DRUMTOCHTY, hoeing the turnips for the second time on a glorious day in
early August, saw the Kildrummie auctioneer go up the left side of
the Glen and down the right like one charged with high affairs. It was
understood that Jock Constable could ride anything in the shape of a
horse, and that afternoon he had got ten miles an hour out of an animal
which had been down times without number, and whose roaring could be
heard from afar. Jock was in such haste that he only smacked his lips
as he passed our public-house, and waved his hand when Hillocks shouted,
“Hoo's a' wi' ye?” from a neighbouring field. But he dismounted
whenever he saw a shapely gate-post, and spent five minutes at the outer
precincts of the two churches.
“It 'ill be a roup,” and Hillocks nodded to his foreman with an air of
certitude; “a' wun-ner wha 's it is; some Kildrummie man, maist likely.”
When the advertising disease first broke out in the country, a Muirtown
grocer with local connections disfigured our main road with his list of
prices, till in a moment of incredible audacity he affixed a cheap
tea advertisement to the Parish Kirk door, and was understood to
have escaped penal servitude by offering an abject apology to Doctor
Davidson, and contributing ten pounds for the poor of the parish.
Constable's announcements were the only mural literature afterwards
allowed in the Glen, and Jock prided himself on their grandeur. They
were headed in large type “Displenishing Sale,” and those imposing
words, which had never been heard in the ordinary speech of the Glen
within the memory of man, were supported in the body of the document by
“heifers,” “fat oxen,” “draught horses,” “agricultural implements,” and
“dairy apparatus.” Jock had “cereals” in one bill, but yielded to
public feeling, and returned to “oats and barley” as a concession to the
condition of a semieducated people.
Persons, without imagination, used to carp at the grand style and demand
explanations, but short of “cereals,” Jock carried the community.
“What gars Jock aye say 'Displenishing Sale'?” inquired Hillocks
one day, after he had given ten minutes to a bill and done the more
ambitious words in syllables. “An' what dis he mean by 'heifer'? A' ken
the beasts on Milton as weel as ma ain, an' a' never heard tell o'
'heifer' ootside o' the Bible.”
“Ye're a doited (stupid) body, Hillocks,” said Jamie Soutar, who was
always much tickled by Jock's efforts; “ye wudna surely expeck an
unctioneer tae speak aboot roups, and div ye think yersel that quey
soonds as weel as heifer? Gin ye hed naething but oor ain words on a
post, naebody wud look twice at it, but this kind o' langidge solemnises
ye an' maks ye think.”
“Man Jamie, a' never thocht o' that,” for this argument touched Hillocks
closely, “an' a'm no sayin' but ye 're richt. Jock 's a gabby body an'
no feared o' words.”
Constable made a point of publishing on Saturday as late as light would
allow, so that his literature might burst upon the Glen on Sabbath
morning with all the charm of a surprise. Whether a man came east or
west, he had the benefit of three bills before he reached the kirk and
settled down quietly to the one on the right hand pillar of the kirkyard
gate. Less than this number of wayside editions would not have served
the purpose, because there was a severe etiquette in reading. When
Whinnie emerged on the main road and caught sight of “Displenishing
Sale,” he would have been ashamed to cross or show any indecent
curiosity. He only nodded and proceeded to settle the farm in his mind.
The second bill, whose geography he mastered without stopping, verified
his conclusion and left him free to run over in his mind the stock
and crops that would be offered. A pause not exceeding one minute was
allowed for the head of the house at the third bill to detect any gross
mistake in his general review, but the examination of minute details was
reserved for the large paper edition at the kirkyard. This was studied
from the first word to the last in profound silence, but was rigidly
excluded from direct quotation on Sabbath. When Whinnie joined the
fathers he only referred to Milton's roup as a rumour that had reached
his ears, and might have been discussed at length on any other day.
Drumsheugh, waking, as it were, from a reverie:
“A' wudna wunner gin the Milton roup did come aff sune... there's twa
acre mair neeps than a' expeckit.”
Then Hillocks would casually remark, as one forced into a distasteful
conversation, “The gude wife keeps ae coo, a' hear; she 'ill be taking
a pendicle at Kildrummie, a'm judg-in',” but any thorough treatment was
hindered by circumstances.
The kirkyard was only once carried beyond itself by Jock's bills, and
that was when he announced Burnbrae's sale.
“Keep's a', fouk, this is no lichtsome,” was all Whinnie could say as he
joined the group, and the boxes were passed round without speech.
