DRUMSHEUGH had arrested Dr. Maclure on the high road the winter before
he died, and compelled him to shelter for a while, since it was a rough
December night not far from Christmas, and every one knew the doctor had
begun to fail.
“Is that you, Weelum?” for the moon was not yet up, and an east wind was
driving the snow in clouds; “a' wes oot seein' the sheep werena smoored
in the drift, an' a'm wrastlin' hame.
“Come back tae the hoose an' rest; gin there's tae be ony mune she 'ill
be oot by nine, and the wind 'ill maybe settle; ye 're baith o' ye sair
forfoochen” (exhausted), and Drumsheugh seized Jess's bridle.
For eight miles the wind had been on Mac-lure's back, and he was cased
in snow from the crown of the felt hat, that was bent to meet his jacket
collar, down to the line of his saddle. The snow made a little bank on
the edge of the saddle that was hardly kept, in check by the heat of
Jess's body; it was broken into patches on his legs by the motion of
riding, but clung in hard lumps to the stirrup irons. The fine drift
whirling round powdered him in front, and melting under his breath, was
again frozen into icicles on his beard, and had made Jess's mane still
whiter. When Drumsheugh's housekeeper opened the kitchen door and the
light fell on the horse and her master--a very ghostly sight--Leezabeth
was only able to say, “Preserve 's a' body and soul,” which was the full
form of a prayer in use on all occasions of surprise.
Three times the doctor essayed to come down, and could not for
stiffness, and he would have fallen on the doorstep had it not been for
Drumsheugh.
“This 'ill be a lesson tae ye, Weelum,” helping him in to the kitchen;
“ye 're doonricht numbed; get aff the doctor's boots, Leezabeth, an'
bring a coat for him.”
“Awa wi' ye; div ye think a'm a bairn?... A 'll be masel in a meenut...
it wes the cauld... they're stiff tae pull, Leezabeth... let me dae't...
weel, weel, if ye wull... but a' dinna like tae see a wumman servin' a
man like this.”
He gave in after a slight show of resistance, and Leezabeth, looking up,
saw her master watching Maclure wistfully, as one regards a man smitten
unto death. Drumsheugh realised in one moment that this was the doctor's
last winter; he had never seen him so easily managed all his life.
Leezabeth had kept house for Drumsheugh for many years, and was
understood to know him in all his ways. It used to be a point of
interesting debate which was the harder, but all agreed that they led
the Glen in ingenious economy and unfailing detection of irresponsible
generosity. The Kildrummie butcher in his irregular visits to the
Glen got no support at Drumsheugh, and the new lass that favoured the
ploughmen with flowing measure was superseded next milking time.
“That's yir pint, Jeems, naither mair nor less,” Leezabeth would say
to the “second man.” “Mary's hand shaks when there's lads aboot,” and
Drumsheugh heard the story with much appreciation in the evening.
She used to boast that there was “nae saft bit aboot the maister,”
and of all things Drumsheugh was supposed to be above sentiment. But
Leezabeth was amazed that evening at a curious gentleness of manner that
softened his very voice as he hung round the doctor.
“Drink it aff, Weelum,” holding the glass to his lips; “it 'ill start
the hert again; try an' rise, an' we 'ill gang ben the hoose noo...
that's it, ye're on yir legs again... that door's aye in the road...
it's a dark passage; gie's yir airm... it's awfu' hoo stiff a body gets
sittin'.”
Leezabeth was ordered to bring such dainties as could be found, and she
heard Drumsheugh pressing things upon the doctor with solicitude.
“It's no richt tae gang that lang withoot meat, an' the nicht's sae
cauld; ye 'ill be fund on the road some mornin'. Try some o' thae black
currants; they're graund for a hoast. Ye're no surely dune already.
“Draw in yir chair tae the fire, Weelum; tak this ane; it wes ma
mither's, an' it's easier; ye need it aifter that ride. Are ye warm
noo?”
“A'm rael comfortable an' content, Drumsheugh; it's a wee lonesome wast
yonder when a man comes in weet an' tired o' a nicht; juist tae sit
aside a freend, although nane o's say mickle, is a rest.”
“A' wush ye wud come aftener, Weelum,” said Drumsheugh hastily; “we
're no as young as we were, an' we micht draw thegither mair. It's no
speakin' maks freends.... Hoo auld are ye noo?”
“Seeventy-three this month, an' a 'll no see anither birthday; ye 're
aulder, Drum”--Maclure only was so privileged--“but ye 're a hale man
an' gude for twal year yet.”
