When the practice of Drumtochty was advertised, and the duties defined
by geography--the emoluments being treated with marked reserve--the
medical profession did not contend in a body for the post, and it was
more than a year before William Maclure had a successor. During the
interregnum temporary physicians of varied experience and erratic
character took charge of our health for short periods, and the Glen
had experiences which are still fondly cherished, and afforded Elspeth
Macfadyen the raw material for some of her most finished products. One
of these worthies was a young gentleman twenty-four years of age and of
Irish descent, whose thirst for fees and hatred of anything beyond the
minimum of labour bordered on genius. It was he who declined to enter
Lizzie Taylor's house, although sent for in the most interesting
circumstances, and discoursed outside the door with a volubility that
seemed almost Satanic, till he had received an earnest of ten shillings
in fourteen coins of the realm. Perhaps the Glen was more indignant when
Dr. O'Bralligan declined to rise one night and go to Glen Urtach, “not
even if his sainted grandmother came to ask him, riding on-the back of
the Angel Gabriel.”
“It 'ill no be Gabriel 'at 'ill tak chairge o' him,” said Janies
Soutar succinctly. And the feeling in the kirkyard was so decided
that O'Bralligan left within a week, explaining to Peter Bruce at the
Junction that the people of Drumtochty were the “most oudacious and
on-reasonable set o' blackguards” he had ever seen.
His successor had enjoyed the remarkable privilege of ministering in
a fleeting capacity to the health of sixty-three parishes during a
professional practice of under twenty years, and retained through all
vicissitudes a pronounccd Glasgow accent, and an unquenchable thirst
for distilled liquors. Dr. Murchieson was not greedy about fees, and had
acquired considerable skill in his eventful life, so the Glen endured
him for three months, but used him with precautions.
“Gin ye catch him gaein' east,” Hillocks summed up, “he's as quiet a man
as ye wud wish, and skilly tae, but comin' wast he's clean redeeklus;
last nicht,” added Hillocks, “he wes cairyin' his hat on the pint o' his
stick an' singin' 'Scots wha hae.'”
An unaccountable tendency in certain states of mind to prescribe
calomel tried the patience of the Glen, and Gormack conceived a personal
prejudice against Murchieson because he had ordered him to be blistered
with croton oil till he returned next day, when Gormack had a “titch” of
bronchitis; but his cup ran over the night he sounded a pillow instead
of Maggie Martin's lungs, and gave her mother no hope.
“Congested frae top tae bottom; nae whasle (rales) at a' the day;
naethin' can be dune; a fine lassie,” and he departed, after a brief
nap, full of music.
Hillocks drove him to the station, and he seemed to bear no grudge.
“That maks saxty-fower--a 've forgotten the names, but a' keep the
coont.”
His farewell was divided between a generous appreciation of Drumtochty
and an unfeigned regret that Kildrummie had no refreshment-room.
“Ilka trade hes some ne'er-dae-weels, an' the doctors hae fewer than
maist. Ye canna expect onything else frae thae orra craturs,” said
Drumsheugh next Sabbath, “an' we 're better withoot them. It passes me
hoo yon body stude it, for he wes aye tastin'.”
“He didna stand it,” broke in Hillocks with eagerness; “div ye ken hoo
mony whups he 's hed? 'A've been saxty-fower times,' he says to me at
Kildrummie; a' doot he wes exaggerating though.”
“Been what, Hillocks?” inquired Jamie with keen interest.
“Ye ken what a'm ettlin' aifter fine, Jamie, an' it's no a chancy word
tae mention.”
“Wes't _locum tenens?_”
“That,” said Hillocks, “is the word, if ye maun hae it; a' wunner the
body's no feared; it's an awfu' business,” and Hillocks dropped into
morals, “when a man canna manage his drink.”
Jamie declared that he had never seen the kirkyard so overcome, and ever
afterwards Hillocks's name suggested sudden and captivating strokes of
humour, so that men's faces lit up at the sight of him.
It was in these circumstances that the Glen fell back on Kirsty Stewart
for medical aid, with the Kildrummie doctor as a last resort, and Kirsty
covered her name with glory for a generation. She had always had some
reputation as a practitioner of ability and experience--being learned
in herbs, and the last of her folk; but her admirers were themselves
astonished at the insight she showed in the mysterious illness of Peter
Macintosh, and her very detractors could only insinuate that her credit
ended with diagnosis. His case had a certain distinction from the
first day he complained, and we remembered afterwards that it was never
described as a “whup.” During the first week even there was a vague
impression in the Glen, conveyed by an accent, that Peter was the
subject of a dispensation, and the kirk-yard was full of chastened
curiosity.
