Each community has its own etiquette, and in an advanced state of
civilisation such beautiful words as “Mister” and “Missus” are on every
one's tongue, some lonely Northerner perhaps saying “Mistress,” to the
amusement of footmen and other persons of refinement. While Drumtochty
was in its natural state, and the influence of Southern culture had
scarcely begun to play on its simplicity, we had other forms of speech.
It was good manners to call a farmer by his place, and had any one
addressed Hillocks as Mr. Stirton, that worthy man would have been much
startled. Except on envelopes, full-length names were reserved for the
heading of roups and the death column in newspapers, and so had acquired
a flavour of ceremonious solemnity. Ploughmen were distinguished by
their Christian names in some easy vernacular form, and the sudden
introduction of the surname could only be justified by a furrow that
suggested the segment of a circle or a return from Kildrummie fair minus
a cart and two horses. His lordship might notice Drumsheugh's foreman
as he passed with a “Busy as usual, Baxter,” and not be suspected of
offence, but other men had said “Fine fillin' day, Saunders,” to which
Saunders would have most likely deigned no answer save a motion of the
right shoulder. Dignitaries had their titles by prescriptive right, the
parish minister being “Doctor” and the schoolmaster “Dominie,” but only
one man in the Glen had the distinction of a diminutive, and it was a
standing evidence of his place in our hearts.
It was mentioned with relish that a Muirtown merchant raiding for honey,
having inquired of Whinnie Knowe where Mr. James Soutar lived, had been
gravely informed that no person of that name lived in the parish, and
would have departed to search for him in Kildrummie had he not chanced
on Drumsheugh.
“Div ye mean Jamie?” and when Hillocks met him two miles further on he
was still feasting on the incident.
“He said 'Mister James Soutar' as sure as ye're lookin' me in the face,
Hillocks,” and both tasted the humour of the situation, which owed
nothing to artifice, but sprang from the irony of circumstances.
“Jamie,” ejaculated Drumsheugh, and a flood of recollections--scenes,
stories, incidents--swept across his face. Had he been a Kil-drummie
man, he would have laughed at the things he heard and saw.
“Sal,” wound up Hillocks, who had been tasting the same passed in
silence, “he's an awfu' body, Jamie; ye'ill no get the marra (equal) of
him in six pairishes.”
Drumtochty did not ground its admiration of Jamie on his personal
appearance, which lent itself to criticism and suggested a fine
carelessness on the part of nature. His head was too large for his body,
and rested on his chest. One shoulder had a twist forward which invested
Jamie with an air of aggression. His legs were constructed on the
principle that one knee said to the other, If you let me pass this time,
I 'll let you pass next time.
“Gin ye were juist tae luke at Jamie, ye micht ca' him a shachlin'
(shambling) cratur,” Drumsheugh once remarked, leaving it to be inferred
that the understanding mind could alone appreciate him, and that in
this matter Drumtochty walked by faith and not by sight. His rate of
progression was over four miles an hour, but this method was sideways,
and was so wonderful, not to say impressive, that even a phlegmatic
character like Drumsheugh's Saunders had been known to follow
Jamie's back view till it disappeared, and then to say “michty,” with
deliberation. Young animals that developed any marked individuality in
gait were named after Jamie without offence, and were understood to have
given pledges of intelligence, since it was believed that nature worked
on the principle of compensation.
“There's been an oversicht aboot Jamie's legs, but there's naethin'
wrang wi' his tongue,” and it was the general judgment that it did not
“shachle.”
Jamie's gift of speech was much aided by eyes that were enough to redeem
many defects in the under building. They were blue--not the soft azure
of the South, but the steely colour of a Scottish loch in sunshine, with
a north-east wind blowing--a keen, merciless, penetrating blue. It gave
a shock to find them fastened on one when he did not know Jamie was
paying any attention and they sobered him in an instant. Fallacies,
cant, false sentiment, and every form of unreality shrivelled up before
that gaze, and there were times one dared not emerge from the shelter of
the multiplication table. He had a way of watching an eloquent stranger
till the man's sentences fell to pieces and died away in murmurs before
he said “Ay, ay,” that was very effective; and when he repeated this
deliverance, after a pause of thirty seconds, even Whinnie understood
that the kirkyard had been listening to nonsense.
It seems yesterday that Milton--who had come into the Glen a month
before from Muirtown, and visited the two churches to detect errors
for two months--was explaining the signs of true religion to the silent
kirkyard, when he caught Jamie's eye and fell away into the weather, and
the minister of Kildrummie's son, who was preaching for the doctor, and
winding up his sermon with an incredible anecdote, came under the spell
at the distance of the pulpit, and only saved himself by giving out
a psalm. The man who passed Jamie's eye was true to the backbone, and
might open his mouth in any place.
