It was known in the Glen that Burnbrae must choose on Monday between
his farm and his conscience, and the atmosphere in the Free Church on
Sabbath was such as might be felt. When he arrived that morning, with
Jean and their three sons--the fourth was in a Highland regiment on the
Indian frontier--the group that gathered at the outer gate opened to let
them pass, and the elders shook Burnbrae by the hand in serious
silence; and then, instead of waiting to discuss the prospects of the
Sustentation Fund with Netherton, Burnbrae went in with his family, and
sat down in the pew where they had worshipped God since the Disruption.
The cloud of the coming trial fell on the elders, and no man found his
voice for a space. Then Donald Menzies's face suddenly lightened, and he
lifted his head.
“'With persecutions' wass in the promise, and the rest it will be coming
sure.”
“You hef the word, Donald Menzies,” said Lachlan; and it came to this
handful of Scottish peasants that they had to make that choice that has
been offered unto every man since the world began.
Carmichael's predecessor was minister of the Free Church in those days,
who afterwards got University preferment--he wrote a book on the Greek
particles, much tasted in certain circles--and is still called “the
Professor” in a hushed voice by old people. He was so learned a scholar
that he would go out to visit without his hat, and so shy that he
could walk to Kildrummie with one of his people on the strength of two
observations, the first at Tochty bridge and the other at the crest of
the hill above the station. Lachlan himself did not presume at times
to understand his sermons, but the Free Church loved their scholar, for
they knew the piety and courage that dwelt in the man.
The manse housekeeper, who followed Cunningham with his hat and saw that
he took his food at more or less regular intervals, was at her wit's end
before that Sabbath.
“A 've hed chairge o' him,” she explained to the clachan, “since he wes
a laddie, an' he 's a fine bit craiturie ony wy ye tak' him.
“Ye juist hammer at his door in the morning till ye 're sure he's up,
an' bring him oot o' the study when denner's ready, an' watch he hesna
a buke hoddit aboot him--for he's tricky--an' come in on him every wee
whilie till ye think he's hed eneuch, an' tak' awa his lamp when it's
time for him tae gang tae bed, an' it's safer no tae lat him hae mair
than a can'le end, or he wud set tae readin' in his bed. Na, na, he's no
ill tae guide.
“But keep's a', he's been sae crouse this week that he's fair gae'n ower
me. He's been speakin' tae himsel' in the study, an' he 'll get up in
the middle o' his denner an' rin roond the gairden.
“Ye ken the minister hardly ever speaks gin ye dinna speak tae him,
though he's aye canty; bit this week if he didna stop in the middle o'
his denner an' lay aff a story aboot three hun-der lads that held a glen
wi' their swords till the laist o' them wes killed--a'm dootin' they
were Hielan' caterans--an' he yokit on the auld martyrs ae nicht tae sic
an extent that I wes near the greetin'.
“Ye wudna ken him thae times--he's twice his size, an' the langidge
poors frae him. A' tell ye Burnbrae's on his brain, and ye 'll hae a
sermon worth hearin' on Sabbath. Naebody kens the spirit 'at's in ma
laddie when he's roosed,” concluded Maysie, with the just pride of one
who had tended her scholar since childhood.
“What shall it profit a man,” was the text, and in all the sermon there
was not one abusive word, but the minister exalted those things
that endure for ever above those that perish in the using, with
such spiritual insight and wealth of illustration--there was a moral
resonance in his very voice which made men's nerves tingle--that Mrs.
Macfadyen, for once in her life, refused to look at heads, and Donald
Menzies could hardly contain himself till the last psalm.
It was the custom in the Free Kirk for the minister to retire first,
facing the whole congregation on his way to the vestry at the back of
the church, and Cunningham confided to a friend that he lost in weight
during the middle passage; but on this Sabbath he looked every man in
the face, and when he came to Burn-brae's pew the minister paused,
and the two men clasped hands. No word was spoken, not a person moved
around, but the people in front felt the thrill, and knew something had
happened.
No one was inclined to speak about that sermon on the way home, and
Netherton gave himself with ostentation to the finger-and-toe disease
among the turnips. But the Free Kirk had no doubt what answer Burnbrae
would give the factor, and each man resolved within his heart that he
would do likewise in his time.
“It's michty,” was Jamie Soutar's comment, who had attended the Free
Kirk to show his sympathy, “what can be dune by speech. Gin there wes a
juitlin', twa-faced wratch in the kirk, yon sermon hes straichtened him
oot an' made a man o' him.
