a' ma wives. . . . Ye'll come up tae tea; we killed a pig yesterday,
and . . . Weel, weel, a wilfu' man maun hae his wy"; and Carmichael,
as he made his way up the hill, felt that the hand of Providence was
heavy upon him, and that any highmindedness was being severely
chastened.
Two days Carmichael tramped the moors, returning each evening wet,
weary, hungry, to sleep ten hours without turning, and on the morning
of the third day he came down in such heart that Sarah wondered whether
he could have received a letter by special messenger; and he
congratulated himself, as he walked round his garden, that he had
overcome by sheer will power the first real infatuation of his life.
He was so lifted above all sentiment as to review his temporary folly
from the bare, serene heights of common sense. Miss Carnegie was
certainly not an heiress, and she was a young woman of very decided
character, but her blood was better than the Hays', and she was . . .
attractive--yes, attractive. Most likely she was engaged to Lord Hay,
or if he did not please her--she was . . . whimsical and . . .
self-willed--there was Lord Invermays' son. Fancy Kate . . . Miss
Carnegie in a Free Kirk manse--Kildrummie was a very . . . homely old
man, but he touched the point there--receiving Doctor Dowbiggin with
becoming ceremony and hearing him on the payment of probationers, or
taking tea at Kildrummie Manse--where he had, however, feasted royally
many a time after the Presbytery, but. . . . This daughter of a
Jacobite house, and brought up amid the romance of war, settling down
in the narrowest circle of Scottish life--as soon imagine an eagle
domesticated among barn-door poultry. This image amused Carmichael so
much that he could have laughed aloud, but . . . the village might have
heard him. He only stretched himself like one awaking, and felt so
strong that he resolved to drop in on Janet Macpherson, Kate's old
retainer--to see how it fared with the old woman and . . . to have Miss
Carnegie's engagement confirmed. The Carnegies might return any day
from the South, and it would be well that he should know how to meet
them.
"You will be hearing," Janet mentioned, "that they hef come back to the
Lodge yesterday morning, and it iss myself that will be glad to see
Miss Kate again; and very pretty iss she looking, with peautiful
dresses and bonnets, for I hef seen them all, maybe twelve or ten.
"Oh yes, my dear, Donald will be talking about her marriage to Lord
Kilspindie's son, who iss a very handsome young man and good at the
shooting; and he will be blowing that they will live at the Lodge in
great state, with many gillies and a piper and he will be head of them
all.
"No, it iss not Janet Macpherson, my dear, that will be believing
Donald Cameron, or any Cameron--although I am not saying that the
Camerons are not men of their hands--for Donald will be always making
great stories and telling me wonderful things. He wass a brave man in
the battle, and iss very clever at the doctrine too, and will be strong
against human himes (hymns), but he iss a most awful liar iss Donald
Cameron, and you must not be believing a word that comes out of his
mouth.
"She will be asking many questions in her room as soon as Donald had
brought up her boxes and the door was shut. Some will be about the
Glen, and some about the garden, and some will be about people--whether
you ever will be visiting me, and whether you asked for her after the
day she left the kirk. But I will say, 'No; Mr. Carmichael does not
speak about anything but the religion when he comes to my cottage.'
"That iss nothing. I will be saying more, that I am hearing that the
minister iss to be married to a fery rich young lady in Muirtown who
hass been courting him for two years, and that her father will be
giving the minister twenty thousand pounds the day they are married.
And I will say she iss very beautiful, with blue eyes and gold hair,
and that her temper iss so sweet they are calling her the Angel of
Muirtown.
"Toot, toot, my dear, you are not to be speaking about lies, for that
iss not a pretty word among friends, and you will not be meddling with
me, for you will be better at the preaching and the singing of himes
than dealing with women. It iss not good to be making yourself too
common, and Miss Kate will be thinking the more of you if you be
holding your head high and letting her see that you are not a poor
lowland body, but a Farquharson by your mother's side, and maybe of the
chief's blood, though twenty or fifteen times removed.
"She will be very pleased to hear such good news of you, and be saying
that it iss a mercy you are getting somebody to dress you properly.
But her temper will not be at all good, and I did not ask her about
Lord Hay, and she said nothing to me, nor about any other lord. It iss
not often I hef seen as great a liar as Donald Cameron.
"Last evening Miss Kate will come down before dinner and talk about
many things, and then she will say at the door, 'Donald tells me that
Mister Carmichael does not believe in the Bible, and that his friend,
Doctor Saunderson, has cast him off, and that he has been punished by
his Bishop or somebody at Muirtown.'
"'Donald will be knowing more doctrine and telling more lies every
month,' I said to her. 'Doctor Saunderson--who is a very fine preacher
and can put the fear of God upon the people most wonderful--and our
minister had a little feud, and they will fight it out before some
chiefs at Muirtown like gentlemen, and now they are good friends again.'
"Miss Kate had gone off for a long walk, and I am not saying but that
she will be calling at Kilbogie Manse before she comes back. She is
very fond of Doctor Saunderson, and maybe he will be telling her of the
feud. It iss more than an hour through the woods to Kilbogie,"
concluded Janet, "but you will be having a glass of milk first."
