NARROW circumstances and high spirit drove forth some half-dozen young
men and women from the Glen every year, to earn their living in the
cities of the South. They carried with them, as a working capital,
sound education, unflagging industry, absolute integrity, and an undying
attachment to Drumtochty. Their one necessary luxury was a weekly copy
of the _Muirtown Advertiser_, which four servant lasses would share
between them and circulate at church doors, carefully wrapt in a page of
some common daily, and their one hour of unmixed enjoyment its careful
perusal, column by column, from the first word to the last. It would
have been foolishness to omit the advertisements, for you might have
missed the name of Drumsheugh in connection with a sale of stirks;
and although at home no Drumtochty person allowed himself to take an
interest in the affairs of Kildrummie or Netheraird, yet the very names
of neighbouring parishes sounded kindly at the distance of Glasgow.
One paragraph was kept for the last, and read from six to twelve times,
because it was headed Drumtochty, and gave an account of the annual
ploughing match, or the school examination, or the flower show, or a
winter lecture, when Jamie Soutar had proposed the vote of thanks. Poor
little news and names hard of pronunciation-; but the girl sitting alone
by the kitchen fire--her fellow servants gone to bed--or the settler
in the far Northwest--for he also got his _Advertiser_ after long
delays--felt the caller air blowing down the Glen, and saw the sun
shining on the Tochty below the mill, and went up between the pinks
and moss-roses to the dear old door--ah me! the click of the garden
gate--and heard again the sound of the Hundredth Psalm in the parish
kirk.
If one wished to take a complete census of our people in Glasgow, he had
only to attend when Doctor Davidson preached on the fast day, and make
his way afterwards to the vestry door.
“There's a gude puckle fouk waitin' tae see ye, sir,” the city beadle
would say to the doctor, with much ceremony; “a'm judgin' they 're frae
yir ain pairish. Is it yir wull they be admitted?”
Then in they came, craftsmen in stone and iron, clerks in offices
and students from the University, housemaids and working men's wives,
without distinction of persons, having spent the last ten minutes in
exchanging news and magnifying the sermon. The doctor gave a Christian
name to each, and some personal message from the Glen, while they, in
turn, did their best to reduce his hand to pulp, and declared aloud
that preaching like his could not be got outside Drumtochty, to the huge
delight of Bigheart, minister of the church, who was also a Chaplain to
the Queen and all Scotland.
The Dispersion endured any sacrifice to visit the old Glen, and made
their appearance from various places, at regular intervals, like Jews
coming up to Jerusalem. An exile was careful to arrive at Muirtown
Station on a Friday afternoon, so that he might join the Drumtochty
contingent on their way home from market. It is not to be supposed,
however, that there was any demonstration when he showed himself on
the familiar platform where Drumtochty men compared notes with other
parishes at the doors of the Dunleith train.
“Is that you, Robert? ye 'ill be gaein' wast the nicht,” was the only
indication Hillocks would give before the general public that he had
recognised young Netherton after three years' absence, and then he would
complete his judgment on the potato crop as if nothing had happened.
“Ye're there, aifter a', man; a' wes feared the sooth train micht be
late,” was all the length even Netherton's paternal feelings would carry
him for the time; “did ye see that yir box wes pit in the van?” and the
father and son might travel in different compartments to the Junction.
Drumtochty retained still some reticence, and did not conduct its
emotions in public, but it had a heart. When the van of the Dunleith
train had cleared the Junction and Drumtochty was left to itself--for
Kildrummie did not really count--it was as when winter melts into
spring.
“Hoo are ye, Robert, hoo are ye? gied tae see ye,” Drumsheugh would say,
examining the transformed figure from head to foot; “man, a' wud
hardly hae kent ye. Come awa an' gie 's yir news,” and the head of the
commonwealth led the way to our third with Robert, Drumtochty closing in
behind.