“Ye micht hae been the same yersel if ye hadna been a senseless fule
an' sae thrawn (obstinate) ye wudna be guided by onybody; but if ye gang
cautious ye 'ill live us a' oot yet; ye 're no like the same man noo 'at
cam in tae the kitchen. Leezabeth wes fleggit at the sicht o' ye,” and
Drumsheugh affected mirth.
“Wes she, though?” said Maclure, with some relish. “A've often thocht it
wud tak a chairge o' gunpooder tae pit Leezabeth aff her jundy (ordinary
course). Hoo lang hes she been wi' ye? A' mind her comin'; it wes aifter
yir mither deed; that 's a gude while past noo.”
“Five and thirty year last Martinmas; she 's a Kildrummie wumman, but a'
her fouk are dead. Leezabeth's been a faithfu' housekeeper, an' she's an
able wumman; a' ve nae-thing tae say against Leezabeth.
“She 's a graund manager,” continued Drumsheugh meditatively, “an'
there's no been mickle lost here since she cam; a 'll say that for her;
she dis her wark accordin' tae her licht, but it's aye scrapin' wi' her,
and the best o' hoosekeepers maks a cauld hame.
“Weelum--” and then he stopped, and roused the fire into a blaze.
“Ay, ay,” said Maclure, and he looked kindly at his friend, whose face
was averted.
“Wes ye gaein' tae say onything?” and Maclure waited, for a great
confidence was rare in Drumtochty.
“There wes something happened in ma life lang syne nae man kens, an'
a' want tae tell ye, but no the nicht, for ye 're tired an' cast doon.
Ye'ill come in sune again, Weelum.”
“The mornin's nicht, gin it be possible,” and then both men were silent
for a space.
The wind came in gusts, roaring in the chimney, and dying away with
a long moan across the fields, while the snow-drift beat against the
window. Drumsheugh's dog, worn out with following his master through the
drifts, lay stretched before the fire sound asleep, but moved an ear at
the rattling of a door upstairs, or a sudden spark from the grate.
Drumsheugh gazed long into the red caverns and saw former things, till
at last he smiled and spake.
“Hoo langis't since ye guddled for troot, Weelum?”
“Saxty year or sae; div ye mind yon hole in the Sheuchie burn, whar it
comes doon frae the muir? They used to lie and feed in the rin o' the
water.
“A' wes passin' that wy lairst hairst, an' a' took a thocht and gied
ower tae the bank. The oak looks juist the same, an' a' keekit through,
an' if there wesna a troot ablow the big stane. If a' hedna been sae
stiff a' wud hae gien doon and tried ma luck again.”
“A' ken the hole fine, Weelum,” burst out Drumsheugh; “div ye mind where
a' catchit yon twa-punder in the dry simmer? it wes the biggest ever
taen oot o' the Sheuchie; a' telt ye a' next day at schule.”
“Ye did that, an' ye blew aboot that troot for the haie winter, but nane
o' us ever saw't, an' it wes juist a bare half pund tae begin wi'; it 's
been growin', a' doot; it 'ill be five afore ye 're dune wi't, Drum.”
“Nane o' yir impidence, Weelum. A' weighed it in Luckie Simpson's shop
as a' gied hame, an' it made twa pund as sure as a'm sitting here; but
there micht be a wecht left in the scale wi't.”
“Fishers are the biggest leears a' ever cam across, and ye've dune yir
best the nicht, Drum; but eh, man, guddlin' wes a graund ploy,” and the
doctor got excited.
“A' think a'm at it aince mair, wi' ma sleeves up tae the oxters, lying
on ma face, wi' naethin' but the een ower the edge o' the stane, an'
slippin' ma hands intae the caller water, an' the rush o' the troot, and
grippin' the soople slidderin' body o't an' throwin't ower yir head, wi'
the red spots glistening on its whlfe belly; it wes michty.”
“Ay, Weelum, an' even missin't wes worth while; tae feel it shoot atween
yir hands an' see it dash doon the burn, maltin' a white track in the
shallow water, an' ower a bit fall and oot o' sicht again in anither
hole.”
They rested for a minute to revel in the past, and in the fire the
two boys saw water running over gravel, and deep, cool holes beneath
overhanging rocks, and little waterfalls, and birch boughs dipping into
the pools, and speckled trout gleaming on the grass.
Maclure's face kindled into mirth, and he turned in his chair.