Every man requires room for the play of his genius, and it was generally
agreed that Jamie, who had pricked many wind bags, came to his height in
dealing with Milton.
“Milton wes faithfu' wi' ye in the third comin' up frae the Junction
on Friday nicht, a'm hearin', Drumsheugh; the fouk say ye were that
affeckit ye cud hardly gie yir ticket tae Peter.”
“He's the maist barefaced (impudent) wratch that's ever been seen in
this Glen,” and Drumsheugh went at large; “he 'ill ask ye questions
nae man hes ony richt tae pit tae neebur. An' a wakely cratur as weel,
greetin' an' whinin' like a bairn.”
“A 'm astonished at ye,” said Jamie in grave rebuke, “an' you an elder.
Ye sud be thankfu' sic a gude man hes come tae the pairish. There's
naethin' but dry banes, he says, but he's ex-peckin' tae roose us afore
he's dune.
“He's no feared, a 'll admit,” continued Jamie, “but a'm no sae sure
that he 's wakely; ye didna hear o' him an' his pairtner in the cloth
shop at Muirtown.”
The kirkyard thirsted for the news.
“Weel, ye see, the pairtner pit in five hun-dert, an' Milton pit
in five, and they cairried on business for sax year thegither. They
separated laist spring, an' Milton cam oot wi' a thoo sand an' the
pairtner wi' naethin'.
“Milton hed been sairly tried wi' the ither man's warldliness, walkin'
on Sabbath an' sic-like, an' he wes sayin' in the train that he felt
like Jacob wi' Esau all the time. It's grand tae hae the poor o' Bible
illustration. A thoo-sand wud juist stock Milton fine, an' leave a note
or twa in the bank.
“What a'm feared for is that some misguided Drumtochty man micht try tae
tak advantage o' Milton in a bargain an' get a jidgment. Providence, ye
ken, watches ower thae simple-minded craturs, an' it's juist wunnerfu'
hoo they come aff in the end. But a'm dootin' that he's no strong; he
hes tae tak care o' himsel.”
As the fathers waited patiently for more, Jamie continued in his most
casual tone:
“He cairried a box in his hand Friday a week, an' pit it ablow the seat
in the kerridge; it wes aboot auchteen inches square and nine deep, an'
markit 'Hoggs' Patent Soap;' thae new soaps are brittle; a' dinna wunner
he wes carefu'.
“Ye sud hae heard him on the drinkin' at Muirtown market an' the duty of
total abstinence; he wantit Hillocks tae tak the pledge at the Junction,
but Drumtochty fouk's dour an' ill tae manage.
“Milton wes that agitat when he got tae Kildrummie that he lat his box
fa' on the platform; a' wes juist wunnerin' whether they sell soap in
bottles noo, when he said, 'It 's ma medee-cine, for the circulation o'
the blood; a 'm a frail vessel.'
“A' thocht that we micht hae been kinder tae Milton, an' him sic a
sufferer; twelve quart bottles is a sair allowance o' medeecine for ae
puir man,” and a far-away look came into Jamie's face.
Jamie's interest in Milton deepened every week, till he seemed to
charge himself with the vindication of Milton's character against all
aspersions, and its interpretation to a critical public. When it passed
round Kildrummie fair that that guileless man had landed a cow on Mary
Robertson at a high price, which was fair to look upon, but had a fixed
objection to giving milk, Jamie declared it was an invention of the
enemy, and assured Milton of his unshaken confidence in the presence of
seven solemnised neighbours.
“Some ill-set wratches,” he apologised to Milton, “canna bear the sicht
o' a raelly gude man, an' are aye gettin' up stories aboot him. Tae
think ye wud cheat a puir wumman aboot a coo.”
“We maun juist bear reproach,” began Milton, with his best accent.
“Na, na, a' said tae them,” and Jamie refused to listen, “ye needna tell
me ony sic stories. Milton is no an ordinary professor, an' he kens his
Bible. Div ye think he's forgotten the passage aboot robbin' the widow?”
“Ye're makin' a mistak--”
“Ma verra words, Milton, 'It's been a mistak,' a' said, 'an' the meenut
he finds it oot, Milton 'ill gie back the money. What richt hae ye tae
consider him little better than a twa-faced heepocrite?'”
“There's no a man in the Glen wud hae got Mary's notes back frae Milton
but yersel, Jamie,” said Drumsheugh, celebrating the achievement in the
kirkyard next Sabbath. “There's a michty poor in a nippy tongue.”
