doctor there

was not in all the churches--no, nor outside of them.

"I am conscious of my many imperfections," he said; "my heart is heavy

for the weakness and unworthiness of the messenger in presence of the

greatness of the message; but, sir, I do the best I can, and I can only

ask Him who hath the power, to give the increase."

"But how," asked Jacob Gullibrand, "can you expect any increase when I

never see you preaching in the market-place, proclaiming at the

street-corners, denouncing upon a hundred platforms the sins of the

times? You should speak to the times, my good sir, you should speak to

the times."

"As worthy Dr. Leighton, that root out of a dry ground, sayeth,"

murmured our Doctor with a sweet smile, "there be so many that are

speaking to the times, you might surely allow one poor man to speak for

eternity."

But the quotation was thrown away upon Jacob Gullibrand.