“Weel, weel,” Hillocks said at last, in the tone consecrated to
funerals, “he 'ill be sair missed.”
It was felt to be an appropriate note, and the mouths of the fathers
were opened.
“A graund fairmer,” continued Hillocks, encouraged by the sympathetic
atmosphere; “he kent the verra day tae sow, an' ye cudna find a thistle
on Burnbrae, no, nor a docken. Gin we a' keepit oor land as clean it wud
set us better,” and Hillocks spoke with the solemnity of one pointing
the moral of a good man's life.
“He hed a fine hert tae,” added Whinnie, feeling that Hillocks's eulogy
admitted of expansion; “he cam up laist summer when George wes lying in
the decline, and he says tae me, 'Whinnie, yir pasture is fair burnt up;
pit yir coos in ma second cutting: George maun hae gude milk,' an'
they fed a' the summer in Burnbrae's clover. He didna like sic things
mentioned, but it disna maitter noo. Marget wes awfu' touched.”
“But ye cudna ca' Burnbrae a shairp business man,” said Jamie Soutar
critically; “he keepit Jess Stewart daein' naethin' for five year, and
gared her believe she wes that usefu' he cudna want her, because Jess
wud suner hae deed than gaen on the pairish.
“As for puir fouk, he wes clean redeeklus; there wesna a weedow in
the Glen didna get her seed frae him in a bad year. He hed abeelity in
gaitherin', but he wes wastefu' in spendin'.
“Hooever, he 's gone noo, an' we maunna be sayin' ill o' the dead; it's
no what he wud hae dune himsel. Whatna day's the beerial?” inquired
Jamie, anxiously.
“Beerial? Losh preserve's, Jamie,” began Hillocks, but Drumsheugh
understood.
“Jamie hes the richt o't; if Burnbrae hed slippit awa, yir faces cudna
be langer. He's no oot o' the Glen yet, and wha kens gin he mayna beat
the factor yet?
“It's no muckle we can dae in that quarter but there's ae thing in oor
poor. We can see that Burnbrae hes a gude roup, an' gin he maun leave us
that he cairries eneuch tae keep him an' the gude wife for the rest o'
their days.
“There's a wheen fine fat cattle and some gude young horse; it wud be a
sin tae let them gae below their price tae the Muirtown dealers. Na, na,
the man that wants tae buy at Burn-brae's roup 'ill need tae pay.”
The countenance of the kirkyard lifted, and as Hillocks followed
Drumsheugh into kirk, he stopped twice and wagged his head with marked
satisfaction. Three days later it was understood at the “smiddy” that
Burnbrae's roup was likely to be a success.
Thursday was the chosen day for roups in our parts, and on Monday
morning they began to make ready at Burnbrae. Carts, engrained with the
mud of years, were taken down to the burn, and came back blue and red.
Burnbrae read the name of his grandfather on one of the shafts, and
noticed it was Burnebrae in those days. Ploughs, harrows, rollers were
grouped round a turnip sowing machine (much lent to neighbours), and
supported by an array of forks, graips, scythes, and other lighter
implements. The granary yielded a pair of fanners, half a dozen riddles,
measures for corn, a pile of sacks, and some ancient flails. Harness was
polished till the brass ornaments on the peaked collars and heavy cart
saddles emerged from obscurity, and shone in the sunshine. Jean emptied
her dairy, and ranged two churns, one her mother s, a cheese-press, and
twenty-four deep earthenware dishes at the head of a field where the
roup was to take place.
“Dinna bring oot yir dairy, Jean wumman,” Burnbrae had pleaded in great
distress; “we 'ill get some bit placey wi' a field or twa, and ye 'ill
hae a coo as lang as ye live. A' canna bear tae see ma wife's kirn sold;
ye mind hoo a' tried tae help ye the first year, an' ye splashed me wi'
the milk. Keep the auld kirn, lass.”
“Na, na, John, it wud juist fret me tae see it wi' nae milk tae fill it,
for it's no an ae-coo-kirn mine like a pendicler's (small farmer's), an'
a' wud raither no look back aifter we 've awa',” but Jean's hands were
shaking as she laid down the wooden stamp with which she had marked the
best butter that went to Muirtown market that generation.