Milton lost his second wife shortly after he came to the Glen, and it
fell to Jamie to explain the widower's feelings to the fathers.
“'It 's a sair dispensation,' he said tae me, 'an' comes heavy when the
calves are young; but we maunna complain. There's aye mercy mingled wi'
judgment. She micht hae been taken afore she hed got the hoose in order.
“'A 'm houpin' for the best, an' a' think the root o' the maitter wes in
her; there wes times a' wud hae liked tae hear a clearer testimony, but
we hevna a' the same gifts, an' there's nae doot she wes savin' wi' the
gear.
“'She expressed hersel as thankfu' for oor merridge, an' considered it
a priveelege; but ma first wes mair experienced in doctrine, and hed
a gift o' prayer, though fractious in temper at a time. Ye canna get
a'thing, ye ken.'
“He hes a photograph o' the laist ane abune the fireplace in a frame wi'
an inscription, an' he wipit his eyes an' says, 'We maun look up, ma
freend, an' be resigned; it's an awfu' job tae ideelize the creature.'
“'Ye'ill no dae weel withoot a wife here, Milton,' says I; 'hoosekeepers
are dear, an' ye 'ill never get the wark o' yir wife oot of ane; it wes
maybe a peety ye lat her trachle (fatigue) hersel when she wesna strong,
but gin a man be busy wi' speeritual affairs he disna notice,' an' a'
askit him if he wes thinkin' o' a third.”
“Did ye dae that, Jamie?” said Hillocks, “an' her no gane a month.
Milton 'ill think us a gey hard-hearted set in Drumtochty,” and the
fathers looked as if Jamie had gone too far.
“He 's no hed ony time tae think o 't yet,” continued Jamie, quietly,
“an' is tae leave himsel in the hands o' Providence. 'I 'll be guidit,
nae doot, an' a' maun juist wait.' His langidge wes beautiful tae hear.
'Half the rent o' Milton 'ill need tae come oot the dairy, but we maun
mairry in the Lord.' He wes sair affeckit a' left, and speakin' aboot
'Mama.' A' gie him sax months masel.”
“Yir tongue got the better o' ye that day, a' doot, Jamie,” and
Hillocks, who had married twice with fair pecuniary success, was
distinctly nettled. “What 's a man tae dae with-oot a wife tae haud
things in aboot an' see tae the hens? Forbye, bein' company,” throwing
in a sentimental consideration.
“Gin a man wants a woman tae gither eggs an' sew buttons on his sark
(shirt), he micht mairry twal times rinnin', an' naebody need say a
word. But what richt hes sic a man tae speak o' wife or... luve? He's
juist a po-leegamist.”
“Lord's sake,” ejaculated Hillocks, and the kirkyaird felt that this was
very wild talk indeed, and even personal.
“Naethin' else,” and Jamie's voice vibrated with a new note. “Gin a man
gaes afore his family tae America tae mak a hame for them, an' leaves
his wife here for a whilie, is he no mairrit? Wud he mairry another wife
oot there tae keep his hoose, an' say he hed juist ae wife because the
sea wes rollin' atween the twa women?”
“He daurna,” replied Whinnie, who never saw six inches ahead; “the
polis----” But Drumsheugh waved him to silence.
“Weel, gin the woman leaves the man an' passes intae the ither warld, is
she deid, think ye, neeburs, an' is she no' his wife? An' mair nor that,
are the twa no' nearer than ever, an'... dearer?
“Ye 'ill be sayin' in yir hearts, it 's no for Jamie Soutar tae be
speakin' like this, him at 's been alane a' his days; but a've ma ain
thochts, an' the deepest thing, ay, and the bonniest, in the warld is a
man an' a wumman ane in luve for ever.”
Jamie turned round and went into the kirk hurriedly, but Drumsheugh
lingered behind for a minute with Dr. Maclure, who was making his
quarterly attendance.
“What think ye o' that, Weelum? It bore a wee hard on Hillocks, but
it wes michty speakin' an' gared (made) the blood rin. Jamie's a hard
wratch ootside, but he's gude stuff inside.”
“Did ye ever notice, Drum, that Jamie hes hed a black band on his
Sabbath hat as far back as a' can mind? A' his freends are deid mair
than thirty year syne. Wha 's it for, think ye? A 'm thinkin' naebody
'ill get tae the boddom o' Jamie till he fins oot the meanin' o'that
band.”
“Ye may be richt, Weelum, an' a've wunnered tae, but Jamie 'ill never
tell; he hes his ain secret, an' he 'ill keep it.” The two men followed
their neighbours, and Drumsheugh said to himself, “Puir Jamie; the auld
story.”
