Sir Andra's ain hand; an' Lily got nae mair than her due.”
When Jamie parted with Drumsheugh on the way home, and turned down the
road to Mary's cottage, to give her the lilies and a full account of her
lassie, Drumsheugh watched him till he disappeared.
“Thirty pund wes what he drew frae the Muirtown bank oot o' his savings,
for the clerk telt me himsel, and naebody jalouses the trick. It 's
the cleverest thing Jamie ever did, an' ane o' the best a've seen in
Drumtochty.”
Drumtochty had a legitimate curiosity regarding the history of any new
tenant, and Hillocks was invaluable on such occasion, being able to
collect a complete biography during a casual conversation on the state
of markets. No details of family or business were left out in the end,
but there was an unwritten law of precedence, and Hillocks himself would
not have condescended on the rent till he had satisfied himself as to
the incomer's religion. Church connection was universal and unalterable
in the Glen. When Lachlan Campbell had his argument with Carmichael, he
still sat in his place in the Free Kirk, and although Peter Macintosh
absented himself for a month from the Parish Kirk over the pew question,
he was careful to explain to the doctor that he had not forgotten
himself so far as to become a renegade.
“Na, na, a'm no coming back,” Peter had said after the doctor had done
his best, “till ye 're dune wi' that stove, an' ye needna prig (plead)
wi' me ony langer. What is the gude o' being a Presbyterian gin ye canna
object? but a 'll give ye this sateesfaction, that though fa' dinna
darken the kirk door for the lave o' ma life, a 'll no gang ony ither
place.”
An immigrant was the only change in our church circles, and the kirkyard
waited for the news of Milton's creed with appreciable interest.
“Weel, Hillocks?” inquired Drumsheugh, considering it unnecessary in the
circumstances to define his question.
“Ou aye,” for Hillocks accepted his responsibility, “a' gied Tammas
Bisset a cry laist Friday, him 'at hes the grocer's shop in the Sooth
Street an' a' the news o' Muirtown, juist tae hear the price o' butter,
and a' happened tae licht on Milton an' tae say he wud be an addee-tion
tae oor kirk.”
“Did ye though?” cried Whinnie, in admiration of Hillocks's opening
move; “that wes rael cannie, but hoo did ye ken?”
“'Gin he be a help tae Drumtochty Kirk,' says Tammas”--Hillocks never
turned out of his way for Whinnie--“'it 's mair than he wes tae the Auld
Kirk here in twenty year.'”
“The Free Kirk 'ill be pleased then,” broke in Whinnie, who was
incorrigible; “they 'ill mak him a deacon: they're terrible for the
Sustentation Fund.”
“'It's no lost, Tammas, that a freend gets,' says I,” continued
Hillocks, “'an' we 'ill no grudge him tae the Free Kirk; na, na, we're
no sae veecious that wy in the Glen as ye are in Muirtown. Ilka man sud
hae his ain principle and py his debts.
“' He coonted the Free Kirk waur than the auld here, an' a'm thinkin'
he's ower pleased wi' himself tae change up by; he 'ill show ye some
new fashions, a'm judgin',' says Tammas.” And Hillocks ceased, that the
fathers might face the prospect of a new religion.
“It 's no chancy,” observed Whinnie, collecting their mind.
“There wes a man doon Dunleith wy in ma father's time,” began
Drumsheugh, ransacking ancient history for parallels, “'at wud hae
naethin' tae dae wi' kirks. He preached himsel in the kitchen, an'
bapteezed his faimily in the mill dam. They ca'd him a dookie (Baptist),
but a 've heard there's mair than ae kind; what wud he be, Jamie?”
“Parteeklar Baptist,” replied that oracle; “he buried his wife in
the stackyaird, an' opened vials for a year; gin Milton be o' that
persuasion, it 'ill be a variety in the Glen; it 'ill keep's frae
wearyin'.”
“The Dunleith man aye paid twenty shillings in the pund, at ony rate,”
Drumsheugh wound up, “an' his word wi' a horse wes a warranty: a'
dinna like orra releegions masel, but the 'll aye be some camsteary
(unmanageable) craturs in the warld,” and the kirkyard tried to be
hopeful.
Milton's first visit to the kirk was disappointing, and stretched
Drumtochty's courtesy near unto the breaking. Hillocks, indeed, read
Milton's future career in his conduct that day, and indulged in mournful
prophecies at the smiddy next evening.
“Ye're richt eneuch, smith; that's juist what he did, an' a' took his
measure that meenut. When he telt Drumsheugh that it wes nae time tae
be speakin' o' hairst at the kirk door, an' offered us a bookie each, a'
saw there wes somethin' far wrang wi' him. As sure as a'm stannin' here,
he 'ill be a tribble in the pairish.
“The Milton seat is afore oors, an' a' saw a' he did, frae the beginnin'
o' the sermon tae the end, an' a' tell ye his conduct wes scandalous. Ae
meenut he wud shak his head at the doctor, as if he kent better than the
verra minister; the next he wud be fleein' through his Bible aifter a
text. He wes never at peace, naither sittin' nor standin'; he's juist
an etter-cap. There's nae peace whar yon man is, a 'll warrant; a' never
closed an ee laist Sabbath.”