“What's this that 's wrang wi' Peter Macintosh, Whinnie?” broke out
Drumsheugh, with a certain magisterial authority. “Ye live near him, and
sud hae the richts o't. As for the fouk doon bye, ye can get naethin'
oot o' them; the smith juist shook his head twa nichts syne, as if he
wes at a beerial.”
“Ye needna speir at me, Drumsheugh,” responded Whinnie, with solemnity,
“for a' ken nae mair than ye dae yersel, though oor fields mairch and we
've aye been neeburly.”
“Losh keep 's, ye surely can tell us whar it 's catchit Peter; is 't in
his head or his heels? is he gaein' aboot or hes he ta'en tae his bed?
did ye no see him?” said Drumsheugh severely.
“Ou aye, a' saw him, gin that be onything; but ye canna get muckle oot
o' Peter at the best, and he 's clean past speakin' noo.
“He wes sittin' in his chair afore the door; an' a' he said wes, 'This
is an awfu' business, Whinnie,' and he wud dance in his seat for maybe
twa meenuts. 'What 's ailin' ye, Peter?' a' askit. 'A red-het ploo iron
on ma back,' says he, an' it gied me a grue tae hear him.”
“Mercy on 's, neeburs,” interrupted Hillocks, “this is no cannie.”
“It's no his briest,” pursued Whinnie, “for he hesna got a hoast; an'
it's no a stroke, whatever it be, for he 's aye on the motion; an' it 's
no his inside; but in or oot, Peter 's a waesome sicht,” and Whinnie's
manner greatly impressed the fathers.
Leezbeth went up on Monday, as a commissioner from Drumsheugh, and that
masterful woman made no doubt that she would unravel the mystery; but
she was distinctly awed by Mrs. McIntosh s tone, which was a fine blend
of anxiety and importance.
“Hoo are ye, Leezbeth, an' hoo's Drumsheugh? There's threatenin' tae be a
scoorie, but it 'ill maybe haud up till the aifternoon. Wull ye come
in tae the kitchen the day? The gude man's no hansel' the noo, and he's
sittin' ben the hoose.”
“That's what a' cam' aboot,” said Leezbeth, rebelling against the
solemnity of the atmosphere; “we heard doon bye that he wes sober (ill),
an' the maister's aff tae Dunleith, and cudna get up tae speir for him.
What's the natur' o' the tribble? Wes t sudden?”
Janet knew she was mistress of the situation for once, and had no fear
that Leezbeth could bring her down from her high places in this rough
fashion.
“It's rael freendly o' ye, an' a'm muckle ob-leeged; the fouk are awfu'
ta'en up aboot Peter, an' there's juist ae word on a'body's mooth. A'
ken what's comin' as sune as a' see a neebur crossin' the fields.
“Ye may be sure, Leezbeth, a' wud tell ye, gin a' kent masel,” and Janet
wagged her head; “it's nae pleesure tae me that there sud be naethin'
noo at kirk or market but Peter's tribble, and tae hae half the Glen
deavin' me wi' questions.
“Wumman, a' tell ye, as sure as a'm stan-nin' here, a' wud raither hae
Peter gaein' aboot at his wark instead o' a' this tiravee (commotion),
and him girnin' frae mornin' tae nicht in his chair. Div ye hear him
ragin' at Mary?”
“Gae awa oot o' there,” and Peter was evidently rejecting some office of
attention; “gin ye come near me a 'll tak ma stick tae yir shoothers, ye
little trimmie; ma word, a'm het eneuch withoot a plaid.”
“This is a terrible hoose the noo,” and Janet struggled vainly with a
natural pride; “there's been naethin' like this wi' oor forbears sae far
back as a' can mind, an' a' doot gin there's been the marra o't in the
Glen.”
“Hoo's he affeckit?” for Leezbeth was much exasperated by Janet's airs,
a woman who, in ordinary circumstances, could not have withstood her for
an instant. “Ye can surely say that muckle. It 's no his chest; that 's
in fine fettle; it 'ill be aither his legs or his head; maist likely his
head frae the wy he's carryin' on.”
“Leezbeth, dinna mak licht o' sic a veesita-tion,” said Janet, with all
the dignity of affliction; “ye dinna ken when it micht draw nearer hame.
It wes hangin' ower Peter for months, but it cam oot sudden in the end,
a' in a piece ae morning. Na, the tribble 'ill tak a rin up an' doon his
legs, but it disna settle there, an' a' canna deny that he 's fractious
at a time, but he never rammils (wanders); whatever it be, the tribble
keeps tae its ain place.”