Preliminaries were disposed of in the run to Kildrummie, and as the
little company made their way through the pine woods, and down one side
of the Glen, and over the Tochty bridge, and up the other slope to the
parting of the ways, Robert was straitly questioned about the magnitude
of the work he did in Glasgow, and the customs of the people, and the
wellbeing of every single Drumtochty person in that city, and chiefly as
to the sermons he had heard, their texts and treatment. On Sabbath the
group at the kirk door would open up at Robert's approach, but he would
only nod in a shamefaced way to his friends and pass on; for it was
our etiquette that instead of remaining to gossip, a son should on such
occasions go in with his mother and sit beside her in the pew, who on
her part would mistake the psalm that he might find it for her, and
pay such elaborate attention to the sermon that every one knew she was
thinking only of her son.
If a Drumtochty man distinguished himself in the great world, then the
Glen invested his people with vicarious honour, and gathered greedily
every scrap of news. Piggie Walker himself, although only an associate
of the parish by marriage and many transactions, would not have visited
David Ross in the Upper Glen, with a view to potatoes, without inquiring
for David's son the Professor; and after the sale was effected that
astute man would settle down with genuine delight to hear the last
letter, dated from a Colonial University and containing an account of
the Professor's new discovery.
It was Piggie that asked for the letter; David would not have offered to
read it for a year's rent. Drumtochty parents with promising sons lived
in terror lest secret pride should give them away and they be accused
behind their backs of “blawing,” which in a weaker speech is translated
boasting.
David considered, with justice, that they ought to take special care,
and tried to guide his wife with discretion.
“We maun be cannie wi' John's title, wum-man, for ye ken Professor is a
by-ordinar' word; a' coont it equal tae Earl at the verra least; an' it
wudna dae tae be aye usin' 't.
“Ye micht say't aince in a conversation, juist lettin' it slip oot by
accident this wy, the Professor wes sayin' in his laist letter--a'
mean, oor son in Australy'--but a' wud ca' him John at ither times.
Pride's an awfu' mischief, Meg.”
“Ye 're as prood as a'm masel, David, and there's nae use ye scoldin' at
me for giein' oor laddie the honour he won wi' his brain an' wark,” and
the mother flared up. “A'm no feared what the neeburs say. Professor he
is, an' Professor a 'll ca' him; ye 'ill maybe be sayin' Jock next, tae
show ye 're humble.”
“Dinna tak me up sae shairp, gude wife, or think a' wud mak little o'
John; but the Al-michty hesna gien ilka faimily a Professor, an' a'm no
wantin' tae hurt oor neeburs, an' them sae ta'en up wi' him themsels.
Ye micht read his laist letter again, wumman; there's a bit a've near
forgotten.”
Meg went to the drawers where she kept the clothes he wore as a boy, and
the silk dress he gave her when he received his great appointment, and
the copies of his books bound in morocco, which he sent home with this
inscription:
“To my Father and Mother.
“From the Author;” and every scrap of paper about him and from him she
had ever received.
The letter is taken from an old stocking, and, as she pretends to some
difficulty in finding the place, Meg is obliged to read it for the
forty-ninth time throughout from the name of the University at the head
to the signature:
“Heart's love to you both from
“Your ever affectionate son,
“John Ross.”
David makes as though he had missed a word now and again in order
to prolong the pleasure.
It was not hard to tell that he had such a letter in his pocket on the
'Sabbath, for the kirkyard was very cunning in its sympathy.
“Hoo's the Professor keepin' when ye heard laist, Bogleigh?” Drumsheugh
would say, skilfully leading up to the one subject, and careful to give
David his territorial designation, although it was a very small farm
indeed, “he 'ill send a scrape o' the pen at a time, a 'm ex-peckin',
gin he hes a meenut tae spare.”
“Busy or no busy,” answers Bogleigh, “he maks time tae write hame. His
mither hes hed a letter frae John aince a week withoot fail sin he left
Bogleigh a laddie o' saxteen for Edinburgh.
“They 're no juist twa or three lines, aither, but sax an' aught
sheets,” continued David, warming. “An' the names, they cowe a'thing for
length an' leamin'. Wud ye believe it, the Professor tells his mither
every article he writes, and a' the wark he dis.
“He wes tellin's laist letter aboot some graund discovery he's
feenished, an' they 're threatenin' tae gie him a new title for't. A'm
no juist sure what it means, but it disna maitter, gin the laddie dis
his duty and keep his health,” and David affected to close the subject.