On Thursday forenoon the live-stock was gathered and penned in the
field below the garden, where the dead lassie's name bloomed in fragrant
mignonette. Burnbrae and Jean saw all their gear, save the household
furniture, set out for sale. She had resolved to be brave for his sake,
but every object in the field made its own appeal to her heart. What
one read in the auctioneer's catalogue was a bare list of animals
and implements, the scanty plenishing of a Highland farm. Jean saw
everything in a golden mist of love. It was a perfectly preposterous old
dogcart that ought to have been broken up long ago, but how often she
had gone in it to Muirtown on market days with John, and on the last
journey he had wrapped her up as tenderly as when she was a young
bride. The set of silver-plated harness--but there was not much plating
left--Jean had bought from a Muirtown saddler with savings from her
butter money, and had seen the ostler fit on the old mare--her foal, old
enough himself now, was to be sold to-day--against John's coming from
the cattle mart. He was so dazzled by the sheen of the silver that he
passed his own conveyance in the stable yard--he never heard the end
of that--and he could only shake his fist at her when she came from her
hiding-place, professing great astonishment. John might laugh at her,
but she saw the people admiring the turnout as they drove along the
street in Muirtown, and, though it took them three hours to reach
Burnbrae, the time was too short for the appreciation of that harness.
It seemed yesterday, but that was seven-and-twenty year ago.
“Come intae the hoose, Jean,” said Burnbrae, taking her by the arm; “it
's ower tryin' for ye; we maun hae oor half oor afore the roup begins.”
Burnbrae and Jean never said a word about such secret things, and indeed
there was not in them a trace of Pharisee, but their children and the
serving folk knew why the old people always disappeared after the midday
meal.
“It's a black shame,” said Bell to her neighbour as they cut up cheese
for the roup, “tae cast sic a gude man oot o' his hame; deil tak' them
that dae 't.”
“Be quiet, wumman, or the maister 'ill hear ye; but ye 're richt aboot
whar they 'ill gang for meddling wi' the elder”--for they had not
learned the Shorter Catechism, without profit, in Drumtochty.
When Brunbrae went out again, Jock Constable had arrived, and an
old mare was being run up and down the field at such speed as a limp
allowed.
“Keep her rinnin', laddie,” Jock was shouting from the middle of the
fat cattle; “she 'ill be as soople as a three-year-auld afore the fouk
come.”
“What's this ye 're aifter wi' the mare, Jock?”
“Doctoring her stiffness, Burnbrae; it wears aff as sune as she gets
warm, and the fouk micht as weel see her at her best.
“It 'ill pit a five-pund note on her,” continued Jock, “an' a'm no tae
gie a warranty wi' onything the day.
“Man, hoo did ye no get the wricht tae gie those cairts a lick o' pent?
They did it at Pit-foodles, and there wes an auld corn cairt went aff
for new.”
“Ye may dae what ye like at Pit foodies, but ye 'll play nae tricks
here, Jock,” and Burnbrae's eye had a dangerous gleam; “gin ye dinna
tell the fouk that the mare hes a titch o' 'grease' on her aff hind-leg,
a 'll dae it masel.”
Jock was much dashed, for he had intended some other legitimate
improvements, and he carried his wrongs to Drumsheugh.
“There's sic a thing as bein' ower gude, an' a' dinna see ony use in
startin' this roup; he micht as weel fling awa' his gear tae the first
bidder. Wull ye believe it,” said Jock, in bitterness of soul, “that he
hesna providit a drop o' speerits, an' is gaein' tae offer the fouk tea
an' lime-juice--lime-juice,” and Jock dwelt on the word with scathing
scorn.
Did ye ever hear o' a roup comin' aff on sic like drink? It's fifteen
year sin a' took tae the unctioneerin' trade, an' a' tell ye nae man
'ill gie a bid worth mentionin' till he 's hed his tastin', an' there's
nae spunk afore the third gless.
“Noo there wes Pitfoodles roup,” exclaimed Jock, harking back to
high-water mark; “if a' didna send roond the glesses sax times, an'
afore a' wes ower Lochlands bocht a geizened (leaky) water-cairt withoot
wheels for aucht pund twal shillings, an' it's lying at Pitfoodles
till this day. Ye'ill no see a roup like that twice in a generation.
Lime-juice--it's a clean temptin' o' Providence.”
“Ye needna get in a feery-farry (commotion), Jock,” said Drumsheugh,
eyeing the little man severely; “the 'ill be nae call for speerits the
day. A'm no a jidge o' lime-juice masel, but it 'ill dae as weel as
onything else, or water itsel for that maitter.
“Pitfoodles! Man, it 'ill no be mentioned wi' the prices ye 'ill get at
Burnbrae, or a' dinna ken Drumtochty.”