“Ye 're sayin' naethin' o' the day when the burn wes settlin' aifter
a spate, and ye cam tae me an' Sandy Baxter an' Netherton's brither
Squinty, an' temptit us tae play the truant, threepin' ye hed seen the
troot juist swarmin' in the holes.”
“A' tried John Baxter tae,” interrupted Drumsheugh, anxious for accuracy
since they had begun the story, “though he didna come. But he wudna tell
on's for a' that. Hillocks lat it oot at the sight o' the tawse. 'They
're up the Sheuchie aifter the troot,' he roared, an' the verra lassies
cried 'clype' (tell tale) at him gaein' hame.”
“What a day it wes, Drum; a' can see Sandie's heels in the air when he
coupit intae the black hole abune Gormack, an' you pullin' him oot by
the seat o' his breeks, an' his Latin Reader, 'at hed fa'en oot o' his
pocket, sailin' doon the water, an' 'Squinty' aifter it, scram-mellin'
ower the stanes;” and the doctor laughed aloud.
“Ye 've forgot hoo ye sent me in tae beg for a piece frae the gude wife
at Gormack, an' she saw the lave o' ye coorin' ahint the dyke, an' gied
us a flytin' for playin' truant.”
“Fient a bit o't,” and Maclure took up the running again; “an' then she
got a sicht o' Sandie like a drooned rat, and made him come in tae dry
himsel, and gied us pork an' oat cake. My plate hed a burn on it like
the Sheuchie--a' cud draw the pattern on a sheet o' paper till this
day--that wes Gormack's mither's; it's no sae lang since she deed; a'
wes wi' her the laist nicht.”
“An' the tawse next day frae the auld Dominie, him 'at wes afore Domsie;
he hed a fine swing. A' think a' feel the nip still,” and Drumsheugh
shuffled in his chair; “an' then we got anither lickin' frae oor
faithers; but, man,” slapping his knee, “it wes worth it a'; we 've
never hed as gude a day again.”
“It s juist like yesterday, Drum, but it cam tae an end; and div ye mind
hoo we were feared tae gae hame, and didna start till the sun wes weel
doon ahint Ben Urtach?
“Four o's,” resumed Maclure; “an' Sandie got a Russian bayonet through
his breist fech-tin' ae snawy nicht in the trenches, an' puir Squinty
deed oot in Ameriky wearyin' for the Glen an' wishin' he cud be buried
in Drumtochty kirkyaird. Fine laddies baith, an' that's twa o' the fower
truants that hae gane hame.
“You an' me, Drum, hed the farthest road tae traivel that nicht, an'
we 're the laist again; the sun's settin' for us tae; we 've hed a gude
lang day, and ye 'ill hae a whilie aifter me, but we maun follow the
ither twa.”
“Ye're richt, Weelum, aboot the end o't, whichever gangs first,” said
Drumsheugh.
Another silence fell on the two men, and both looked steadfastly into
the fire, till the dog rose and laid his head on Drumsheugh's hand. He
was also getting old, and now had no other desire than to be with his
master.
Drumsheugh moved his chair into the shadow, and sighed.
“It's no the same though, Weelum, it's no the same ava.... We did what
we sudna, an' wes feared tae meet oor faithers, nae doot, but we kent it
wud be waur oot on the cauld hill, an' there wes a house tae shelter 's
at ony rate.”
Maclure would not help, and Drumsheugh went on again as if every word
were drawn from him in agony.
“We dinna ken onything aboot...”--and he hesitated--“aboot... the ither
side. A 've thocht o't often in the gloamin' o' a simmer nicht, or
sittin' here alane by the fire in winter time; a man may seem naething
but an auld miserly fairmer, an' yet he may hae his ain thochts.
“When a' wes a laddie, the doctor's father wes in the poopit, an'
Dominie Cameron wes in the schule, an' yir father rode up an' doon the
Glen, an' they 're a' gane. A' can see at a time in kirk the face that
used tae be at the end of ilka seat, an' the bairns in the middle, an'
the gude wife at the top: there's no ane a' canna bring up when the
doctor's at the sermon.
“Wae's me, the auld fouk that were in Burnbrae, an' Hillocks, an' Whinny
Knowe are a' dead and buried, ma ain father an' mother wi' the lave,
an' their bairns are makin' ready tae follow them, an' sune the 'ill be
anither generation in oor places.”
He paused, but Maclure knew he had not finished.