The kirkyard kept Jamie in exercise, but it was on one of our rare
public occasions that he made history, and two of his exploits are still
subject of grateful recollection, and a bond between Drumtochty men in
foreign parts. One was the vote of thanks to the temperance lecturer who
had come, with the best intentions, to reform the Glen, and who, with
the confidence of a youthful Southern and a variable hold of the letter
aitch, used great freedom of speech. He instructed us all, from Doctor
Davidson in the chair down to the smith, whom he described as “an
intelligent hartisan,” and concluded with a pointed appeal to Domsie to
mend his ways and start a Band of Hope in the school.
“Solomon says, 'Train up a child in the way that he should go, and when
he is old he will never depart from it;' and I 'll apply these words to
the Glen of Drumtochty, 'Train hup a child to 'ate the bottle, and when
he is old he 'ill never depart from it;'” and the lecturer sat down in a
silence that might be heard.
There was something approaching a rustle when Jamie rose to propose the
vote of thanks--several charging themselves with snuff in haste, that a
word might not be lost--and no one was disappointed.
“Doctor Davidson an' neeburs,” said Jamie, “it wudna be richt that this
young gentleman sud come sae far o' his ain accord and give us sic a
faithfu' address withoot oor thanks, although he 'ill excuse us puir
country fouk for no bein' able to speak his beautiful English.
“We a' admired his ingenious application o' Proverbs, an' he may be
sure that nane o' us 'ill forget that new Proverb as lang as we live; a'
micht say that it 'ill be a household word in the Glen.
“Gin it's no presumption tae say it, it's verra interestin' tae see hoo
much experience the lecturer hes for his years in the up bringing o'
bairns, and a' mak nae doot the learned bodies in the Glen, as well as
the parents, 'ill lay his words tae heart.
“There wes a man in a glen north-bye,” modestly offering an anecdote for
the lecturer's future use, “'at wes sober (ill), an' the doctor, wha wes
a verra ignorant man, said he wud need a small tastin' tae keep up his
strength. But the man wes of the lecturer's persuasion, and wud drink
nothing but water. The weather wes terrible cold, and one day, juist
five minutes aifter he hed his mornin' gless of water, the man died.
When they opened him it wes found that he hed frozen up inch by inch,
and the laist gless had juist turned tae ice in his throat. It wes sic
a noble instance o' conscientious adherence tae principle that a' thocht
a' wud mention it for the lecturer's encouragement.” And when Jamie
sat down the audience were looking before them with an immovable
countenance, and the doctor held out his silver snuff box to Jamie
afterwards with marked consideration.
It is, however, generally agreed that Jamie's most felicitous stroke was
his guileless response to the humiliating invitation of a lay preacher,
who had secured the use of the Free Kirk, and held a meeting under
Milton's auspices.
“Now, my dear friends,” said the good man, a half-pay Indian Colonel,
with a suspicion of sunstroke, “all who wish to go to heaven stand
up,” and Drumtochty rose in a solid mass, except Lachlan Campbell, who
considered the preacher ignorant of the very elements of doctrine, and
Jamie, who was making a study of Milton with great enjoyment.
Much cheered by this earnest spirit, the Colonel then asked any
Drumtochty man (or woman) who wished to go elsewhere to declare himself
after the same fashion.
No one moved for the space of thirty seconds, and the preacher was about
to fall back on general exhortation, when Jamie rose in his place and
stood with great composure.
“You surely did not understand what I said, my aged friend.”
Jamie indicated that he had thoroughly grasped the Colonel's meaning.
“Do you really mean that you are ready to... go....where I mentioned?”
“A 'm no anxious for sic a road,” said Jamie, blandly, “but a' cudna
bear tae see ye stannin' alane, and you a stranger in the pairish,” and
Drumtochty, which had been taken unawares and was already repenting a
weak concession, went home satisfied.
Hillocks was so drawn to Jamie after this incident that he forgave
him his wild views on marriage, and afforded him an opportunity of
explaining his hat-band.
“Ye're a body, Jamie,” he said in vague compliment, “an' every man hes
his ain wys; but hoo is 't that ye aye hae a band on yir hat?”
“What think ye yersel?” and Jamie eyed Hillocks with a gleam of humour.
“As sure 's deith, Jamie, a' canna guess, unless it be a notion.”
“Toots, man, a' thocht ye wud hae been sure tae jalouse the truth o'
a' the fouk in the Glen; div ye no ken that a band hides the grease an'
maks a hat laist twice as lang?”
“Is that a'?” said Hillocks; “juist economy?”
“Ye hae the word,” answered Jamie, with unblushing face. “That band's
savit me the price o' twa new hats in forty year.”