“Div ye mean that Drumtochty's gaein' tae stand in?” said Jock, much
cheered.
“A' mean what a' say, an' the suner ye begin the better. Ye 'ill be
takin' the potatoes first,” and the gait of Drumsheugh as he moved off
was that of a general on the morning of battle.
The dealers from Muirtown and outlying strangers from Kildrummie bore
themselves after the time-honoured manners of a roup--a fine blend of
jocose gaiety and business curiosity; but the Glen and stragglers
from the upper districts were not in a roup mood, and seemed to have
something on their minds. They greeted Burnbrae respectfully, and took
a spare refreshment with marked solemnity. Their very faces chilled Jock
when he began operations, and reduced to hopeless confusion an opening
joke he had prepared on the way from Kildrummie. This severity was hard
on Jock, for he was understood to have found his rôle in auctioneering,
and a roup was the great day of his life. He was marked out for his
office by the fact that he had been twice bankrupt as a farmer, and by
a gift of speech which bordered on the miraculous. There were times when
he was so carried on political questions in the Muirtown Inn that
the meat flew from the end of his fork, and a Drumtochty man, with an
understood reference to Jock's eloquence, could only say “Sall” at the
Junction, to which another would reply, “He 's an awfu' wratch.” This
tribute to Jock's power rested, as is evident, less on the exact terms
of the eulogy than on his monopoly of the Drumtochty imagination for
two hours. His adroitness in throwing strong points into relief and
infirmities into the shade, as well as his accurate knowledge of every
man's farming affairs and his insight into their peculiarities as
buyers, were almost Satanic. People who did not intend to buy, and would
have received no credit if they had, went to hear Jock selling a horse,
and left fully rewarded. Indeed, if Whinnie suddenly chuckled on the way
home, and did not proceed farther than “It cowes a',” he was understood
to be chewing the cud of Jock's humour, and was excused from impossible
explanations.
Jock referred to the Burnbrae roup as long as he lived, and gave
incidents with dramatic force in the train, but every one knows he had
nothing to do with its success.
“Ye needna waste time speaking the day, Jock,” Drumsheugh advised before
they began on the potatoes; “pit up the articles, and we 'ill see tae
the bids.” Which Drumtochty did without one slack moment, from the
potatoes, which fetched one pound an acre more than had been known in
the parish, to a lot of old iron which a Kildrummie blacksmith got at
something under cost price. People hesitated to award praise where all
had done well, but the obstinacy of Hillocks, which compelled a Muirtown
horse-dealer to give forty-two pounds for a young horse, and Whinnie's
part in raising the prices for fat cattle, are still mentioned. When
Jock came down from his table in the field, he was beyond speech, and
Drumtochty regarded Drumsheugh with unfeigned admiration.
“Gude nicht tae ye, Burnbrae,” said that great man, departing; “if ye
hae tae gang it 'ill no be empty-handed,” and although Burnbrae did not
understand all, he knew that his neighbours had stood by him without
stint that day.
For an hour the buyers were busy conveying away their goods, till at
last the farm had been stripped of all the animal life that had made it
glad, and those familiar articles that were each a link with the past.
Burnbrae wandered through the staring sheds, the silent stable, the
empty granary, and then he bethought him of his wife. When her kirn was
put up he had been moved by a sudden emotion and bought it back, and he
saw her face for an instant between the bushes of the garden. Where was
Jean? He sought her in the house, in the garden, and could not find her.
Then he heard the rattle of a chain in one of the byres, and understood.
Jean's favourite cow had been kept, and she was sitting in the stall
with her, as one left desolate. When Burnbrae entered, Brownie turned
her head and looked at him with an intelligent understanding in her
soft, motherly eyes.
“She's a' that's left o'ma byre,” and Jean burst into a passion of
weeping. “Ye mind hoo they deed in the rinder-pest ane by ane, and were
buried; juist Brownie cam through, and noo she's alane again.
“That wes the judgment o' the Almichty, and we daurna complain, but this
wes the doin' o' man, an' ma hert is bitter.
“A' the beasts a' reared, an' the gear we githered, a' sold and carried
off, till there's nae soond heard in the hooses, nae wark tae dae.”
Burnbrae sat down and flung his arm round her, and as the two old heads
were bent together, the gentle animal beside them missed her companions
and moaned.
After a while Burnbrae began:
“It 's a shairp trial, wife, an' hard tae bear. But dinna forget oor
mercies. We hae oor fower laddies left us, an' a' daein' weel.