“That's no the warst o't, for naebody wants tae live ower lang, till he
be cripple an' dottle (crazy.) A' wud raither gang as sune as a' cudna
manage masel, but... we hev nae word o' them. They've said gude-bye, and
gane oot o' the Glen, an' fouk say they 're in the land o' the leal. It
's a bonny song, an' a' dinna like onybody tae see me when it's sung,
but... wha kens for certain... aboot that land?”
Still Maclure made no sign.
“The sun 'ill come up frae Strathmore, and set abune Glen Urtach, an'
the Tochty 'ill rin as it dis this nicht, an' the 'ill be fouk
sowin' the seed in spring and githerin' in the corn in hairst, an' a
congregation in the kirk, but we 'ill be awa an'... Weelum, wull that
be... the end o' us?” And there was such a tone in Drumsheugh's voice
that the dog whined and licked his hand.
“No, Drumsheugh, it 'ill no be the end,” said the doctor in a low, quiet
voice, that hardly sounded like his own. “A've often thocht it's mair
like the beginnin'. Oor forbears are oot o' sicht, an' a' wudna want tae
hae them back, but nae man 'ill ever gar me believe the kirkyaird hauds
Drumtochty.
“Na, na, a've watched the Glen for mony a year, an' the maist hertsome
sicht a' hae seen is the makin' o' men an' weemen. They're juist
thochtless bairns tae begin wi', as we were oorsels, but they 're no
dune wi' schule aifter they leave Domsie.
“Wark comes first, and fechtin' awa wi' oor cauld land and wringin'
eneuch oot o't tae pay for rent and livin' pits smeddum (spirit) into
a man. Syne comes luve tae maist o's, an' teaches some selfish, shallow
cratur tae play the man for a wumman's sake; an' laist comes sorrow,
that gars the loudest o's tae haud his peace.
“It's a lang schulin', but it hes dune its wark weel in Drumtochty. A'm
no sayin' oor fouk are clever or that they haena fauts, but a'm prood to
hev been born and lived ma days in the Glen. A' dinna believe there's
a leear amang us--except maybe Milton, an' he cam frae Muirtown--nor a
cooard wha wudna mak his hand keep his head; nor a wastrel, when Charlie
Grant's in Ameriky; nor a hard-herted wratch 'at wudna help his neebur.
“It's a rouch schule the Glen, an' sae wes puir Domsie's; but, sall,
he sent oot lads 'at did us credit in the warld, an' a 'm judging
Drumsheugh, that the scholars that gied oot o' the Glen the ither road
'ill hae their chance tae, an' pit naebody tae shame. Ye ken a' hevna
hed muckle time for releegion, but a body gies a thocht tae the ither
warld at a time, an' that's ma ain mind.”
“Ye're maybe no far wrang, Weelum; it soonds wise like, but... ye canna
be sure.”
“A've seen fouk 'at were sure,” said the doctor, “an' a 'm thankfu' that
a' kent auld Burnbrae. He wes a strict man, an' mony a lecture he gied
me aboot gaein' tae kirk an' usin' better langidge, but a' tell ye, he
wes the richt sort; nae peetifu' chaff o' heepocrisy aboot him.
“A' wes wi' him at his deith,...”
“Did ye see onything?” Drumsheugh leaned forward and spoke in a whisper.
“A' saw naething but a gude man gaein' oot on his lang journey, an' a'
want tae see nae graunder sicht.
“He wesna conscious, an' his wife, puir wumman, wes murnin' that she
wudna get a last look, an' John, him 'at 's Burnbrae noo, wes distressed
for his mither's sake.
“'Say the name,' for a' wes holdin' his head, 'an' he 'ill hear;' but a'
cudna; it wesna for my tongue.
“So he said it into his father's ear, an' Burnbrae opened his eyes, and
githered them a' in a smile, an' a' heard twa words.
“'No evil.' He wes past sayin' fear.... Drumsheugh, a' wud... tak ma
chance the nicht wi' auld Burnbrae.”
“Ma mither didna ken us for the laist twa days,” and Drumsheugh rested
his head on his hands.
“Ye mind the bit lassiky”--Maclure would tell all when he was at
it--“that lived wi' Mary Robertson and Jamie Soutar made sic a wark
aboot, for her mither wes dead; she wes chokin' wi' her tribble, an' a'
took her on ma knee, for Daisy and me were aye.
“'Am a' gaein' tae dee the day?' she said, an' a' cud not tell a lee
lookin' intae yon een.'