It was on the way home from kirk, and after Hillocks had turned into
his own road Jamie took off his hat and brushed the band with a reverent
hand.
When Jamie “slippit awa” and the kirkyard met to pass judgment, it was
agreed that he had been a thorough-going imposter and had quite befooled
the outer world, but that he had never taken in the Glen.
“It cowed a' tae hear Kildrummie lecturin' on Jamie in the third laist
Friday,” said Drumsheugh, with immense contempt; “ye sud hae been
there, Hillocks; a' never heard as muckle doonricht nonsense atween the
Junction an' the station in forty year. Man, gin Jamie hed juist been in
the train himsel, he wud hae been terrible pleased.
“'He's awa noo.' says that jultlin' (tricky) twa-faced body Sandie
Mackay, that gied Jamie licht wecht wi' his coal, 'an' it's oor duty tae
be charitable, but a 've ma doots aboot him. His tongue wes nae scannal,
an' he wes aye maist veecious against speeritual releegion.'”
“What said ye, Drumsheugh?” inquired Hillocks, with keen expectation.
“Naethin' worth mentionin'; it's no easy pittin' sense intae a
Kildrummie man. 'Ye 're wrang aboot Jamie miscain' gude men, Sandie, for
he wes awfu' taen (taken) up wi' Milton; he coonted him a straichforrit,
honourable man, wha wudna gie licht wecht or tak advantage o' a
neebur.'”
“Ye hed him there; he wud lat Jamie alane aifter that, a'm expeckin'.”
“'It's a feedin' storm an' no lichtsome for the sheep,' wes a' he said.
“Na, na, Sandie needna speak tae a Drumtochty man aboot Jamie; he didna
live here a' his days withoot oor kennin' him. There's nae doot he hed a
tongue, but it wes aye on the richt side.
“Div ye mind hoo he yokit on the kirkyaird ae day for lauchin' at
Airchie Moncur an' his teatotalism? it took us a' oor time tae quiet
him, he wes that croose; and ye ken it wes Jamie that focht awa wi'
Posty till the morning he wes drooned. He got him doon tae twa gless a
day, an' micht hae reformed him athegither gin he hedna been interrupit.
“His hert wes juist ower big, that wes the maitter wi' Jamie, an' he
hoddit (hid) his feelings for fear o' makin' a fule o' himsel afore the
pairish.
“Sall, he wesna verra parteeklar what he said gin ye hed him in a
corner. He nursit the bit lassie that lived wi' Mary Robertson for a
hale day when she wes deein' o' diptheria, an' threipit tae me that he
hed juist gi'en a cry in passin', an' when Lily Grant deed in London,
he gied oot that her mistress hed paid for bringin' the corpse tae
Drumtochty kirkyaird. He cud lee near as weel as Milton, but it wes aye
tae cover his ain gudeness.
“A' coontit Weelum Maclure an' Jamie Soutar the warmest herts in the
Glen, an' Jamie 's never been the same sin... we lost Weelum. The
kirkyaird's no worth comin' tae noo that Jamie's awa.”
It spoke volumes for Milton's zeal that he was among the first to visit
Jamie after he took to bed, and the Glen can never be sufficiently
thankful that Elspeth Macfadyen was present to give an accurate account
of the interview.
“'Whatna step is that at the door?' said Jamie; 'a' never herd it
here afore '; and when a' telt him it wes Milton, he gied me a luke an'
briskit up that meenut.
“'Elspeth, he 's come tae dae me gude, an' he thinks he hes me in his
hand; pit him in yon chair whar a' can keep ma een on him, for a' canna
manage him oot o' ma sicht.'
“'It's solemn tae see ye brocht sae low, Jam--Mister Soutar '; he thocht
he micht try Jamie at laist, but the spunk gied oot o' him facin' Jamie.
'Thae strokes are sent for a wise end; they humble oor pride.'
“'It's no a stroke,' said Jamie, lookin' fearsome at him frae ablow his
nicht-cap, 'though a 'll no deny there micht be a titch o' rheumaticks.
But a' coont lumbago mair subduin'; it taks ye sudden in the sma o' the
back, an' 'ill keep ye in the bit for an 'oor.'
“'A' wes thinkin' o' the hert, no the body, ma freend,' an' Milton
started on the whine; 'a 've been afflickit masel, an' dinna ken what a
'd been the day hed it no been for trials.' “'Ye needna tell me, Milton,
for a'body kens yir losses, but a' houp ye'ill hae the present gude wife
a whilie; is she yir third or fourth? for ma memory's gaein' fast.'
“Milton said naethin' for a meenut, an' a' daurna look at him, but
Jamie's een were dancin' in his heid; he wes haein' his last bout wi'
Milton, an' it wes meat an' drink tae him.