“Maister Cunningham 's no muckle tae look at an' he 's the quietest
body a' ever saw; but he's graund stuff every inch o' him, and hes the
courage o' a lion.”
Burnbrae and Jean walked home that Sabbath alone, and the past
encompassed their hearts.
The road they had walked since childhood, unchanged save for the gap
where the old beech fell in the great storm, and the growth of the
slowly maturing oaks; the burns that ran beneath the bridges with the
same gurgling sound while generations came and went; the fields that had
gone twelve times through the rotation of grass, oats, turnips, barley,
grass since they remembered; the farmhouses looking down upon the road
with familiar kindly faces--Gormack had a new window, and Claywhat
another room above the kitchen--awoke sleeping memories and appealed
against their leaving.
When they came below Woodhead, the two old people halted and looked up
the track where the hawthorn hedges, now bright with dog-roses,
almost met, and a cart had to force its way through the sweet-smelling
greenery. It was in Woodhead that Jean had been reared, and a brother
was still living there with her only sister.
“Div ye mind the nicht, Jean, that ye cam doon the road wi' me and a'
askit ye tae be ma wife? it wes aboot this time.”
“It 'ill be forty-five year the mornin's nicht, John, and a' see the
verra place fra here. It wes at the turn o' the road, and there's a
rosebush yonder still.
“Ye pluckit me a rose afore we pairtit, an' a' hae the leaves o't in the
cover of ma Bible, an' the rose at oor gairden gate is a cuttin' that a'
took.”
The old school-house was not visible from the road, but on sight of the
path that turned upwards to its wood, Jean looked at Burnbrae with the
inextinguishable roguery of a woman in her eyes, and he understood.
“Aye, ye were a hempie o' a lassie, Jean, making faces at me as often as
a' lookit at ye, an' crying, 'Douce John Baxter.' till a' wes near the
greetin' on the wy hame.”
“But a' likit ye a' the time better than ony laddie in the schule; a'
think a' luved ye frae the beginnin', John.”
“Wes't luve gared ye dad ma ears wi' yir bukes at the corner, and shute
me in amang the whins? but ye'll hae forgotten that, wumman.”
“Fient a bit o' me; it wes the day ye took Meg Mitchell's pairt, when we
fell oot ower oor places in the class. A' didna mind her bein' abune me,
but a' cudna thole ye turnin' against me.”
“Hoo lang is that ago, Jean?”
“Sax and fifty year ago laist summer.”
The auld kirk stood on a bluff overlooking the Tochty, with the dead of
the Glen round it; and at the look on Jean's face, Burnbrae turned up
the kirk road along which every family went some day in sorrow.
The Baxters' ground lay in a corner, where the sun fell pleasantly
through the branches of a beech in the afternoon, and not far from
the place where afterwards we laid Dom-sie to rest. The gravestone was
covered on both sides with names, going back a century, and still unable
to commemorate all the Baxters that had lived and died after an honest
fashion in Drumtochty. The last name was that of a child:
Jean, the daughter of John Baxter,
Farmer of Burnbrae,
Aged 7 years.
There was no “beloved” nor any text, but each spring the primroses came
out below, and all summer a bunch of pinks touched the “Jean” with their
fragrant blossoms.
Her mother stooped to pluck a weed from among the flowers and wipe the
letters of the name where the moss was gathering, then she bent her
head on the grey, worn stone, and cried, “Jeannie, Jeannie, ma bonnie
lassie.”
“Dinna greet, Jean, as though we hed nae lassie,” said Burnbrae, “for
there's naethin' here but the dust. Ye mind what the minister read that
day, 'He shall gather the lambs with His arm, and carry them in His
bosom.'
“Be thankfu' we have the fower laddies spared, a' daein' weel, an' ane
near ready for a kirk, an' you an' me thegither still. We 've hed mony
mercies, Jean.”
“A 'm no denyin' that, John, an' a'm prood o' the laddies; but there 's
no' a day a' dinna miss ma lassie, an' a' can hear her sayin' 'mither'
still when ye 're a' in the fields and a'm alane.”
“Wae 's me, wha will care for her grave when we 're far awa an' no a
Baxter left in the Glen? It's no lichtsome to leave the hoose whar we
've livit sae lang, an' the fields ye 've lookit at a' yir days, but it
's sairest tae leave yir dead.” The past with the tender associations
that make a woman's life was tightening its hold on Jean, and when they
looked down on the Glen from the height of Burnbrae, her voice broke
again:
“It's a bonnie sicht, John, an' kindly tae oor eyes; we 'ill never see
anither tae sateesfy oor auld age.”
