The cows and sheep and work-horses, the dogs, the barn-yard fowls, the
very hives of bees at White Farm, seemed to know well enough that it
was the Sabbath. The flowers knew it that edged the kitchen garden,
the cherry-tree knew it by the southern wall. The sunshine knew it,
wearing its calm Sunday best. Sights and sounds attuned themselves.
The White Farm family was home from kirk. Jenny Barrow and Elspeth put
away hood and wide hat of straw, slipped from and shook out and folded
on the shelf Sunday gowns and kerchiefs. Then each donned a clean
print and a less fine kerchief and came forth to direct and aid the
two cotter lasses who served at White Farm. These by now had off their
kirk things, but they marked Sunday still by keeping shoes and
stockings. Menie and Merran, Elspeth and Jenny, set the
yesterday-prepared dinner cold upon the table, drew the ale, and
placed chairs and stools. Two men, Thomas and Willy, father and son,
who drove the plow, sowed and reaped, for White Farm, came from the
barn. They were yet Sunday-clad, with very clean, shining faces. "Call
father, Elspeth!" directed Jenny, and set on the table a honeycomb.
Elspeth went without the door. Before the house grew a great fir-tree
that had a bench built around it. Here, in fine weather, in rest hours
and on Sunday, might be looked for Jarvis Barrow. It was his habit to
take the far side of the tree, with the trunk between him and the
house. So there spread before him the running river, the dale and
moor, and at last the piled hills. Here he sat, leaning hands upon a
great stick shaped like a crook, his Bible open upon his knees. It was
a great book, large of print, read over in every part, but opening
most easily among the prophets. No cry, no denunciation, no longing,
no judgment from Isaiah to Malachi, but was known to the elder of the
kirk. Now he sat here, in his Sunday dress, with the Bible. At a
little distance, on the round bench, sat Robin Greenlaw. The old man
read sternly, concentratedly on; the young one looked at the purple
mountain-heads. Elspeth came around the tree.
"Grandfather, dinner is ready.--Robin! we didn't know that you were
here--"
"I went the way around to speak with the laird. Then I thought, 'I
will eat at White Farm--'"
"You're welcome!--Grandfather, let me take the Book."
"No," said the old man, and bore it himself withindoors. Spare and
unbent of frame, threescore and ten and five, and able yet at the
plow-stilts, rigid of will, servant to the darker Calvinism, starving
where he might human pride and human affections, and yet with much of
both to starve, he moved and spoke with slow authority, looked a
patriarch and ruled his holding. When presently he came to table in
the clean, sanded room with the sunlight on the wall and floor, and
when, standing, he said the long, the earnest grace, it might have
been taken that here, in the Scotch farm-house, was at least a minor
prophet. The grace was long, a true wrestling in prayer. Ended, a
decent pause was made, then all took place, Jarvis Barrow and his
daughter and granddaughter, Robin Greenlaw, Thomas and Willy, Menie
and Merran. The cold meat, the bread, and other food were passed from
hand to hand, the ale poured. The Sunday hush, the Sunday voices,
continued to hold. Jarvis Barrow would have no laughter and idle
clashes at his table on the Lord's day. Menie and Merran and Willy
kept a stolid air, with only now and then a sidelong half-smile or
nudging request for this or that. Elspeth ate little, sat with her
brown eyes fixed out of the window. Robin Greenlaw ate heartily
enough, but he had an air distrait, and once or twice he frowned. But
Jenny Barrow could not long keep still and incurious, even upon the
Sabbath day.
"Eh, Robin, what was your crack with the laird?"
"He wants to buy Warlock for James Jardine. He's got his ensign's
commission to go fight the French."
"Eh, he'll be a bonny lad on Warlock! I thought you wadna sell him?"
"I'll sell to Glenfernie."
The farmer spoke from the head of the table. "I'll na hae talk, Robin,
of buying and selling on the day! It clinks like the money-changers
and sellers of doves."
Thomas, his helper, raised his head from a plate of cold mutton.
"Glenfernie was na at kirk. He's na the kirkkeeper his father was. Na,
na!"
"Na," said the farmer. "Bairns dinna walk nowadays in parents' ways."