“'Wud ye like me tae read somethin'?' begins Milton again. 'A've a fine
tract here, “A Sandy Foundation”; it's verra searchin' an' rousin', an'
he pits on his glesses.
“'Thank ye,' says Jamie, 'but thae tracts are ower deep for a simple man
like masel; the Bible dis for me graund. A've a favourite passage; noo
if ye didna mind readin' 't, it wud be a comfort.
“'Turn tae the 23rd o' Matthew, an' it 'ill dae fine gin ye begin at
the 13th verse, “Woe unto ye, Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites,” an'
as sure as a'm lookin' at ye, Drumsheugh, Jamie gared Milton feenish
the chapter, an' ilka time heepocrites wud come he wud say tae himsel,
'Maist comfortin',' till a' hed tae gae ootside; he wes a veecious
cratur, Jamie, when he hed an ill-wull tae a body.
“When a' cam in, Milton hed been wantin' tae pray, and Jamie wes layin'
doon three condeetions.
“'First, ye maunna scriech (scream), for that wud gae through ma head;
secondly,' just like a sermon, 'ye 're no tae gang wanderin' aifter the
Jews or ony orra fouk; and laist, there's tae be naethin' personal, for
a' wud coont that doonricht impidence.'
“'A'm astonished at ye,' says Milton; 'hoo cud ye expect a blessin' on
sic a prayer?' an' he rises tae leave. 'Ye 're sure there's naethin' on
yir mind, for a 've hed experience.'
“'Weel, Milton, noo that ye 've mentioned 't, there is a maitter
tribblin' me, but it's no every man a' cud trust, an' a' dinna want tae
burden ye.'
“'Is't a sin o' omission or commission?' an' Milton wes as keen as a
ferret. Puir cratur, little he kent Jamie.
“'Curious tae say, it's baith; it's maist extraordinar' hoo near ye've
come tae't; hoo cud ye ken?'
“'We 're a' frail, Mister Soutar,' an' Milton lookit as if butter
cudna melt in his mooth; 'ye michtna think it, but a v'e been tempit
masel--lang syne, of coorse; baith, omission an' commission, did ye say?
that's no sae common.'”
“'Na, it taks an accompleeshed sinner tae manage baith at the same time,
an' a 'll tell ye the case,' an' a' saw something wes comin'.
“'Ye ken Sandie Mackay, wha sells coals at Kildrummie station on
week-day and preaches roond the country on Sabbaths. Drumsheugh's
Saunders brocht up ma laist load frae Sandie; “half a ton best burning
coal” wes on the paper, an' wud ye believe me, a hundred-wecht short
measure, an' half o' them third quality--omission an' commission.'
“'A' can see ye 've scandalised, for a' mind noo, ye 've been acquant
wi' Sandie in meetings; noo, Milton, a' wes calc'latin' that a 've
lost sax and twopence exactly, and gin ye cud get it oot o' the waefu'
wratch, this week, a'd sough awa easier.' Milton made aff withoot
anither word, an' the bed shook ablow Jamie.” The afflicted patient was
sitting up in bed when Doctor Davidson came in, and would have concealed
his occupation had it been possible to get a large paper kite out of
sight.
“It's for Saunders's laddie at Drumsheugh,” he apologised; “he's ane
o' the maist impi-dent an' mischievous smatchits (little fellow) in the
Glen. If a' didna help him wi' his bit trokes there wudna be a floor
left in ma gairden; the bairns are juist the trachle o' ma life.”
“Quite so, Jamie; and of all the people in the Glen there's nobody you
like so well and none that love you more. The more you scold them, the
more they come to you. As for the women, you 've been criticising them
for a generation, and now they're all fighting for the honour of nursing
you.”
“Havers,” responded Jamie, “it's juist tae get a sicht o' the inside o'
a weel-kept hoose, and tak a lesson in order, though a 'll no deny that
Elspeth Macfadyen an' auld Mary hev been verra attentive, as weel as
Bell Baxter an' Annie Mitchell.”
“It's just a pity, Jamie, that so good-hearted a man never had a woman
of his own. What set you against marriage?”
“Wha sed a' wes against merridge, Doctor Davidson?” and Jamie's face
flushed. “Did ever man or woman hear me speak lichtly o' the mystery o'
luve? The Glen hes thocht me an auld cankered bachelor, an' a've seen a
lass leave her lad's side on the sicht o' me. Little they kent!”
No man knew better than the minister when to be quiet, and the ticking
of Jamie's big silver watch was heard throughout the kitchen.