“'Ye're no feared, dautie, 'a' said; 'ye 'ill sune be hame.'
“'Haud me ticht, then, Docksie '--that wes her name for me--' an'
mither 'ill tak me oot o' yir airms. '... The Almichty wud see the wee
lassie wesna pit tae shame, or else... that's no His name.
“The wind's doon,” and the doctor hurried over to the window, “an' the
mune is shinin' clear an' sweet; a 'll need tae be aff, an' a 'll hae
the licht instead o' the drift aifter a', Drumsheugh.”
Nothing passed between them till they came to the main road, and the
doctor said goodnight.
Then Drumsheugh stood close in to the saddle, and adjusted a stirrup
leather.
“You an' me are no like Burnbrae and the bairnie, Weelum; a'm feared at
times aboot... the home comin'.”
“A' dinna wunner, Drumsheugh, a'm often the same masel; we 're baith
truant laddies, chief, and maybe we 'ill get oor paiks, an' it 'ill dae
us gude. But be that as it may, we maun juist risk it, an' a'm houpin'
the Almichty 'ill no be waur tae us than oor mither when the sun gaes
doon and the nicht wind sweeps ower the hill.”
When Leezabeth brought word that Dr. Mac-lure had ridden into
the “close,” Drumsheugh knew for what end he had come, but it was
characteristic of Drumtochty that after they had exhausted local
affairs, he should be stricken dumb and stare into the fire with averted
face. For a space the doctor sat silent, because we respected one
another's souls in the Glen, and understood the agony of serious speech,
but at last he judged it right to give assistance.
“Ye said laist nicht that ye hed something tae say.”
“A'm comin' tae't; juist gie me twa meenuts mair.” But it was ten before
Drumsheugh opened his mouth, although he arranged himself in his chair
and made as though he would speak three times.
“Weelum,” he said at last, and then he stopped, for his courage had
failed.
“A 'm hearin', Drum; tak yir ain time; the fire 's needin' mendin',” and
the light, blazing up suddenly, showed another Drumsheugh than was known
on Muirtown market.
“It's no easy, Weelum, tae say onything that gangs deeper than the
weather an' cattle beasts.” Drumsheugh passed his hand across his
forehead, and Maclure's pity was stirred.
“Gin ye hae dune onything wrang, an' ye want tae relieve yir mind, ye
may lippen tae me, Drumsheugh, though it titch yir life. A' can haud ma
tongue, an' a 'm a leal man.
“A' thocht it wesna that,” as Drumsheugh shook his head; “a'm jidgin'
that ye hae a sorrow the Glen disna ken, and wud like an auld freend tae
feel the wecht o't wi' ye.”
Drumsheugh looked as if that was nearer the mark, but still he was
silent.
“A', ken what ye're feelin' for a' cudna speak masel,” and then he
added, at the sight of his friend's face, “Dinna gar yirsel speak
against yir wull. We 'ill say naethin' mair aboot it.... Did ye hear o'
Hillocks coupin' intae the drift till there wes naethin' seen but his
heels, and Gormack sayin', 'Whar are ye aff tae noo, Hillocks?'”
“A' maun speak,” burst out Drumsheugh; “a've carried ma tribble for mair
than thirty year, and cud hae borne it till the end, but ae thing a'
canna stand, an' that is, that aither you or me dee afore a've cleared
ma name.”
“Yir name?” and the doctor regarded Drumsheugh with amazement.
“Ay, ma character; a've naethin' else, Weelum, naither wife nor bairns,
so a'm jealous o't, though fouk michtna think it.
“Noo, gin onybody in Muirtown askit ma certeeficat o' a Drumtochty
neebur, gie me his answer,” and Drumsheugh turned suddenly on Maclure,
who was much confused.
“Nae Drumtochty man wud say ony ill o' ye; he daurna, for ye've gien
him nae occasion, an' ye surely ken that yirsel withoot askin'.” But
Drumsheugh was still waiting.
“He micht say that ye were juist a wee,” and then he broke off, “but
what need ye care for the havers of a market? fouk 'ill hae their joke.”
“Ye said a wee; what is't, Weelum?” and the doctor saw there was to be
no escape.
“Weel, they micht maybe sayin' behind yir back, Drum, what some o' them
wud say tae yir face, meanin' nae evil, ye ken, that ye were... carefu',
in fact, an'... keen aboot the bawbees. Naethin' mair nor worse than
that, as a 'm sittin' here.”