“We oucht tae be thankfu' that Sandie 's been kept in the battle. Think
o' yir son win-nin' the Victoria Cross, wumman, an' ye 'ill see it on
his breist.
“An' oor lassie's safe, Jean... in the Auld Hame, an'... we 'ill sune be
gaein' oorsels an'... the 'ill be nae pairtin' there.
“Ye hae me, Jean, an' a' hae ma ain gude wife, an' luve is mair than a'
the things a man can see wi' his een or haud in his hands. Sae dinna be
cast doon, lass, for nae hand can touch oor treasures or tak awa' oor
luve.”
When Jean was comforted, Burnbrae gathered his household together in
the kitchen, and he chose the portion from the tenth chapter of St.
Matthew's Gospel:
“Whosoever therefore shall confess Me before men, him will I confess
also before my Father which is in heaven.”
As Burnbrae read the last words he lifted up his head, and it seemed
even unto the serving girls as if he had received a crown.
They had the right to occupy their old home till Martinmas, but Jean had
begun to fret, wandering through the empty “houses” and brooding over
the coming trial.
“A' canna help it, John; the Almichty made a woman different from a man,
an' the 'ill be nae peace for me till we be oot o' Burnbrae.
“Ma wark here's feenished, an' it's no like hame ony mair. A' wish the
flittin' were ower an' you an' me were settled whar we 'ill end oor
days.”
Burnbrae had found a little place near Kildrummie that would leave him
within reach of his kirk, which he had loved at a great cost, and his
old neighbours, to whom he was knit with new ties.
“The Word can come onywhere tae the hert, an' the angel o' His Presence
'ill aye be wi' us, Jean, but there's nae place whar the Evangel 'ill
ever soond sae sweet as in the Free Kirk o' Drumtochty.
“We 'ill traivel up as lang as we 're able, and see oor friends aince a
week. It 'ill dae us gude, wumman, tae get a handshak frae Netherton
and Donald Menzies, an' Lachlan himsel, though he be a stiff chiel” (for
this was before the transformation).
“Forbye the Auld Kirk folk, for a' dinna deny, Jean, aifter a' that's
happened, that it 'ill be pleasant tae meet them comin' wast, wi'
Drumsheugh at their head.
“Ma hert's warm tae a' body in the Glen, and a'ken they'ill no forget
us, Jean, in oor bit hoosie at Kildrummie.”
One Thursday afternoon--the flitting was to be on Monday--Burnbrae came
upon Jean in the garden, digging up plants and packing them tenderly
with wide margins of their native earth.
“A' cudna leave them, John, an' they 'ill mak oor new gairden mair
hame-like. The pinks are cuttin's a' set masel, an' the fuchsias tae,
an' Jeannie carried the can and watered them that simmer afore she deed.
“When Peter Robertson wes warnin' us no tae meddle wi' ony fixture for
fear o' the factor, a' askit him aboot the floors, an' he said, 'Gin a'
hed plantit them masel, they micht be lifted.' Gude kens a' did, every
ane, though it 's no mony we can tak; but preserve's, wha's yon?”
It was not needful to ask, for indeed only one man in the parish could
walk with such grave and stately dignity, and that because his father
and grandfather had been parish ministers before him.
“This is rael neeburly, Doctor, an' like yer-sel tae come up afore we
left the auld place. Ye 're welcome at Burnbrae as yir father wes in ma
father's day. Ye heard that we 're flittin' on Monday?”
“Ye're not away yet, Burnbrae, you're not away yet; it's not so easy to
turn out a Drumtochty man as our English factor thought: we 're a stiff
folk, and our roots grip fast.
“He was to rule this parish, and he was to do as he pleased with honest
men; we 'll see who comes off best before the day is done,” and the
Doctor struck his stick, the stick of office with the golden head, on
the gravel in triumph.
“You v'e just come in time, Mrs. Baxter”--for Jean had been putting
herself in order--“for I want to give you a bit of advice. Do not lift
any more of your plants--it 's bad for their growth; and I rather think
you 'll have to put them back.”
Jean came close to Burnbrae's side, and watched the Doctor without
breathing while he placed the stick against a bush, and put on his
eye-glasses with deliberation, and opened out a telegram and read aloud:
“'Paris. Your letter found me at last; leave London for home Thursday
morning; tell Burnbrae to meet me in Muirtown on Friday. Kilspindie.'
“My letter went to Egypt and missed him, but better late than never,
Burnbrae... that's a wonderful plant you have there, Mrs. Baxter,” and
he turned aside to study a hydrangea Jean had set out in the sun; for
with all his pompous and autocratic ways, the Doctor was a gentleman of
the old school.