Kate reviewed her reasons for the expedition to Kilbogie, and settled
they were the pleasures of a walk through Tochty woods when the spring
flowers were in their glory, and a visit to one of the dearest
curiosities she had ever seen. It was within the bounds of possibility
that Doctor Saunderson might refer to his friend, but on her part she
would certainly not refer to the Free Church minister of Drumtochty.
Her reception by that conscientious professor Barbara could not be
called encouraging.
"Ay, he's in, but ye canna see him, for he's in his bed, and gin he
disna mend faster than he wes daein' the last time a' gied him a cry,
he's no like to be in the pulpit on Sabbath. A' wes juist thinkin' he
wudna be the waur o' a doctor."
"Do you mean to say that Doctor Saunderson is lying ill and no one
nursing him?" and Kate eyed the housekeeper in a very unappreciative
fashion.
"Gin he wants a nurse she'll hae tae be brocht frae Muirtown Infirmary,
for a've eneuch to dae withoot ony fyke (delicate work) o' that kind.
For twal year hev a' been hoosekeeper in this manse, an' gin it hedna
been for peety a' wad hae flung up the place.
"Ye never cud tell when he wud come in, or when he wud gae oot, or what
he wud be wantin' next. A' the waufies (disreputable people) in the
countryside come here, and the best in the hoose is no gude eneuch for
them. He's been an awfu' handfu' tae me, an' noo a' coont him clean
dottle (silly). But we maun juist bear oor burdens," concluded Barbara
piously, and she proposed to close the door.
"Your master will not want a nurse a minute longer; show me his room at
once"; and Kate was so commanding that Barbara's courage began to fail.
"Wha may ye be," raising her voice to rally her heart, "'at wud take
chairge o' a strainger in his ain hoose an' no sae muckle as ask leave?"
"I am Miss Carnegie, of Tochty Lodge; will you stand out of my way?"
and Kate swept past Barbara and went upstairs.
"Weel, a' declare," as soon as she had recovered, "of a' the impudent
hizzies"; but Barbara did not say this in Kate's hearing.
Kate had seen various curious hospitals in her day, and had nursed many
sick men--like the brave girl she was--but the Rabbi's room was
something quite new. His favourite books had been gathering there for
years, and now lined two walls and overhung the bed after a very
perilous fashion and had dispossessed the looking-glass--which had
become a nomad and was at present resting insecurely on John Owen--and
stood in banks round the bed. During his few days of illness the Rabbi
had accumulated so many volumes round him that he lay in a kind of
tunnel, arched over, as it were, with literature. He had been reading
Calvin's _Commentary on the Psalms_, in Latin, and it still lay open at
the 88th, the saddest of all songs in the Psalter; but as he grew
weaker the heavy folio had slid forward, and he seemed to be feeling
for it. Although Kate spoke to him by name, he did not know any one
was in the room. "Lord, why castest Thou off my soul? . . . I suffer
Thy terror, I am distracted . . . fierce wrath goeth over me . . .
lover and friend hast Thou put far from me . . . friend far from me."
His head fell on his breast, his breath was short and rapid, and he
coughed every few seconds.
"My friend far from me. . . ."
At the sorrow in his voice and the thing which he said the tears came
to Kate's eyes, and she went forward and spoke to him very gently. "Do
you know me, Dr. Saunderson--Miss Carnegie?"
"Not Saunderson . . . Magor Missabib."
"Rabbi, Rabbi"--so much Carmichael had told her; and now Kate stroked
the bent white head. "Your friend, Mister Carmichael--"
"Yes, yes"--he now looked up and spoke eagerly--"John Carmichael, of
Drumtochty . . . my friend in my old age . . . and others . . . my
boys . . . but John has left me . . . he would not speak to me . . . I
am alone now . . . he did not understand . . . mine acquaintance into
darkness . . . here we see in a glass darkly . . ." (he turned aside to
expound the Greek word for darkly), "but some day . . . face to face."
And twice he said it, with an indescribable sweetness, "face to face."
Kate hurriedly removed the books from the bed and wrapt round his
shoulders the old gray plaid that had eked out his covering at night,
and then she went downstairs.
"Bring," she said to Barbara, "hot water, soap, towels, and a sponge to
Dr. Saunderson's bedroom, immediately."
"And gin a' dinna?" inquired Barbara aggressively.
"I'll shoot you where you stand."
Barbara shows to her cronies how Miss Carnegie drew a pistol from her
pocket at this point and held it to her head, and how at every turn the
pistol was again in evidence; sometimes a dagger is thrown in, but that
is only late in the evening when Barbara is under the influence of
tonics. Kate herself admits that if she had had her little revolver
with her she might have been tempted to outline the housekeeper's face
on the wall, and she still thinks her threat an inspiration.
"Now," said Kate, when Barbara had brought her commands in with
incredible celerity, "bring up some fresh milk and three glasses of
whisky."
"Whisky!" Barbara could hardly compass the unfamiliar word. "The
Doctor never hed sic a thing in the hoose, although mony a time, puir
man . . ." Discipline was softening even that austere spirit.