“Naethin' mair, said ye?” Drumsheugh spoke with much bitterness--“an' is
yon little?
“Carefu';' ye 've a gude-hearted man, Weelum; miser's nearer it, a 'm
dootin', a wratch that 'ill hae the laist penny in a bargain, and no
spend a saxpence gin he can keep it.”
Maclure saw it was not a time to speak.
“They 've hed mony a lauch in the train ower ma tigs wi' the dealers,
an' some o' them wud hae like tae hev cam aff as weel--a cratur like
Milton; but what dis Burnbrae, 'at coonted his verra livin' less than
his principles, or auld Domsie, that's dead an' gane noo, 'at wud hae
spent his laist shillin' sendin' a laddie tae the College--he gied it
tae me aince het, like the man he wes--or the minister, wha wud dee
raither than condescend tae a meanness, or what can... Marget Hoo think
o' me?” and the wail in Drumsheugh's voice went to the heart of Maclure.
“Dinna tak on like this, Drum; it's waesome tae hear ye, an' it 's clean
havers ye 're speakin' the nicht. Didna Domsie get mony a note frae ye
for his college laddies?--a 've heard him on't--an' it wes you 'at paid
Geordie Hoo's fees, an' wha wes't brocht Sir George an' savit Annie
Mitchell's life--?”
“That didna cost me muckle in the end, sin' it wes your daein' an' no
mine; an' as for the bit fees for the puir scholars, they were naethin'
ava.
“Na, na, Weelum, it 'ill no dae. A' ken the hert o' ye weel, and ye
'ill stan' by yir freend through fair and foul; but a'm gaein' tae clear
things up aince for a'; a 'll never gang through this again.
“It's no the Glen a'm thinkin' aboot the nicht; a' wud like tae hae
their gude opinion, an' a 'm no what they 're considerin' me, but a'
canna gie them the facts o' the case, an'... a' maun juist dee as a' hev
lived.
“What cuts me tae the hert is that the twa fouk a' luve sud hae reason
to jidge me a miser; ane o' them wull never ken her mistake, but a 'll
pit masel richt wi' the ither. Weelum, for what div ye think a've been
scrapin' for a' thae years?”
“Weel, gin ye wull hae ma mind,” said the doctor slowly, “a' believed ye
hed been crossed in luve, for ye telt me as much yersel....”
“Ye 're richt, Weelum; a 'll tell ye mair the nicht; gang on.”
“It cam tae ma mind that ye turned tae bargainin' an' savin', no for
greed--a' kent there wes nae greed in ye; div ye suppose a' cudna tell
the differ atween ma freend an' Milton?--but for a troke tae keep yir
mind aff... aff yir sorrow.”
“Thank ye, Weelum, thank ye kindly, but it wesna even on accoont o' that
a've lived barer than ony plooman for the best part o' ma life; a' tell
ye, beyond the stockin' on ma fairm a'm no worth twa hunder pund this
nicht.
“It wes for anither a' githered, an' as fast as I got the gear a' gied
it awa,” and Drumsheugh sprang to his feet, his eyes shining; “it wes
for luve's sake a' haggled an' schemed an' stairved an' toiled till a've
been a byword at kirk and market for nearness; a' did it a' an' bore it
a' for ma luve, an' for... ma luve a' wud hae dune ten times mair.
“Did ye ken wha it wes, Weelum?”
“Ye never mentioned her name, but a' jaloosed, an' there's nane like her
in the Glen--”
“No, nor in braid Scotland for me! She 'ill aye be the bonniest as weel
as the noblest o' weemen in ma een till they be stickit in deith. But ye
never saw Marget in her bloom, when the blossom wes on the tree, for a'
mind ye were awa in Edinburgh thae years, learning yir business.
“A' left the schule afore she cam, an' the first time a' ever kent
Marget richt wes the day she settled wi' her mither in the cottar's
hoose on Drumsheugh, an' she 's hed ma hert sin' that 'oor.
“It wesna her winsome face nor her gentle ways that drew me, Weelum; it
wes... her soul, the gudeness 'at lookit oot on the warld through yon
grey een, sae serious, thochtfu', kindly.
“Nae man cud say a rouch word or hae a ill thocht in her presence;
she made ye better juist tae hear her speak an' stan' aside her at the
wark. 'A' hardly ever spoke tae her for the three year she wes wi's, an'
a said na word o' luve. A' houpit some day tae win her, an' a' wes
mair than content tae hae her near me. Thae years were bitter tae me
aifterwards, but, man, a' wudna be withoot them noo; they 're a' the
time a' ever hed wi' Marget.