When he departed and Jean had settled down, Burnbrae thought it wise to
moderate her joy lest it should end in bitter disappointment.
“The Doctor hes dune his pairt, and it wes kind o' him tae come up
himsel ane's errand tae tell us. Ye didna see his face aifter he read
the message, but it wes worth seein'. There 's no a soonder hert in the
Glen.
“A' kent this thing wudna hae happened gin his Lordship hed been at
hame, an' a 'm thinkin he wud dae his best tae repair it.
“Maybe he'ill gie's the first chance o' a vacant fairm, but a' doot we
maun leave Burn-brae; they say 'at it 's as gude as let tae a Netheraird
man.”
“Dinna say that, John, for it's no anither fairm, it's Burnbrae a' want.
A 'll be watchin' the mornin's evening when ye come up the road, an'
a 'll see ye turnin' the corner. Ye 'll wave yir airm tae me gin a'
be richt, an' Jean-nie's floors 'ill be back in their beds afore ye be
hame.”
When Burnbrae appeared at Kildrummie station next morning, Drumtochty,
who happened to be there in force on their last Muirtown visit before
harvest, compassed him with observances, putting him in the corner seat,
and emphasising his territorial designation.
“That wes michty news aboot the Sergeant, Burnbrae,” began Jamie Soutar;
“it spiled a nicht's sleep tae me readin' hoo he stude ower the Colonel
and keepit the Afghans at bay till the regiment rallied. Wes 't four or
sax he focht single-handed?”
“He barely mentioned the maitter in his letters, but his captain wrote
tae the gude wife, which wes rael thochtfu'; he made it sax, an' he said
the regiment wes prood o' Sandie.” For an instant Burnbrae drew himself
up in his corner, and then he added, “But it's no for his father tae be
speakin' this wy. Sandie did naethin' but his duty.”
“For doonricht leein',” said Jamie meditatively, “a' never kent the
marra (equal) o' thae London papers; they made oot that Sandie wes a
hero, and we cleaned the Muirtown book-stall lest Friday a week. A'
never saw the Kildrummie train in sic speerits; it's awfu' hoo country
fouk are deceived.”
“Piggie Walker cam up on Monday” (Hillocks seemed to be addressing
some person above Burnbrae's head), “and he wes tellin' me they hed
a by-ordinar' sermon frae the student. 'A wished Burnbrae hed been
there,' Piggie said; 'he wes boond tae be lifted. He 'ill sune hae a
kirk, yon lad, an' a gude ane.' Piggie's a body, but he's coonted the
best jidge o' sermons in Kildrummie.”
Drumsheugh alone did not join in those kindly efforts, but struck out a
manner of his own, chuckling twice without relevancy, and once growing
so red that Hillocks ran over his family history to estimate the risk of
a “seizure.”
“Is that you, Burnbrae? Come in, man; come in. It's a pleasure to see a
Drumtochty face again after those foreign fellows,” and Lord Kilspindie
gripped his tenant's hand in the factor's office. “Sit down and give me
all your news.
“Th 'ill be no speaking to Mrs. Baxter now after this exploit of the
Sergeant's! When I read it on my way home I was as proud as if he had
been my own son. It was a gallant deed, and well deserves the Cross. He
'ill be getting his commission some day. Lieutenant Baxter! That 'ill
stir the Glen, eh?
“But what is this I hear of your leaving Burnbrae? I don't like losing
old tenants, and I thought you would be the last to flit.”
“Did the factor not tell you, my Lord----”
“I 've only seen him for five minutes, and he said it had nothing to do
with rent; it was some religious notion or other. Is that so?”
“The fairm is worth thirty pund mair rent, an' a' wud hae paid saxty
rather than leave my auld hame; but the factor made it a condeetion tae
gie up ma kirk.”
“Well, Burnbrae, I never thought you would have left me for a matter
of kirks. Could you not have stretched a point for auld lang syne?” and
Kilspindie looked hard at the old man.
“Ma Lord, there's naething a' wudna hae dune to stay in Burnbrae but
this ae thing. Ye hae been a gude landlord tae me as the auld Earl wes
tae ma father, an' it 'ill never be the same tae me again on anither
estate; but ye maunna ask me tae gang back on ma conscience.”
The tears came to Burnbrae's eyes, and he rose to his feet.
“A' thocht,” he said, “when yir message cam, that maybe ye hed anither
mind than yir factor, and wud send me back tae Jean wi' guid news in ma
mooth.