“A've seen nae ither a' ma days,” said Burnbrae, “an' there can be
nane sae dear tae me noo in this warld; but it can be boucht ower dear,
lass,” and when she looked at him, “wi' oor souls, Jean, wi' oor souls.”
No Drumtochty man felt at ease on Sabbath, or spoke quite like himself
at home, till he had escaped from his blacks and had his tea. Then he
stretched himself with an air of negligence, and started on a survey of
his farm, which allowed of endless meditation, and lasted in summer time
unto the going down of the sun. It was a leisurely progress, in which
time was of no importance, from field to field and into every corner
of each field, and from beast to beast and round every beast to the
completion of as many circles as there were beasts. The rate was about
one and a half miles an hour, excluding halts, and the thumbs were never
removed from the armholes except for experimental observations. No one
forgot that it was Sabbath, and there were things no right-thinking man
would do. Drumsheugh might sample a head of oats in his hand, in sheer
absence of mind, but he would have been ashamed to lift a shaw of
potatoes; and although Hillocks usually settled the price he would ask
for his fat cattle in the midst of these reveries, he always felt their
ribs on a Saturday. When the gudeman came in, he had taken stock with
considerable accuracy, but he was justly horrified to find his wife
asleep, with her head uncomfortably pillowed on the open family Bible.
With the more religious men these Sabbath evening walks had in them less
of this world and more of that which is to come. Donald Menzies had seen
strange things in the fading light as he wandered among the cattle,
and this evening the years that were gone came back to Burnbrae. For a
townsman may be born in one city and educated in a second, and married
in a third, and work in a fourth. His houses are but inns, which he uses
and forgets; he has no roots, and is a vagrant on the face of the earth.
But the countryman is born and bred, and marries and toils and dies on
one farm, and the scene he looks at in his old age is the same he saw
in his boyhood. His roots are struck deep into the soil, and if you tear
them up, his heart withers and dies. When some townsman therefore reads
of a peasant being cast out of his little holding, he must not consider
that it is the same as a tenant going from one street to another, for it
is not a house this farmer leaves: it is his life.
Burnbrae passed through the kitchen on his way out, and an old chair
by the fireside made him a laddie again, gathered with the family on a
winter Sabbath evening, and he heard his father asking the “chief end
of man.” The first gate on the farm swung open at a touch, and he
remembered this was his father's idea, and he found the wedge that
changed the elevation of the hinge. That was a dyke he built in his
youth, and there was the stone he blasted out of the field, for the hole
was still open. Down in that meadow there used to be a pond where he was
almost drowned nearly seventy years ago, but he had drained it, and the
corn upon the place was growing rank. This was the little bridge he
had mended for the homecoming of his bride, and from that rock his old
father had directed him with keen interest, and in that clump of trees,
alone before the Eternal, the great event of his soul had come to pass.
He had often thought that some day he would be carried over that bridge,
and trusted he was ready, but he hoped he might be spared to see the
Black Watch come home, and to hear his youngest son preach in Drumtochty
Free Kirk. The agony of leaving came upon him, and Burnbrae turned aside
among the trees.
He sought out Jean on his return, and found her in a little
summer-house, which he had made the first year of their marriage. As
they sat together in silence, each feeling for the other, Burnbrae's
eyes fell on a patch of annuals, and it seemed to him as if they made
some letters.
Burnbrae looked at his wife.
“Is that oor lassie's name?”
“Aye, it is. A 've sown it mony a year, but this is the first summer a'
cud read it plain, and the last a 'll sow it in oor gairden; an' yon's
the apple tree we planted the year she wes born, an' the blossom never
wes sae bonnie as this year.
“Oh, John, a' ken we oucht tae dae what's richt, an' no deny oor
principles; but a' canna leave, a' canna leave.
“It 's no siller or plenishing a'm thinkin' aboot; it's the hoose ye
brocht me tae that day, an' the room ma bairns were born in, an' the
gairden she played in, an' whar a' think o' her in the gloamin'.
“It 's mair than a' can bear tae pairt wi' ma hame, an' the kirkyaird,
an' gang into a strange place where a' ken naebody and naebody kens us.
It 'ill brak ma hert.