“It's fell warm the day.”
“Ye 'll no hae that letter on ye, Bogie?” inquired Jamie Soutar
anxiously. “Gin ye cud pit yir hand on't, the neeburs wud like tae hear
whatna honour the Professor's gotten.”
“Na, na, Jamie, it disna dae for a body tae be deavin' (deafening) the
countryside wi' clavers aboot his bairns; if it hedna been Drumsheugh
speirin' for John a' wudna hae said a word, but a'm muckle obleeged,
and sae is the laddie, for a' mind hoo he wrote, 'My respects to the
neighbours on Sabbath.'”
“That wes rael handsome,” began Whinnie, much impressed by “respects,”
“but a' mind the Professor was aye a douce--”
“Div ye think, Bogleigh, that the Professor belongs tae yersel noo an'
the gude wife,” broke in Jamie, “juist as if he were some ordinar' man?
Na, na; gin a laddie gaes up frae the Glen tae the University, an' comes
oot at the tap o' his classes, bringin' hame three medals ilka spring,
an' opens secret things in nature that naebody kent afore, an' is
selected by Government tae foond places o' learnin' ayont the sea, that
laddie belangs tae Drumtochty.
“Div ye mind the day his life wes in the London _Times_, and Drumsheugh
read it at the Junction? 'This eminent man of science was born at
Drumtochty in Perthshire, and received his early education at the parish
school.'”
“Ye hae't tae a word, Jamie,” said Drumsheugh, and passed his box, in
name of the Glen, as it were, to Domsie.
“Oor standin' measure,” concluded Jamie, “leavin' oot Airchie Moncur and
masel, will rin tae aboot sax feet, but a' coontit that we gaed up the
hill that nicht wi' fower inches a man tae spare. Whar 's that letter,
Bogleigh?”
After a feint of seeking it in his trousers, where he was as likely to
carry it as the family Bible, David produced it from an inner breast
pocket, wrapped in newspaper, and handed it to Domsie without a word.
“Div ye want me tae read it?”--as if this had not been the
schoolmaster's due. “Weel, weel, a 'll dae ma best,” and then Domsie
laid himself out to do justice to the Professor's letter, while
Drumtochty wagged its head in admiration.
“Fellow of the Royal Society,” and Domsie became solemn to the height of
reverence; “this cowes a'thing. A'm credibly informed that this is the
highest honour given tae leam-in' in oor land; a 'ill be boond the 'll
no be anither F.R.S. in sax coonties; may be no mair than twa or three
in braid Scotland.”
“It's the graundest thing the Glen's dune yet,” and Jamie took up the
strain; “he 's M.A. already, an' some ither letters; ye cudna rin them
ower?”
Then Domsie gave John Ross's degrees one by one. “That comes tae five,
makin' nae mention o' ither honours; there's thirty-one degrees in the
Glen the noo, and John heads the list, if a' micht call a Professor by a
laddie's name.”
“Wha hes a better richt?” said the father, with much spirit; “ye laid
the foondation o't a', an' he often said that himsel.”
Opinion differed whether David or Domsie looked prouder in kirk that
day, but Jamie inclined to Domsie, whom he had detected counting the
degrees over again during the chapter.
Four Sundays after David appeared in the kirkyard with such woe upon
his face that Drumsheugh could only imagine one reason, and omitted
preliminaries.
“Naethin' wrang wi' the Professor, Bogleigh?” and Domsie held his pinch
in mid air.
“John wes deein' when this letter left, an' noo he 'ill maybe... be
dead an' buried... his mither an' me were ower prood o' him, but ye ken
hoo... gude,” and the old man broke down utterly.
They looked helplessly at one another, averting their gaze from the
Professors father, and then Drumsheugh took hold of the situation.
“This is no lichtsome, Dauvid, an' the neeburs share yir tribble, but
dinna gie up houp and then Drumsheugh read the letter from Australia,
while Hillocks and Whinnie, turning their backs on David, sheltered his
grief from public view.