“Doctor Davidson, ye've been an honest man in the pulpit an' oot o't a'
thae years, an' yir warks hev aye gane afore yir words. A 'll tell ye ma
secret afore a' dee; ou ay, a' ken a'm deein', an' a'm rael pleased.
“Ye 'ill no mind that forty-five year syne a' workit a hale winter near
Kildrummie, gaein' and comin' nicht an' mornin'.
“A' met... a lassie there, an' a' cam tae luve her aince an' for
ever. No that a' wud hae spoken tae her, for a've been an ill-made,
ill-tempered, thrawn body a' ma days, an' she... she wes as gude as
Marget Hoo, though different. What mair can man say?
“The day ma wark wes dune a' said gude-bye tae her, an' that micht hae
been the end, but a' turned sudden, an' a' saw the luke on her face.
“She cud hae taen her pick o' a' the lads roond Kildrummie, but nae man
can lay doon the law tae luve; she... tuke me, that hed naething but a
faithfu' hert, an' we gied oor word ane tae the ither for life... an'
deith, as a man an' wuman sud aifter Christ's comin'.
“We cudna be mairrit till the summer, an' we agreed tae write nae
letters tae set the foukes' tongues gaein; we wantit tae hae oor ain
secret.
“So we trysted tae meet aince a week at a stile in the woods atween here
an' Kildrummie, an' we hed... seeven evenings thegither; that wes a' we
ever saw o' ane anither in this warld.
“It wes the month o' May in an early spring that year, and the leaves
were oot in their bonnie first green, an' the birds were busy wi' their
nests, an' the lambs were still wi' their mithers in the field. A'
nature wes glad wi' us, an' blessed oor luve.
“The gate hes fa'en tae pieces lang syne, and the gap's built up wi' a
dyke, an' the trees are cut doon an' the hawthorn rooted up, but it's...
the same place tae me.
“A' can see the tree where we sat, an' the primroses at oor feet, an'
the sun shinin' on her face, an' the look in her eyes; a' see her wavin'
her hand tae me on the road aifter we pairted, an' the glint o' her goon
through the firs the last nicht.
“When a' cam the next day she wesna there, an' a hoddit amang the trees
for a ploy, but it wes lang waitin', for she didna come, an' a' gied
hame wi' fear in ma hert.
“It micht be that she cudna get awa, a' said tae masel as a' worked at a
dyke, but the dread wes hangin' ower me, an' when there wes nae-body at
the stile the next nicht, a' cud bide nae langer.
“A' set aff tae her hoose, and ilka turn o' the road a' lookit for
Menie. Aince ma hert loupit in ma briest like a birdie in its cage, for
a wumman cam along the near road frae Kildrummie, but it wesna Menie.
“When a' saw her brither wi' his face tae Drumtochty a' kent, afore he
said a word, that he wes seekin' me, an' that Menie wes dead. Never a
tear cam that day tae ma een, an' he telt me, stannin' in the middle o'
the road where it begins tae gae doon the hill.
“'It wes her throat, an' the doctor wes feared frae the first day; the
nicht she didna come she wes carried (delirious); she... said “Jamie,
Jamie,” ower an' ower again, an' wanted tae rise.
“'Aboot daybreak she cam tae hersel, and knew oor faces. “A'm deein',”
she said, “an' a' didna keep ma tryst last nicht. It's ower late noo,
an' a 'll no see him on earth again.
“'“Tell James Soutar that it wesna ma blame a' failed, an' gie him ma
Bible,” an' a while aifter she said, “A 'll keep the tryst wi' him some
day,” an'... that 's a'.'
“Her brither gied me the book an' waited, expeckin' me tae say
somethin', but a' hed nae words, an' he left me on the road, coontin' me
hard o' hert; a' wes a' that nicht... at the stile.
“Doctor, wull ye obleege me by gaein' tae that cupboard and bringin' me
ma Sabbath hat?”
Jamie took off the ring of crape, thin and faded with the years, and
held it for a moment in his hand.
“Pit it in the fire, doctor, whar a' can see it burn; a've worn it
forty-four years laist spring, but a 'll no need it again, for a 'm
gaein' oot o' mournin' sune.
“Here's her Bible,” and Jamie brought it from a shelf in his box bed;
“gin ye come tae ma chestin' (coffining), wull ye see it be pit in?
There's naethin' else a' want tae cairry wi' me tae the ither side,
an'... a 'll juist bid ye gude-bye, doctor; ye 're an honest man ootside
an' in.”
“Would you like.. said the doctor, evidently moved.
“A' wud be obleeged,” and Jamie took off his night-cap.