“A'm a-wearyin' ye, Weelum, wi' what can be little mair than havers tae
anither man.” But at the look on the doctor's face, he added, “A 'll
tell ye a' then, an'... a 'll never mention her name again. Ye 're the
only man ever heard me say 'Marget' like this.
“Weelum, a' wes a man thae days, an' thochts cam tae me 'at gared the
hert leap in ma breist, and ma blude rin like the Tochty in spate. When
a' drave the scythe through the corn in hairst, and Marget lifted the
gowden swathe ahint me, a' said, 'This is hoo a 'll toil an' fecht for
her a' the days o' oor life an' when she gied me the sheaves at the mill
for the threshin', 'This is hoo she 'ill bring a' guid things tae ma
hame.'
“Aince her hand touched mine--a' see a withered forget-me-not among the
aits this meenut--an'... that wes the only time a' ever hed her hand in
mine... a' hoddit the floor, an', Weelum, a' hev it tae this day.
“There's a stile on the road tae the hill, an' a hawthorn-trec at the
side o 't; it wes there she met ae sweet simmer evenin', when the corn
wes turnin' yellow, an' telt me they wud be leavin' their hoose at
Martinmas. Her face hed a licht on it a' hed never seen. 'A 'm tae be
marriet,' she said, 'tae William Howe.
“Puir lad, puir lad, aifter a' yir houps; did ye lat her ken?”
“Na, na; it wes ower late, an' wud only hae vexed her. Howe and her hed
been bairns thegither, an' a 've heard he wes kind tae her father when
he wes sober (weakly), an' so... he got her hert. A' cudna hae changed
her, but a' micht hae made her meeserable.
“A' leaned ower that stile for twa lang oors. Mony a time a 've been
there sin' then, by nicht and day. Hoo the Glen wud lauch, for a 'm no
the man they see. A' saw the sun gae doon that nicht, an' a' felt the
darkness fa' on me, an' a' kent the licht hed gane oot o' ma life for
ever.”
“Ye carried yersel like a man, though,” and the doctor's voice was full
of pride, “but ye 've hed a sair battle, Drum, an' nae man tae say weel
dune.”
“Dinna speak that wy, Weelum, for a 'm no say gude as ye 're thinkin';
frae that oor tae Geordie's illness a never spak ae word o' kindness
tae Marget, an' gin hatred wud hae killed him, she wud hae lost her
bridegroom.
“Gude forgie me,” and the drops stood on Drumsheugh's forehead. “When
Hoo cudna pay, and he wes tae be turned oot of Whinnie Knowe, a' lauched
tae masel, though there isna a kinder, simpler heart in the Glen than
puir Whinnie's. There maun be some truth in thae auld stories aboot a
deevil; he hed an awfu' grup o' me the end o' that year.
“But a' never hatit her; a' think a've luvit her mair every year; and
when a' thocht o' her trachlin' in some bit hoosie as a plooman's wife,
wha wes fit for a castle, ma hert wes melted.
“Gin she hed gien me her luve, wha never knew a' wantit it, a' wud hae
spilt ma blude afore ye felt care, an' though ye sees me naethin' but
a cankered, contrackit, auld carle this day, a' wud hae made her happy
aince, Weelum. A' wes different when a' wes young,” and Drumsheugh
appealed to his friend.
“Dinna misca' yersel tae me, Drum; it's nae use,” said the doctor, with
a shaky voice.
“Weel, it wesna tae be,” resumed Drumsheugh after a little; “a' cudna
be her man, but it seemed tae me ae day that a' micht work for Marget
a' the same, an' naebody wud ken. So a' gied intae Muirtown an' got a
writer--”
The doctor sprang to his feet in such excitement as was hardly known in
Drumtochty.
“What a fule ye 've made o' the Glen, Drumsheugh, and what a heepocrite
ye 've been. It wes you then that sent hame the money frae Ameriky 'at
cleared Whinnie's feet and set Marget and him up bien (plentiful) like
on their merrid,” and then Maclure could do the rest for himself without
assistance.
“It wud be you tae 'at started Whinnie again aifter the Pleuro took his
cattle, for he wes aye an unlucky wratch, an' if it wesna you that deed
oot in New York and sa vit him five years ago, when the stupid body pit
his name tae Piggie's bill. It's you 'at wes Whinnie's far-awa' cousin,
wha hed gotten rich and sent hame help through the lawyer, an' naebody
suspeckit onything.