“Dear Mr. Ross,--You will have noticed that the last letter from my
friend Dr. Ross was written in a feeble hand. He was laid down about
three weeks ago with what has turned out to be typhoid fever, and ought
not to have seen paper. But we considered the case a mild one, and he
was determined to send his usual letter home. Now the disease has taken
a bad turn, and he is quite delirious, mentioning his mother and his old
schoolmaster by turns, and thinking that he is again in Drumtochty.
His colleagues in medicine are consulting twice a day about him, and
everything will be done for one we all admire and love. But he is
very low, and I think it right to prepare you for what may be bad
news.--Believe me, with much respect, yours faithfully,
“Frederick St. Clair.”
“A 've seen a mair cheerfu' letter,” and Drumsheugh looked at the
fathers from above his spectacles; “but it micht be waur. A 'll
guarantee the Professor 's no as far through wi 't as Saunders, an'
yonder he is alive and livin' like,” nodding in the direction where
that brawny man propped up the gable of the kirk with his shoulders and
maintained a massive silence with Tammas Mitchell.
“Nae doot, nae doot,” said Hillocks, deriving just encouragement from
the study of Saunders's figure; “aifter the wy Weelum Maclure brocht
Saunders through a' wud houp for the best gin a' wes Bogleigh.”
“Sae a' wud, neeburs,” and David came forth again, “gin we hed oor
laddie at hame an' oor ain man tae guide him. But there's nae Weelum
Maclure oot yonder--naebody but strangers.”
“We micht ask the doctor tae pit up a prayer,” suggested Hillocks; “it
cudna dae ony mischief, an' it's aye a comfort.”
“He daurna dae't,” cried David, whose mind was quickened by grief;
“it 'ill be a' ower lang syne, an' it 's no lawfu' tae pray for... the
dead.”
“Dinna be feared, Bogie,” said Jamie; “the doctor'ill tak the
responsibeelity himsel, and ye may be sure he 'ill get some road oot
o' the wood. It wud be a puir kirk the day gin we cudna plead wi' the
Almichty for oor Professor.”
“Ye hae the word, Jamie,” said Drumsheugh, “an' a 'll gang in an' tell
the doctor masel;” but Whinnie confessed afterwards that he thought this
prayer beyond even the doctor.
It followed the petition for the harvest, and this was how it ran--the
Free Kirk people had it word for word by Monday--
“Remember, we beseech Thee, most merciful Father, a father and mother
who wait with anxious hearts for tidings of their only son, and grant
that, before this week be over, Thy servant who is charged with many
messages to this parish may bring to them good news from a far country.”
“Didna a' tell ye?” triumphed Jamie, going down to the gate, while
Posty, who had required the whole length of the sermon to recognise
himself, departed, much lifted, declaring aloud:
“The 'll be nae black edge in the bag next Friday, or a'm no postman o'
Drumtochty.”
Letters for Bogleigh were left about two o'clock in a box on the main
road two miles distant, and brought up by the scholars in the evening;
but it was agreed early in the week that David and his wife should go
down and receive the letter from Posty's own hands on Friday. In order
not to be late, Meg rose at four that morning--but indeed she need not
have gone to bed--and by eight o'clock was afraid they might be late.
Three times she took out and rearranged her treasures, and three times
broke down utterly, because she would never see her laddie again. They
followed Posty from his start outwards, and were comforted about eleven
with the thought that he was on the return journey.
“He's fairly aff for hame noo, wumman,” David would say, “an' wheepin'
through Neth-eraird; he's no mair than ten mile awa, a'll warrant, an'
he's a terrible walker.”
“He 'ill surely no be tastin' at the Netheraird public-hoose, Dauvid,
an' loiterin'; a've kent him no be at the box till half three.”
“Na, na, there's nae fear o' Posty the day; a'll be boond he's savin'
every meenut; ye mind hoo prood he wes tae bring the letter wi' the
Professor's appintment.”
“Isn't it michty tae think we 're pittin' aff the time here,” and Meg
began to get ready, “when he's maybe in the pairish already?”
It was exactly a quarter past twelve when the two old people sat down
in the shadow of the firs above the box to wait for the first sight of
Posty.
“A' daurna meet him, Dauvid, aifter a',” she said; “we 'ill juist watch
him pit the letter in, and slip doon when he's gane, an'... oh! but a'
ken what it 'ill be.”