Willy had a bit of news he would fain get in. "Nae doot Glenfernie's
brave, but he wadna be a sodger, either! I was gaeing alang wi' the
yowes, and there was he and Drummielaw riding and gabbing. Sae there
cam on a skirling and jumping wind and rain, and we a' gat under a
tree, the yowes and the dogs and Glenfernie and Drummielaw and me.
Then we changed gude day and they went on gabbing. And 'Nae,' says
Glenfernie, 'I am nae lawyer and I am nae sodger. Jamie wad be the
last, but brithers may love and yet be thinking far apairt. The best
friend I hae in the warld is a sodger, but I'm thinking I hae lost the
knack o' fechting. When you lose the taste you lose the knack.'"
"I's fearing," said Thomas, "that he's lost the taste o' releegion!"
"Eh," exclaimed Jenny Barrow, "but he's a bonny big man! He came by
yestreen, and I thought, 'For a' there is sae muckle o' ye, ye look as
though ye walked on air!'"
Thomas groaned. "Muckle tae be saved, muckle tae be lost!"
Jarvis Barrow spoke from the head of the table. "If fowk canna talk on
the Sabbath o' spiritual things, maybe they can mak shift to haud the
tongue in their chafts! I wad think that what we saw and heard the
day wad put ye ower the burn frae vain converse!"
Thomas nodded approval.
"Aweel--" began Jenny, but did not find just the words with which to
continue.
Elspeth, turning ever so slightly in her chair, looked farther off to
the hills and summer clouds. A slow wave of color came over her face
and throat. Menie and Merran looked sidelong each at the other, then
their blue eyes fell to their plates. But Willy almost audibly smacked
his lips.
"Gude keep us! the meenister gaed thae sinners their licks!"
"A sair sight, but an eedifying!" said Thomas.
Robin Greenlaw pushed back his chair. He saw the inside of the kirk
again, and two miserable, loutish, lawless lovers standing for public
discipline. His color rose. "Aye, it was a sair sight," he said,
abruptly, made a pause, then went on with the impetuousness of a burn
unlocked from winter ice. "If I should say just what I think, I
suppose, uncle, that I could not come here again! So I'll e'en say
only that I think that was a sair sight and that I felt great shame
and pity for all sinners. So, feeling it for all, I felt it for Mallie
and Jock, standing there an hour, first on one foot and then on the
other, to be gloated at and rebukit, and for the minister doing the
rebuking, and for the kirkful all gloating, and thinking, 'Lord, not
such are we!' and for Robin Greenlaw who often enough himself takes
wildfire for true light! I say I think it was sair sight and sair
doing--"
Barrow's hand came down upon the table. "Robin Greenlaw!"
"You need not thunder at me, sir. I'm done! I did not mean to make
such a clatter, for in this house what clatter makes any difference?
It's the sinner makes the clatter, and it's just promptly sunk and
lost in godliness!"
The old man and the young turned in their chairs, faced each other.
They looked somewhat alike, and in the heart of each was fondness for
the other. Greenlaw, eye to eye with the patriarch, felt his wrath
going.
"Eh, uncle, I did not mean to hurt the Sunday!"
Jarvis Barrow spoke with the look and the weight of a prophet in
Israel. "What is your quarrel about, and for what are ye flyting
against the kirk and the minister and the kirkkeepers? Are ye wanting
that twa sinners, having sinned, should hae their sin for secret and
sweet to their aneselves, gilded and pairfumed and excused and
unnamed? Are ye wanting that nane should know, and the plague should
live without the doctor and without the mark upon the door? Or are ye
thinking that it is nae plague at all, nae sin, and nae blame? Then ye
be atheist, Robin Greenlaw, and ye gae indeed frae my door, and wad
gae were ye na my nephew, but my son!" He gathered force. "Elder of
the kirk, I sit here, and I tell ye that were it my ain flesh and
blood that did evil, my stick and my plaid I wad take and ower the
moor I wad gae to tell manse and parish that Sin, the wolf, had crept
into the fauld! And I wad see thae folly-crammed and sinfu' sauls,
that had let him in and had his bite, set for shame and shawing and
warning and example before the congregation, and I wad say to the
minister, 'Lift voice against them and spare not!' And I wad be there
the day and in my seat, though my heart o' flesh was like to break!"