"No, but you have, for you are blowing a full gale just now; bring up
your private bottle, or I'll go down for it."
"There's enough," holding the bottle to the light, "to do till evening;
go to the next farm and send a man on horseback to tell Mr. Carmichael,
of Drumtochty, that Doctor Saunderson is dying, and another for Doctor
Manley of Muirtown."
Very tenderly did Kate sponge the Rabbi's face and hands, and then she
dressed his hair, till at length he came to himself.
"This ministry is . . . grateful to me, Barbara . . . my strength has
gone from me . . . but my eyes fail me. . . . Of a verity you are
not . . ."
"I am Kate Carnegie, whom you were so kind to at Tochty. Will you let
me be your nurse? I learned in India, and know what to do." It was
only wounded soldiers who knew how gentle her voice could be, and how
soft her hands.
"It is I that . . . should be serving you . . . the first time you have
come to the manse . . . no woman has ever done me . . . such kindness
before. . . ." He followed her as she tried to bring some order out of
chaos, and knew not that he spoke aloud. "A gracious maid . . . above
rubies."
His breathing was growing worse, in spite of many wise things she did
for him--Doctor Manley, who paid no compliments, but was a strength
unto every country doctor in Perthshire, praises Kate unto this
day--and the Rabbi did not care to speak. So she sat down by his side
and read to him from the _Pilgrim's Progress_--holding his hand all the
time--and the passage he desired was the story of Mr. Fearing.
"This I took very great notice of, that the valley of the shadow of
Death was as quiet while he went through it as ever I knew it before or
since. I suppose these enemies here had now a special check from our
Lord and a command not to meddle until Mr. Fearing was passed over
it. . . . Here also I took notice of what was very remarkable: the
water of that river was lower at this time than ever I saw it in all my
life. So he went over at last, not much above wet-shod. When he was
going up to the gate . . ."
The Rabbi listened for an instant.
"It is John's step . . . he hath a sound of his own . . . my only
earthly desire is fulfilled."
"Rabbi," cried Carmichael, and half kneeling, he threw one arm round
the old man, "say that you forgive me. I looked for you everywhere on
Monday, but you could not be found."
"Did you think, John, that I . . . my will was to do you an injury
or . . . vex your soul? Many trials in my life . . . all God's
will . . . but this hardest . . . when I lost you . . . nothing left
here . . . but you . . .--my breath is bad, a little chill--. . . do
you understand?"
"I always did, and I never respected you more; it was my foolish pride
that made me call you Doctor Saunderson in the study; but my love was
the same, and now you will let me stay and wait on you."
The old man smiled sadly, and laid his hand on his boy's head.
"I cannot let you . . . go, John, my son."
"Go and leave you, Rabbi!" Carmichael tried to laugh. "Not till you
are ready to appear at the Presbytery again. We'll send Barbara away
for a holiday, and Sarah will take her place--you remember that
cream--and we shall have a royal time, a meal every four hours, Rabbi,
and the Fathers in between"; and Carmichael, springing to his feet and
turning round to hide his tears, came face to face with Miss Carnegie,
who had been unable to escape from the room.
"I happened to call"--Kate was quite calm--"and found Doctor Saunderson
in bed; so I stayed till some friend should come; you must have met the
messenger I sent for you."
"Yes, a mile from the manse; I was on my way . . . Janet said . . . but
I . . . did not remember anything when I saw the Rabbi."
"Will you take a little milk again . . . Rabbi?" and at her bidding and
the name he made a brave effort to swallow, but he was plainly sinking.
"No more," he whispered; "thank you . . . for service . . . to a lonely
man; may God bless you . . . both. . . ." He signed for her hand,
which he kept to the end.
[Illustration: HE SIGNED FOR HER HAND, WHICH HE KEPT TO THE END]
"Satisfied . . . read, John . . . the woman from coasts of--of----"
"I know, Rabbi," and kneeling on the other side of the bed, he read the
story slowly of a Tyrian woman's faith.
"It is not meet to take the children's meat and cast it to dogs."
"Dogs"--they heard the Rabbi appropriate his name--"outside . . . the
covenant."
"And she said, Truth, Lord, yet the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall
from their master's table."
"Lord, I believe . . . help Thou mine . . . unbelief."
He then fell into an agony of soul, during which Carmichael could hear:
"Though . . . He slay . . . me . . . yet will I trust . . . trust . . .
in Him." He drew two or three long breaths and was still. After a
little he was heard again with a new note--"He that believeth . . . in
Him . . . shall not be confounded," and again, "A bruised reed . . .
shall He not . . ." Then he opened his eyes and raised his head--but
he saw neither Kate nor Carmichael, for the Rabbi had done with earthly
friends and earthly trials--and he, who had walked in darkness and seen
no light, said in a clear voice full of joy, "My Lord, and my God."
It was Kate who closed his eyes and laid the old scholar's head on the
pillow, and then she left the room, casting one swift glance of pity at
Carmichael, who was weeping bitterly and crying between the sobs,
"Rabbi! Rabbi!"