“Gin it be yir wull that we flit, a 'll mak nae mair complaint, an'
there's nae bitterness in ma hert. But a' wud like ye tae ken that it
'ill be a sair pairtin'.
“For twa hundred years an' mair there's been a Baxter at Burnbrae and
a Hay at Kilspindie; ane wes juist a workin' farmer, an' the ither a
belted earl, but gude freends an' faithfu', an' ma Lord, Burnbrae wes as
dear tae oor fouk as the castle wes tae yours.
“A' mind that day the Viscount cam o' age, an' we gaithered tae wush him
weel, that a' saw the pictures o' the auld Hays on yir walls, an' thocht
hoo mony were the ties that bund ye tae yir hame.
“We haena pictures nor gouden treasures, but there's an' auld chair at
oor fireside, an' a' saw ma grandfather in it when a' wes a laddie at
the schule, an' a' mind him tellin' me that his grandfather hed sat in
it lang afore. It's no worth muckle, an' it's been often mended, but a
'll no like tae see it carried oot frae Burnbrae.
“There is a Bible, tae, that hes come doon, father tae son, frae 1690,
and ilka Baxter hes written his name in it, an' 'farmer at Burnbrae,'
but it 'ill no be dune again, for oor race 'ill be awa frae Burnbrae for
ever.
“Be patient wi' me, ma Lord, for it's the lest time we 're like tae
meet, an' there's anither thing a' want tae say, for it's heavy on ma
hert.
“When the factor told me within this verra room that we maun leave, he
spoke o' me as if a' hed been a lawless man, an' it cut me mair than ony
ither word.
“Ma Lord, it's no the men that fear their God that 'ill brak the laws,
an' a ken nae Baxter that wes ither than a loyal man tae his King and
country.
“Ma uncle chairged wi' the Scots Greys at Waterloo, and a' mind him
tellin', when a' wes a wee laddie, hoo the Hielanders cried oot,
'_Scotland for ever_,' as they passed.
“I needna tell ye aboot ma brither, for he wes killed by yir side afore
Sebastopol, and the letter ye send tae Burnbrae is keepit in that Bible
for a heritage.
“A 'll mention naethin' aither o' ma ain laddie, for ye've said mair
than wud be richt for me, but we coont it hard that when oor laddie hes
shed his blude like an honest man for his Queen, his auld father
and mither sud be driven frae the hame their forbears hed for seeven
generations.”
Lord Kilspindie rose to his feet at the mention of Sebastopol, and now
went over to the window as one who wished to hide his face.
“Dinna be angry with me, ma Lord, nor think a'm boastin', but a' cudna
thole that ye sud think me a lawbreaker, wha cared naither for kirk nor
commonweal,” and still his Lordship did not move.
“It gaes tae ma hert that we sud pairt in anger, an' if a 've said mair
than a' oucht, it wes in sorrow, for a'll never forget hoo lang ma fouk
hae lived on yir land, and hoo gude ye hae been tae me,” and Burnbrae
turned to the door.
“You 're the dullest man in all Drumtochty,” cried Kilspindie, wheeling
round--one might have fancied--but that is absurd--“and the truest. Did
you think that a Hay would let a Baxter go for all the kirks that ever
were built? You supposed that I wanted you to play the knave for your
farm, and this was the news you were to carry home to Jean; it's too bad
of you, Burnbrae.”
“Ma Lord, a'... ye ken--”
“It's all right, and I'm only joking; and the play was carried on a bit
too long for both of us, but I wanted to hear your own mind upon this
matter,” and Kilspindie called for the factor.
“Is the Burnbrae lease drawn up?”
“It is, at an advance of sixty pounds, and I've got a man who will sign
it, and says he will give no trouble about kirks; in fact, he 'll just
do... ah... well, whatever we tell him.”
“Quite so; most satisfactory sort of man. Then you 'll reduce the rent
to the old figure, and put in the name of John Baxter, and let it be for
the longest period we ever give on the estate.”
“But, Lord Kilspindie... I... did you know--”
“Do as I command you without another word,” and his Lordship was fearful
to behold. “Bring the lease here in ten minutes, and place it in Mr.
Baxter's hands. What I've got to say to you will keep till afterwards.
“Sit down, old friend, sit down;... it was my blame.... I ought to be
horse-whipped.... Drink a little water. You 're better now.... I 'll
go and see that fellow has no tricks in the conditions.” But he heard
Burnbrae say one word to himself, and it was “Jean.”