“A'm expeckin tae hear John's on the mend masel,” said David manfully,
and he set himself to fortify his wife with Saunders's case and the
doctor's prayer, till she lifted her head again and watched.
A summer wind passed over the pines, the wood-pigeons cooed above
their heads, rabbits ran out and in beside them, the burn below made a
pleasant sound, a sense of the Divine Love descended on their hearts.
“The Aimichty,” whispered Meg, “'ill surely no tak awa oor only bairn...
an' him dune sae weel... an' sae gude a son... A' wes coontin' on him
comin' hame next year... an' seein' him aince mair... afore a' deed.”
A bread cart from Kildrummie lumbered along the road. Maclure passed on
Jess at a sharp trot. A company of tourists returning from Glen Urtach
sang “Will ye no come back again?” Donald Menzies also sang as he
brought a horse from the smiddy, but it was a psalm--
“I to the hills will lift my eyes,
From whence doth come mine aid.”
“Can ye no see him yet, Dauvid? a' doot he 's hed an accident; it maun
be lang past the 'oor noo. Yonder he is.”
But it was only a tramp, who hesitated at the foot of the upland road,
and then continued his way to the village, careless who lived or died,
so that he had meat and drink.
Round the distant corner Posty came at last, half an hour before his
time and half a mile the hour above his common speed.
“Wull ye gang doon, Meg?”
“A' canna; bring't up tae me when he's past,” and she sat down again and
covered her face; “tell me gin it 's come.”
Posty halted and swung round his bag; he took out the packet of
road-side letters and dropped four into the box without attention; then
he kept a fifth in his hands and hesitated; he held it up against the
light as if he would have read its contents.
“He's got it, an', Meg, wumman, a' dinna see... ony black on 't.”
Posty looked at his watch, and said aloud:
“A 'll risk the time; it 'ill no tak mair than an 'oor,” and he leaped
the dyke.
“Lord's sake, Bogleigh, is that you? A' wes thinkin' o' whuppin'
round yir wy the day for a change; in fac,” and Posty's effort at in
difference collapsed, “word's come frae Australy.”
“Wull ye... open't for's? ma hand's... no verra steady, an' the gude
wife... hesna her glesses.”
“Mr. David Ross,
“Farmer,
“Bogleigh,
“Drumtochty,
“Scotland.”
read Posty, with official importance; “that's a' richt, at ony rate.”
“He aye sent it tae his mither himsel; juist read the beginning Posty...
that 'ill be eneuch.” And David fixed his eyes on the letter, while Meg
dared not breathe.
“It affords me unspeakable satisfaction,” began Posty, in a low voice,
and then he suddenly lifted it up in victory, “to send good news. The
very day I wrote the worst symptoms disappeared, and your son is now on
the way to recovery.”
“There 's fower pages, an' a' can read, 'no cause now for alarm, but
ye canna better the affset. A' kent what it wud be; the doctor said gude
news in his prayer, and that's the verra word.
“Here, Mistress Ross, is the letter, for Bog-leigh's no fit tae tak
chairge o 't.... Me? A 've dune naethin' but cairry it.
“A 'll no deny, though, a' wud hae liket fine tae hev seen the inside
o't doon bye; sall, as sune as a' passed the boondary o' the pairish
the fouk set on me, but a' cud say naethin' mair than this, 'There's an
Australy letter, and it's no black-edged.'
“A'm aff noo,” buckling his bag, for Mrs. Ross had risen and was
threatening to seize his hand; “an' it 's worth gaein' up the Glen the
day wi' sic news. A 'll warrant Domsie's on the road lang syne. Ye 'ill
hae the Professor wi' ye in the Kirk again, gude wife, an' the neeburs
'ill be prood tae see ye baith gang in the-gither,” and Posty leapt into
the road like a four-year-old.
Beginning at the manse, and continuing unto Drumsheugh, there was not a
house along the road where Posty did not give a cry that day, and it was
affirmed on credible evidence in the kirkyard next Sabbath that he stood
upon a dyke and made Hillocks understand at the distance of two fields'
breadth that Drumtochty had still a Professor.