His hand fell again heavily upon the board. "Sae weak and womanish is
thae time we live in!" He flashed at his great-nephew. "Sae poetical!
It wasna sae when the Malignants drove us and we fled to the hills and
were fed on the muirs with the word of the Lord! It wasna sae in the
time when Gawin Elliot that Glenfernie draws frae was hanged for
gieing us that word! Then gin a sin-blasted ane was found amang us,
his road indeed was shawn him! Aye, were't man or woman! _'For while
they be folded together as thorns, and while they are drunken as
drunkards, they shall be devoured as stubble fully dry!'_"
He pushed back his heavy chair; he rose from table and went forth,
tall, ancient, gray, armored in belief. They heard him take his Bible
from where it lay, and knew that he was back under the fir-tree,
facing from the house toward moor and hill and mountain.
"Eh-h," groaned Thomas, "the elder is a mighty witness!"
The family at White Farm ate in silence. Elspeth slipped from her
place.
"Where are ye gaeing, hinny?" asked Jenny. "Ye hae eaten naething."
"I've finished," said Elspeth. "I'm going to afternoon kirk, and I'll
be getting ready."
She went into the room that she shared with Gilian and shut the door.
Robin looked after her.
"When is Gilian coming home?"
"Naebody knows. She is sae weel at Aberdeen! They write that she is a
great student and is liked abune a', and they clamor to keep her.--Are
ye gaeing to second kirk, Robin?"
"I do not think so. But I'll walk over the moor with you."
The meal ended. Thomas and Willy went forth to the barn. Menie and
Merran began to clear the table. They were not going to second kirk,
and so the work was left to their hand. Jenny bustled to get on again
her Sunday gear. She would not have missed, for a pretty, afternoon
kirk and all the neighbors who were twice-goers. It was fair and
theater and promenade and kirk to her in one--though of course she
only said "kirk."
They walked over the moor, Jarvis Barrow and Jenny and Robin and
Elspeth. And at a crossing path they came upon a figure seated on a
stone and found it to be that of the laird of Glenfernie.
"Gude day, Glenfernie!"
"Good day, White Farm!"
He joined himself to them. For a moment he and Robin Greenlaw were
together.
"Do you know what I hear them calling you?" quoth the latter. "I hear
them say 'The wandering laird!'"
Alexander smiled. "That's not so bad a name!"
He walked now beside Jarvis Barrow. The old man's stride was hardly
shortened by age. The two kept ahead of the two women, Greenlaw,
Thomas, and the sheep-dog Sandy.
"It's a bonny day, White Farm!"
"Aye, it's bonny eneuch, Glenfernie. Are ye for kirk?"
"Maybe so, maybe not. I take much of my kirk out of doors. Moors make
grand kirks. That has a sound, has it not, of heathenish brass
cymbals?"
"It hae."
"All the same, I honor every kirk that stands sincere."
"Wasna your father sincere? Why gae ye not in his steps?"
"Maybe I do.... Yes, he was sincere. I trust that I am so, too. I
would be."
"Why gae ye not in his steps, then?"
"All buildings are not alike and yet they may be built sincerely."
"Ye're wrong! Ye'll see it one day. Ye'll come round to your father's
steps, only ye'll tread them deeper! Ye've got it in you, to the far
back. I hear good o' ye, and I hear ill o' ye."
"Belike."
"Ye've traveled. See if ye can travel out of the ring of God!"
"What is the ring of God? If it is as large as I think it is," said
Glenfernie, "I'll not travel out of it."
He looked out over moor and moss. There breathed about him something
that gave the old man wonder. "Hae ye gold-mines and jewels,
Glenfernie? Hae the King made ye Minister?"
The wandering laird laughed. "Better than that, White Farm, better
than that!" He was tempted then and there to say: "I love your
granddaughter Elspeth. I love Elspeth!" It was his intention to say
something like this as soon as might be to White Farm. "I love Elspeth
and Elspeth loves me. So we would marry, White Farm, and she be lady
beside the laird at Glenfernie." But he could not say it yet, because
he did not know if Elspeth loved him. He was in a condition of hope,
but very humbly so, far from assurance. He never did Elspeth the
indignity of thinking that a lesser thing than love might lead her to
Glenfernie House. If she came she would come because she loved--not
else.