“Drumsheugh”--and the doctor, who had been finding the room too
small for him, came to a halt opposite his friend--“ye 're the maist
accomplished leear 'at 's ever been born in Drumtochty, an'... the best
man a' ever saw. Eh, Drum,” and Maclure's voice sank, “hoo little we
kent ye. It's an awfu' peety Domsie didna hear o' this afore he slippit
awa'; a' can see him straichtenin' himsel at the story. Jamie Soutar
'ill be michty when he gets a haudo't....”
Twice Drumsheugh had tried to interrupt Maclure and failed, but now he
brought his hand down upon the table.
“Wud ye daur, Weelum, tae mention ae word a' hae telt ye ootside this
room? gin a' thocht he wes the man-” And Drumsheugh's face was blazing.
“Quiet, man, quiet! Ye ken a' wudna with-oot yir wull; but juist ae man,
Jamie Soutar. Ye 'ill lat me share 't wi' Jamie.”
“No even Jamie; an' a'm ashamed tae hae telt yersel, for it looks like
boastin'; an' aifter a' it wes a bit o' comfort tae me in ma cauldrife
life.
“It's been a gey lang trial, Weelum; ye canna think what it wes tae see
her sittin' in the kirk ilka Sabbath wi' her man, tae follow her face
in the Psalms, tae catch her een in the Saicrament, an' tae ken that a'
never wud say 'Marget' tae her in luve.
“For thirty year an' mair a 've studied her, an' seen her broon hair
that wes like gowd in the sunlight turn grey, and care score lines on
her face, b'it every year she 's comelier in ma een.
“Whinnie telt us his tribble aboot the bill in the kirkyard, an' a' saw
the marks o 't in her look. There wes a tear ran doon her cheek in the
prayer, an' a'... cud hae grat wi' her, an' then ma hert loupit wi' joy,
for a' thocht there 'll be nae tear next Sabbath.
“Whinnie got the siller frae his... cousin, ye ken, through the week,
an' settled his debt on Friday. A' met him on the street, an' made him
buy a silk goon for Marget:... a' gied wi' him tae choose it, for he's
little jidgment, Whinnie.”
“A' wes in the train that day masel,” broke in the doctor, “an' a' mind
Hillocks daffin' wi' ye that nae wumman cud get a goon oot o' you. Sic
fuies an' waur.”
“A' didna mind that, no ae straw, Weelum, for Marget wes ten year
younger next Sabbath, an' she wore ma goon on the Saicrament. A'
kent what bocht it, an' that was eneuch for me.
“It didna maitter what the Glen said, but ae thing gied tae ma hert, an'
thet wes Marget's thocht o' me... but a' daurna clear masel.
“We were stannin' thegither ae Sabbath”--Drumsheugh spoke as one giving
a painful memory, on which he had often brooded--“an' gaein' ower the
market, an' Hillocks says, 'A' dinna ken the man or wumman 'at 'ill
get a bawbee oot o' you, Drumsheugh. Ye 're the hardest lad in ten
parishes.'
“Marget passed that meenut tae the kirk, an'... a' saw her look. Na, it
wesna scorn, nor peety; it wes sorrow.... This wes a bien hoose in the
auld day when she wes on the fairm, an' she wes wae tae see sic a change
in me. A' hed tae borrow the money through the lawyer, ye ken, an' it
wes a fecht payin' it wi' interest. Aye, but it wes a pleesure tae, a'
that a'll ever hev, Weelum....”
“Did ye never want tae... tell her?” and the doctor looked curiously at
Drumsheugh.
“Juist aince, Weelum, in her gairden, an' the day Geordie deed. Marget
thankit me for the college fees and bit expenses a' hed paid. 'A
father cudna hae been kinder tae ma laddie,' she said, an' she laid her
hand on ma airm. 'Ye 're a gude man, a' see it clear this day, an'... ma
hert is... warm tae ye,' A' ran oot o' the gairden. A' micht hae broken
doon. Oh, gin Geordie hed been ma ain laddie an' Marget... ma wife.”
Maclure waited a little, and then he quietly left, but first he laid his
hand on his friend's shoulder to show that he understood.
After he had gone, Drumsheugh opened his desk and took out a withered
flower. He pressed it twice to his lips, and each time he said Marget
with a sob that rent his heart. It was the forget-me-not.