“Whar is that and what like is't?” for Leezbeth was now reduced to
entreaty; “there maun be something tae see, an', Janet wum-man, a've
hed deiths amang ma fouk, tae sae naethin' o' bringin' up Drumsheugh's
calves for thirty year.”
“A' ken ye're skilly, Leezbeth,” said Janet, much mollified by
Leezbeth's unwonted humility, “an' a'd be gled o' yir advice. Ye daurna
ask Peter for a sicht, but a 'll gie ye an idea o't. It's juist for a'
the warld,” and Leezbeth held her breath, “like a sklatch o' eukiness
(itchiness) half roond his waist, naither mair nor less.”
“Is that a', Janet?” and Leezbeth began to take revenge for her
humiliation; “ye needna hae made sic an ado aboot. Div ye no ken what's
the maitter wi' yir man? gin ye hed ony gumption (sense) he micht hae
been weel lang syne.
“Wumman, it 's a heat in the banes 'at he's gotten laist hairst, and the
spring's drawin' it oot. Dinna send it in for ony sake, eke ye 'ill hae
yir man in the kirkyaird.
“Ma advice,” continued Leezbeth, now rioting in triumph, “t'wud be tae
rub him weel wi whisky; ye canna gang wrang wi' speerits, oot or in; an'
dinna lat him sleep; if he took tae dronyin' (dozing) ye micht never get
him waukened.” And so Drumsheugh's housekeeper departed, having dashed
Janet at a stroke.
When Kirsty arrived in the afternoon to offer her services, Janet had no
heart to enter into the case.
“Drumsheugh's Leezbeth gied us a cry afore dinner and settled the
maitter; gin she lays doon the law there 's naebody need conter her; ye
wud think she 'd been at the creation tae hear her speak; ye 've hed a
lang traivel, Kirsty, an' ye 'ill be ready for yir tea.”
“Ou ay,” replied Janet bitterly, “she gied it a name; it's naething but
a bit heat--a bairn's rash, a'm jidgin', though a'never saw ane like
it a' ma days; but Leezbeth kens better, wi' a' her experience, an' of
coorse it's a sateesfaction tae ken that the Glen needna fash (trouble)
themselves aboot Peter.”
“Leezbeth wesna blate,” Kirsty burst out, unable to contain herself at
the thought of this intrusion into her recognised sphere, “an' it 's a
mercy we hae the like o' her in the Glen noo that Doctor Maclure is deid
an' gane. Did ye say her experience?” and Kirsty began to warm to the
occasion; “a' wunner whether it's wi' beasts or fouk? Gin it be wi'
Drumsheugh's young cattle, a' hae naethin' tae say; but gin it be
Christians, a' wud juist ask ae question--hoo mony o' her fouk hes she
beeried?”
“Naethin' tae speak o' aside you, Kirsty,” said Janet, in propitiation;
“a'body kens what preevileges ye 've hed.”
“Ae brither an' twa half sisters, that 's a',” continued Kirsty, “for a'
hed it frae her own lips; it's no worth mentionin'; gin a' hed seen
nae mair tribble than that a' wud be ashamed tae show ma face in a sick
hoose; lat's hear aboot yir man, Janet,” and Kirsty settled down to
details.
“Did ye say half roond, Janet?” and she leaned forward with concern on
every feature.
“That 's hoo it is; the ither side is as white as a bairn's skin; an'
though he be ma man, a 'll say this for him, that he's aye hed clean
blude an' nae marks; but what are ye glowerin' at? hae ye ony licht?
speak, wumman.”
“This is a mair serious business, Janet, than onybody suspectit,” and
Kirsty sighed heavily.
“Preserve's, Kirsty, what div ye think is the matter wi' Peter? tell's
the warst at aince,” for Kirsty's face suggested an apocalypse of woe.
“A heat,” she said, still lingering over Leez-beth's shallow, amateur
suggestion, “gotten at the hairst... rub it wi' whisky... ay, ay, it
's plain whar she gets her skill, 'at disna ken the differ atween the
tribble o' a man an' a beast.
“Isn't maist michty,” and now Kirsty grew indignant, “'at a wumman o'
Leezbeth's age cudna tell an eruption frae a jidgment?”
“Kirsty Stewart, hoo div ye ken that?” cried Janet, much lifted; “a' wes
jalousin' that it passed ordinary, but what gars ye think o' jidgment?”
“A'm no the wumman tae meddle wi' sic a word lichtly. Na, na, a' micht
hae gaed awa' an' said naethin' gin Leezbeth hedna been sae ready wi'
her heats.