It was into Jamie's hands Milton fell when he reviewed the sermon on the
way home, and expressed his suspicion of ministers who selected texts on
subjects like Mercy and Justice.
“We aye get that sermon aboot the latter end o' hairst, Milton, an' it's
pop'lar; the fouk hae a great notion o' a gude life up here, an' they
're ill tae change. A'm no sayin' but ye 're richt, though, an' it 'ill
be a help tae hae yir creeticism.
“Drumtochty is clean infatuat aboot the doctor, an' canna see onything
wrang in him. He's been a' his days in the Glen, an' though he's no sae
stirrin' as he micht be, the mischief o't is that he aye lives a' he
preaches, an' the stupid bodies canna see the want.
“As for texts, the doctor 's nae doot aggravatin'; there's times a've
wanted tae hae the Sermon on the Mount torn oot o' the Bible an' gude
bits o' the Prophets; he's aye flingin' them in oor faces. Milton, a'
tell ye,” and Jamie stood still on the road to give solemnity to his
description of Doctor Davidson's defects, “if there's a moral text
atween the boords o' the Bible, he 'ill hae a haud o 't.”
“A'm rael pleased tae hear sic soond views, Mister--”
“Soutar is ma name--Jamie maist commonly.”
“Soutar,” and Milton might be excused falling into the snare, “ye ken
the difference atween a show o' warks an' the root o' the maitter. A'
wes astonished at yir elder; when a' pointed oot the defects in the
sermon, he said, 'Gin we dae a' the doctor telt us, we 'ill no be far
wrang;' ye micht as weel be a heathen.'
“Drumsheugh is nae standard,” Jamie explained; “he's sae begottit
(taken up) wi' the commandments that a'm feared o' him. He's clever at
a bargain, but gin he thocht he hed cheatit onybody, Drumsheugh wudna
sleep; it 's clean legalism.
“Ye micht try the Free Kirk, Milton; they 've a new man, an' he 's
warmer than the doctor; he 's fund oot anither Isaiah, an' he's sae
learned that he 'ill maybe hae twa Robbie Burns' yet; but that 's
naither here nor there; he's young an' fu' o' speerit; gie him a trial,”
Jamie discovered with much interest that Milton had been examining the
Free Church, and had expressed his strong dissatisfaction, some said
because of grossly erroneous doctrine, others because Carmichael had
refused to allow him to preach. Doctrine was the ground he alleged to
Jamie, who looked in to see how he had got settled and what he thought
of things.
“A' peety this Glen,” he said, with solemnity; “ae place it 's cauld
morality, an' the ither it's fause teaching. Div ye ken what a' heard
wi' ma ain ears laist Sabbath frae Maister Carmichael?”
Jamie was understood to declare his conviction that a man who was not
satisfied with one Isaiah might be capable of anything.
“Ye ken verra weel,” for Milton believed Jamie a kindred spirit at this
stage, “that we 're a' here on probation, and that few are chosen, juist
a handfu' here and there; no on accoont o' ony excellence in oorsels, so
we maunna boast.”
“Verra comfortin' for the handfu',” murmured Jamie, his eyes fixed on
the roof.
“Weel, gin yon young man didna declare in sae mony words that we were a'
God's bairns, an' that He wes gaein' tae dae the best He cud wi' every
ane o's. What think ye o' that?--nae difference atween the elect an' the
ithers, nae preeveleges nor advantages; it's against baith scriptur an'
reason.”
“He wes maybe mixin' up the Almichty wi' his ain father,” suggested
Jamie; “a 've heard ignorant fouk say that a' the differ is that the
Almichty is no waur than oor ain father, but oot o' a' sicht kinder. But
whar wud ye be gin ye allooed the like o' that? half o' the doctrines
wud hae tae be reformed,” and Jamie departed, full of condolence with
Milton.
It was not wonderful after these trying experiences that Milton became a
separatist, and edified himself and his household in his kitchen.
Perhaps the Glen might also be excused on their part for taking a
somewhat severe view of this schismatic proceeding and being greatly
stirred by a sermon of the doctor's--prepared especially for the
occasion--in which the sin of Korah, Dathan, and Abiram was powerfully
expounded, and Milton's corn room described as a “Plymouthistic hut.”
“Ma certes,” said Hillocks to Jamie on the way home, “the doctor's
roosed. Yon wes an awfu' name he cam oot wi'; it's no verra cannie tae
hae onything tae dae wi' thae preachin', paitterin' craturs.”
“There wes a sough through the pairish, Hillocks, that ye were ower by
sittin' in the cauf-hoose (chaff-house) yersel laist week, an' that ye
were extraordinar' ta'en up wi' Milton. Elspeth Macfadyen wes threipin'
(insisting) that you an' Milton were thinkin' o' starting a new kirk.
Miltonites wud be a graund name; a' dinna think it 's been used yet.”