They left the moor, passed through the hollow of the stream and by the
mill, and began to climb the village street. Folk looked out of door
or window upon them; kirk-goers astir, dressed in their best, with
regulated step and mouth and eyes set aright, gave the correct
greeting, neither more nor less. If the afternoon breeze, if a little
runlet of water going down the street, chose to murmur: "The laird is
thick with White Farm! What makes the laird so thick with White Farm?"
that was breeze or runlet's doing.
They passed the bare, gaunt manse and came to the kirkyard with the
dark, low stones over the generations dead. But the grass was vivid,
and the daisies bloomed, and even the yew-trees had some kind of
peacock sheen, while the sky overhead burnt essential sapphire. Even
the white of the lark held a friendly tinge as of rose petals mixed
somehow with it. And the bell that was ending its ringing, if it was
solemn, was also silver-sweet. Glenfernie determined that he would go
to church. He entered with the White Farm folk and he sat with them,
leaving the laird's high-walled, curtained pew without human tenancy.
Mrs. Grizel came but to morning sermon. Alice was with a kinswoman of
rank in a great house near Edinburgh, submitting, not without
enjoyment, to certain fine filings and polishings and lacquerings and
contacts. Jamie, who would be a soldier and fight the French, had his
commission and was gone this past week to Carlisle, to his regiment.
English Strickland was yet at Glenfernie House. Between him and the
laird held much liking and respect. Tutor no longer, he stayed on as
secretary and right-hand man. But Strickland was not at church.
The white cavern, bare and chill, with small, deep windows looking out
upon the hills of June, was but sparely set out with folk. Afternoon
was not morning. Nor was there again the disciplinary vision of the
forenoon. The sinners were not set the second time for a gazing-stock.
It was just usual afternoon kirk. The prayer was made, the psalm was
sung, Mr. M'Nab preached a strong if wintry sermon. Jarvis Barrow,
white-headed, strong-featured, intent, sat as in some tower over
against Jerusalem, considering the foes that beset her. Beside him sat
his daughter Jenny, in striped petticoat and plain overgown, blue
kerchief, and hat of straw. Next to Jenny was Elspeth in a dim-green
stuff, thin, besprent with small flowers, a fine white kerchief, and a
wider straw hat. Robin Greenlaw sat beside Elspeth, and the laird by
Greenlaw. Half the congregation thought with variations:
"Wha ever heard of the laird's not being in his ain place? He and
White Farm and Littlefarm maun be well acquaint'! He's foreign,
amaist, and gangs his ain gait!"
Glenfernie, who had broken the conventions, sat in a profound
carelessness of that. The kirk was not gray to him to-day, though he
had thought it so on other days, nor bare, nor chill. June was
without, but June was more within. He also prayed, though his
unuttered words ran in and out between the minister's uttered ones.
Under the wintry sermon he built a dream and it glowed like jewels. At
the psalm, standing, he heard Elspeth's clear voice praising God, and
his heart lifted on that beam of song until it was as though it came
to Heaven.
"Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place
In generations all.
Before thou ever hadst brought forth
The mountains great or small,
Ere ever thou hadst formed the earth
And all the world abroad,
Ev'n thou from everlasting art
To everlasting God."
"Love, love, love!" cried Glenfernie's heart. His nature did with
might what its hand found to do, and now, having turned to love
between man and woman, it loved with a huge, deep, pulsing, world-old
strength. He heard Elspeth, he felt Elspeth only; he but wished to
blend with her and go on with her forever from the heaven to heaven
which, blended so, they would make.
"... As with an overflowing flood
Thou carriest them away;
They like a sleep are, like the grass
That grows at morn are they.
At morn it flourishes and grows,
Cut down at ev'n doth fade--"
"Not grass of the field, O Lord," cried Glenfernie's heart, "but the
forest of oaks, but the stars that hold for aye, one to the other--"