Doctor Davidson prayed:
“Heavenly Father, who only art the source of love and the giver of every
good gift, we thank Thee for the love wherewith the soul of Thy servant
clave unto this woman as Jacob unto Rachel, which many years have not
quenched. Remember the faithfulness of this true heart, and disappoint
not its expectation. May the tryst that was broken on earth be kept in
heaven, and be pleased to give Thy... give Jamie a good home-coming.
Amen.”
“Thank ye, doctor; ye 've said what I wantit, an'... it wes kind o' ye
tae pit in Jamie,” and his hand came out from the bed for a last grasp.
He watched the minister go, and when Elspeth returned he said, “Yon's a
richt man.”
The upland children returning home from school in the afternoon came
to the cottage door, and Jamie, who had been dozing, heard their
whispering.
“There's some o' thae prodigals oot there in the gairden; bring them in,
Elspeth, or a' give them a hearin'; they 've juist been the torment o'
ma life.”
They came in warily, as those who had some experience of former tricks,
but there was no fear even among the girls. Had it not been known how
Jamie detested children, you would have imagined that he had been their
playmate.
“The warst laddie o' the lot,” and Jamie seemed to be speaking to the
ceiling of his bed, “is Tammie Baxter. It's maist aggravatin' that he
sud leave 'a lairge paper kite in a sick body's bed, an' me wantin' tae
turn roond.” The kite projected itself forward from dark recesses in all
its glory of many and very loud colours.
“It's rael bonnie,” was all that Tammie offered by way of thanks, as he
took possession of his prize amid general envy.
“A' wudna say but there micht be sugar-candy in the cupboard,” continued
Jamie in a soliloquy, and a rush for the door was stayed.
“Annie Mitchell 'ill divide it fair, an' a'm expeckin' a kiss.”
“Are ye near weel?” she said, when the debt was paid after a generous
fashion. “Mither wants tae ken.”
“Tell her a'm juist gettin' on fine, an' a'll be a' richt in twa or
three days.”
Elspeth reported the proceedings with the kite, and Jamie was full of
anxiety.
“Tell Tammie tae pit on a heavier clod and keep tuggin',” till a shout
came in through the door.
“It's near oot o' sicht,” and then Jamie was at peace.
“Bairns are an' awfu' trachle (trouble),” he moralised; “a' canna mak
oot hoo fouk pit up wi' them; that lassie Mitchell is juist a hempie.”
Next morning Jamie declined conversation, and lay to all appearance
unconscious, so that when the Free Kirk minister came, between whom and
Jamie there had been a special friendship since the day Carmichael had
declared his conviction on Posty's future state, Elspeth led him in on
tip-toe and spoke in a whisper.
“Ou aye, a' kent ye wud be concerned, for you an' he were chief
(friendly); he's been this wy a' day, naither better nor worse; juist
leevin' that's a'; he 'ill never speak again.”
“I have been at the Glasgow sacrament,” and Carmichael went over to the
fire-place; “else I would have come up before. Jamie has always been
very kind to me. It 's sad to see him lying there speechless, who had
the cleverest tongue in the Glen.”
“Ay, ay, he 's past speech noo; he hears naething.”
“Wes 't a vawcancy ye were preachin' in,” a loud, clear voice proceeded
from the bed, “or juist helpin' a freend?”
“Preserve's a' body an' soul,” cried Elspeth; and Carmichael himself was
shaken.
“We thought you were unconscious, Jamie; I 'm glad you can still take an
interest in things.”
“There 's been a gey lot o' havers (nonsense) gaein' in this hoose the
laist twal 'oors, but a' didna let on; na, na, a' enjoyed it.”
Kirsty Stewart came to share the night watch with Elspeth, but neither
presumed till nearly daybreak, when Kirsty declared, with the just
weight of her medical authority, that all was over.
“He hes the look, an' his hands are as cold as ice; feel his feet,
wumman.”
“A' canna find them,” said Elspeth, making timid explorations.
“They used tae be on the end o' ma legs,” remarked Jamie, as if
uncertain where they might now be placed.
Elspeth started back and looked at him, but his eyes were closed, and he
gave no other sign of consciousness.
“A 'll no meddle wi' him again,” said Elspeth, solemnly, “though a' sit
here for a week; he's a queer body, Jamie; he gied his ain wy a' his
life, an' tak ma word for't, Kirsty, he 'ill hae his ain wy o' deein'.”
When the first ray shot through the window and trembled on the bed,
Jamie raised himself and listened. He shaded his eyes with his hand, as
if he were watching for some one and could not see clearly for excess of
light.
“Menie,” he cried suddenly, with a new voice, “a 've keepit oor tryst.”
When they laid him in the coffin--the Bible in his hands--the smile was
still on his face, and he appeared a man some forty years of age.