“A'm no wantin' tae frichten ye, Janet,” and Kirsty's face assumed
an awful significance, “an' a'm no wantin' tae flatter ye, but ye may
lippen tae't Peter's hed a special dispensation. Did ye say aboot twa
hands'-breadths?”
As Janet could only nod, Kirsty continued: “He's been gruppit by a
muckle hand, an' it's left the sign. Leezbeth wes maybe no sae far wrang
aboot the heat, but it came frae the oot-side, a'm dootin'.”
“Div ye mean,” and Janet's voice had sunk to a whisper, “is't auld--”
“Dinna say the word, wumman; he micht be hearin', and there's nae use
temptin' him. It's juist a warnin', ye see, an' it's a mercy he gied
nae farther. Hed he ta'en baith hands, it micht hae been the end o' yir
man.”
“This is no lichtsome,” and Janet began to wail, although not quite
insensible to the distinction Peter had achieved; “a' kent frae the
beginnin' this wesna a common tribble, an' we 've behadden tae ye for
settlin' the maitter. Whatever lies Peter dune tae bringisic a jidgment
on himsel? He 's a cautious man as ye 'ill get in the Glen, an' pays his
rent tae the day; he may taste at a time, but he never fechts; it beats
me tae pit ma hand on the meanin' o't.”
“There wes some clash (gossip) aboot him contradickin' the minister,”
said Kirsty, looking into the remote distance.
“Div ye mean the colie-shangie (disturbance) ower the new stove, when
Peter and the doctor hed sic a cast oot? Ye 're an awfu' wumman,” and
Janet regarded Kirsty with admiration; “a' never wud hae thocht o'
conneckin' the twa things. But a' daurna say ye 've no richt, for a' hed
ma ain fears aboot the wy Peter wes cairryin' on.
“'A 'll no gie up ma pew whar oor fouk hae sat Gude kens hoo lang, for
the doctor or ony ither man; they can pit the stove on the ither side,
an' gin it disna draw there, the doctor can set it up in the kirkyaird.'
Thae were his verra words, Kirsty, an' a' tell 't him, they wud dae him
nae gude.
“If a' didna beg o' him ootside that door no tae gang against the
minister. 'Dinna be the first in the Glen tae anger the doctor,' a'
said; but Peter's that thrawn when his birse is up that ye micht as weel
speak tae a wall.
“He's made a bonnie like endin' wi' his dourness; but, Kirsty, he
's sair humbled, an' a' wudna say but he micht come roond gin he wes
hannelled cautious. What wud ye advise, Kirsty?”
“The doctor's comin' hame this week, a'm hearing an' he 'ill be up tae
see Peter afore Sabbath. Noo ma opinion is,” and Kirsty spoke with great
deliberation, “that ye micht juist bring roond the conversation till ye
titched on the stove, an' Peter cud gie the doctor tae understand that
there wud be nae mair argiment aboot his seat.
“Whinnie cud get a bottle fraethe Muirtown doctor on Friday--it wud be a
help--but it's no medeecine, no, nor whisky,' 'at 'ill dae the wark. Gin
ye settle with the minister, yir man 'ill be in the kirk afore the month
be oot,” and Kirsty was invested with such mystery that Janet hardly
dared an allusion to Milton's third marriage.
Peter made his first appearance in the kirk-yard the very day the stove
was installed, and received the congratulations of the fathers with an
admirable modesty.
“A' wes feared he micht be lifted,” Hillocks remarked, after Peter had
gone in to take possession of his new seat, “an' ye cudna hae wonnered
gin he hed, for he's gaen through mair than most, but he held oot his
hand for the box wi' as little pride as if it hed been rheumatiks.
“He's fell hearty an' cheery, but Peter's hed a shak, an' when he saw
the smoke oot the stove there wes a look cam ower his face. Sall,”
concluded Hillocks, with emphasis, “he 'ill no meddle with the minister
again, a 'll warrant.”
“Wha wud hae thocht the doctor wes sae veecious, or are ye considerin'
that there wes anither hand in't, Hillocks?” inquired Jamie Soutar, with
great smoothness of speech.
“Naebody said the minister did it, Jamie, and a' never said onybody
did it, but we may hae oor ain thochts, and Peter 'ill no forget this
stramash (accident) as lang as he lives.”
“Na, na, a minister's an ill craw tae shoot at, Jamie,” and Hillocks
went into kirk as one who had rebuked a mocking scepticism; but Jamie
stood alone under the beech-tree till they had raised the psalm, and
then he followed his neighbors, with a face of funereal solemnity.