“Are ye fixed aboot this maitter, John?... there's no muckle difference
aifter a'.... Dr. Davidson's a fine man, an' a've herd ye praise him
yersel... if ye promised tae gang at a time, maybe....” And Jean touched
Burnbrae timidly with her hand.
“A' want tae dee here and be beeried wi' Jeannie.”
“Dinna try me like this,” Burnbrae cried, with agony in his voice, “for
the cross is heavy eneuch already withoot the wecht o' yir plead-in'.
“Ye dinna see the nicht what ye are askin', for yir een are blind wi'
tears. If a' gied in tae ye and did what ye ask, ye wud be the sorriest
o' the twa, for nane hes a truer hert than ma ain' wife.
“If it wes onything else ye askit, ye wud hae it, Jean, though it cost
me a' my gear, but a' daurna deny my Lord, no even for yir dear sake....
He died for us... an' this is a' He asks....
“A' maun sae no tae the factor the mornin', an' if ye 're against me
it 'ill be hard on flesh and blood.... Say yir wullin', an' a' fear nae
evil, Jean.”
“A'm tryin' hard, John,” and they spoke together with a low voice, while
the kindly darkness fell as a sacred cover round about them; and when
they came into the light of the kitchen, where the family was waiting,
there was victory on the face of Burnbrae and Jean his wife.
“Well, Baxter,” said the factor in his room next day, “your offer is
all right in money, and we 'ill soon settle the building. By the way, I
suppose you 've thought over that kirk affair, and will give your word
to attend the Established Church, eh?”
“Ye may be sure that a've gien a' ye said ma best judgment, an' there's
naething I wudna dae to be left in Burnbrae, but this thing ye ask a'
canna grant.”
“Why not?” and the factor, lounging in his chair, eyed Burnbrae
contemptuously as he stood erect before him. “My groom tells me that
there is not a grain of difference between all those kirks in Scotland,
and that the whole affair is just down-right bad temper, and I believe
he 's right.”
“A' wudna say onything disrespectfu', sir, but it's juist possible that
naither you nor your groom ken the history o' the Free Church; but ye
may be sure sensible men and puir fouk dinna mak sic sacrifices for bad
temper.”
“Come along, then,” and the factor allowed himself to be merry, “let's
hear a sermon. You Scotchmen are desperate fellows for that kind of
thing. Does the Free Kirk sing Psalms one way and the Established Kirk
another? It's some stark nonsense, I know.”
“It may be to you, but it is not to us; and at ony rate, it is the truth
accordin' tae ma licht, an' ilka man maun gae by that as he sall answer
at the Judgment.”
“Don't stand canting here. Do you mean to say that you will lose your
farm, and see your family at the door for a kirk? You can't be such a
drivelling fool; and a fellow of your age too! Yes or no?”
“A' hae nae choice, then, but tae say No; an' that's ma laist word.”
“Then you and the rest of your friends will march, d' you understand?
You may take this for notice at once--and I 'll get some tenants that
have respect for--ah--for--in fact, for law and order.”
“Ye may clear the Free Kirk fouk oot o' Drumtochty, an' get new tenants
o' some kind; but when ye hae filled the Glen wi' greedy time-servers
his lordship 'ill miss the men that coonted their conscience mair than
their fairms.”
“If you have quite finished, you may go,” said the factor; “leaving your
farm does not seem to touch you much.”
“Sir,” replied Burnbrae with great solemnity, “I pray God you may
never have such sorrow as you have sent on my house this day.” Jean was
waiting at the top of the brae for her man, and his face told her the
event.
“Ye maunna be cast doon, Jean,” and his voice was very tender, “an' a'
ken weel ye 'ill no be angry wi' me.”
“Angry?” said Jean; “ma hert failed last nicht for a whilie, but that
's ower noo an' for ever. John a' lu vit ye frae the time we sat in the
schule thegither, an' a' wes a happy wumman when ye mairried me.
“A 've been lifted mony a time when a' saw how fouk respeckit ye, and
abune a' when ye gaed doon the kirk with the cups in yir hands at the
Saicrament, for a' kent ye were worthy.
“Ye 're dearer tae me ilka year that comes and gaes, but a' never lu vit
ye as a' dae this nicht, an' a' coont sic a husband better than onything
God cud gie me on earth.”
And then Jean did what was a strange thing in Drumtochty--she flung her
arms round Burnbrae's neck and kissed him.