“There are mony things a' wud like tae say, ma Lord,” said Burnbrae
before he left, “but a full hert maks few words. Gin lifting a dark
cloud aff the life o' a family an' fillin' twa auld fouk wi' joy 'ill
gie ony man peace, ye 'ill sleep soond this nicht in yir castle.
“When ye pass below Burnbrae on yir way to the Lodge and see the smoke
curlin' up through the trees, ye 'ill ken a family's livin' there that
bless yir name, and will mention it in their prayers.”
The first man Burnbrae met when he came out with the lease in his
pocket was Drumsheugh, whose business that particular day had kept him
wandering up and down the street for nearly an hour.
“Keep's a', Burnbrae, is that you? a' thocht ye were dune wi' that
office noo. It's a puir market the day; the dealers are getting the fat
cattle for naethin'.” But Drumsheugh's manner had lost its calm finish.
“A've something tae tell,” said Burnbrae, “an' ye sud be the first tae
hear it. Lord Kilspindie's hame again, and hes settled me and mine in
the auld place for a tack that 'ill laist ma days and descend tae ma son
aifter me.
“This hes been a shairp trial, and there were times a' wes feared ma
faith micht fail; but it's ower noo, and there's twa men Jean an' me
'ill remember wi' gratitude till we dee; ane is Doctor Davidson an' the
ither is yersel. Ye brocht us through at ween ye.”
“Come awa this meenut tae the 'Kilspindie Airms.'” and Drumsheugh seized
Burnbrae; “a' ken ye wunna taste, but a 'll dae it for ye; and ye 'ill
eat, at ony rate,” and Drumsheugh, who was supposed to dine in secret
places at not more than a shilling, ordered a dinner fit for Lord
Kilspindie. He did his best to get full value for his money, but before
and after, and between the courses, he let himself go at large.
“Ane and twenty year at a hundred and auchty pund; man, ye 'ill have
eneuch tae stock a fairm for Jamie and furnish the student's manse.
“His Lordship wes lang o' comin' hame, but, ma certes, he's pit things
richt when he did come. It's naethin' short o' handsome, an' worthy o'
the Earl.
“Me,” resumed Drumsheugh, “a' hed nae-thin' tae dae wi't; it wes the
Doctor's letter 'at did the business; here's tae his health; is yir soda
water dune yet?
“The factor tried tae mak licht o' him that day, an' spak as if he wes
abune a' body in Drumtochty; he threatened the minister tae his face; a'
herd him, the upsettin', ill-mannered wratch.
“'Dinna be cast doon,' says the Doctor tae me ootside; 'ye hevna seen
the end o' this game.' The man disna live 'at can beat the Doctor when
his birse is up, an' a' never saw him sae roosed afore!
“Whar's the factor noo?” burst out Drumsheugh afresh. “Man, a' wud hae
liked tae see him when he brocht in the lease. 'I wes here before ye,
and I will be here aifter ye,' said the Doctor. It 'ill come true; a'
gie the factor a month, no anither week.
“It's wersh drink ye hae, but dinna spare it. This is no an ordinar'
day. A' wish we were at the Junction.”
Drumsheugh restrained himself till the Dunleith train had fairly
gone--for he knew better than to anticipate an occasion--and then he
gathered Drumtochty round him.
“Ye herd that the factor ordered Burnbrae tae leave his kirk, weel, it
'ill be a while or he meddle wi' anither man: an' Burnbrae wes tae be
turned oot o' his fairm, it's the factor, a'm judgin', an' no Burnbrae,
'at 'ill need tae seek a hame; an' the factor wudna gie a lease for
fifteen year, he's hed tae mak it oot for ane and twenty; an' he wudna
tak a rack rent o' saxty pund increase tae let Burnbrae bide in his
hoose, an' his Lordship 'ill no tak a penny mair than the auld rent.
That's ma news, fouk, an' it's the best a've herd for mony a day.”
Then they all shook hands with Burnbrae, from Netherton to Peter Bruce,
and they called in an outer fringe of Kildrummie to rejoice with them;
but Burnbrae could only say:
“Thank ye, freends, frae ma hert; ye've been gude neeburs tae me and
mine.”
“It's been a michty victory,” said Jamie Soutar, as they moved to the
third, “but a' can see drawbacks.”
“Ay, ay,” which was a form of inquiry with Hillocks.
“Naebody 'ill be able tae tell a lee or play a Judas trick in Drumtochty
for the space of a generation.”