“Elspeth's tongue's nae scannel.” Hillocks's curiosity had led him
astray, and he was now much ashamed. “A' juist lookit in ae forenicht
tae see what kin o' collie-shangie Milton wes cairryin' on, an' a' wes
fair disgustit. He ran the hale time frae Daniel tae the Revelations,
an' it wes a' aboot beasts frae beginnin' tae end. A rammelin' idiot,
nae-thin' else,” and Hillocks offered up Milton as a sacrifice to the
indignation of the Glen.
Shortly afterwards Hillocks began to make dark allusions that excited a
distinct interest, and invested his conversation with a piquant flavour.
“It wes an ill day when his lordship lat yon man intae the pairish,” and
he shook his head with an air of gloomy mystery. “A' wush a' saw him oot
o 't withoot mischief. Oor fouk hev been weel brocht up, an' they 're
no what ye wud ca' simple, but there s nae sayin'; weemen are easily
carried.”
“Ay, ay,” said Jamie encouragingly.
“A'm telt,” continued Hillocks, “that the wratches are that cunnin' an'
plausible they wud wile a bird aff a tree; they got intae a pairish
in the Carse, and afore the year wes oot gin they didna whup aff three
servant lassies tae Ameriky.”
“Div ye mean tae say that Milton...” and the fathers noticed how Jamie
was guiding Hillocks to his point.
“Ye've said the word, Jamie, an' it's a gey like business for
Drumtochty,” and it was known in twenty-four hours up as far as Glen
Urtach that Hillocks had hunted Milton's religion to earth, and found
him out to be a Morman.
This was considered one of Jamie's most successful efforts, and the
Glen derived so much pure delight from the very sight of Milton for some
weeks that he might have become popular had it not been for an amazing
combination of qualities.
“His tracts are irritatin', an' no what we've been accustomed tae in
Drumtochty”--Drums-heugh was giving judgment in the kirkyard--“but a'
cud thole them. What a' canna pit up wi' is his whinin' an' leein'. A'
never heard as muckle aboot conscience an' never saw sae little o't in
this pairish.”
It was a tribute in its way to Milton that he alone of all men aroused
the dislike of the kindest of parishes, so that men fled from before
his face. Hillocks, who was never happy unless he had two extra on his
dogcart, and unto that end only drew the line at tramps, would pass with
a bare compliment on board, and drop the scantiest salutation.
“Hoo are ye the day, Milton? a' doot it's threatenin' a shoor.”
Drumsheugh had been known to disappear into a potato field at Milton's
approach, under pretence of examining the tubers, while Bumbrae, who was
incarnate charity, and prejudiced in favour of anything calling itself
religion, abandoned this “professor” in regretful silence. Drumtochty
was careful not to seat themselves in the third until Milton had taken
his place, when they chose another compartment, until at last Peter used
to put in this superior man with Kildrummie to avoid delay. It was long
before Milton realised that Drumtochty did not consider his company a
privilege, and then he was much lifted, seeing clearly the working of
conscience in a benighted district.
“Milton hes been giein' oot in Muirtown that he's thankfu' he wes sent
tae Drumtochty,” Jamie announced one Sabbath, with chastened delight,
“an' that his example wes affectin' us already. 'They daurna face me in
the verra train,' says he tae Tammas Bisset; 'it's the first time yon
fouk ever came across a speeritual man. They're beginnin' tae revile,
an' we ken what that means; a' never thocht a' wud hae the honour of
persecution for righteousness' sake.' That 's his ain mind on't, an'
it's a comfort tae think that Milton's contented.”
“A've kent anc or twa fair leears in ma time,” reflected Hillocks, “but
for a bare-face--”
“Persecuted is a lairge word,” broke in Drumsheugh, “ay, an' a graund
tae, an' no fit for Milton's mooth. Gin he named it tae me, a'd
teach him anither story. A foumart (pole cat) micht as weel speak o'
persecution when he's hunted aff the hillside.
“Na, na,” and Drumsheugh set himself to state the case once for all, “we
've oor faults maybe in Drumtochty,” going as far by way of concession
as could be expected, “but we 're no juist born fules; we 've as muckle
sense as the chuckies, 'at ken the differ atween corn an' chaff wi' a
luke.”
Jamie indicated by a nod that Drumsheugh was on the track.
“Noo there's ane o' oor neeburs,” proceeding to illustration, “'at
lectures against drink frae ae new year tae anither. He's a true man,
an' he luves the Glen, an' naebody 'ill say an ill word o' Airchie
Moncur--no in this kirk-yaird at ony rate.”
“A fine bit craiturie,” interjected Hillocks, whom Archie had often
besought in vain to take the pledge for example's sake, being an elder.
“Weel,” resumed Drumsheugh, “there's anither neebur, an' a 'm telt that
his prayer is little ahint the minister's at the Free Kirk meetin's, and
a' believe it, for a gude life is bund tae yield a good prayer. Is there
a man here that wudna be gled tae stand wi' Burnbrae in the Jidgment?”
“A'm intendin' tae keep as close as a' can masel,” said Jamie, and there
was a general feeling that it would be a wise line.
“It's no Milton's preachin' Drumtochty disna like, but his leein', an'
that Drumtochty canna abide. Nae man,” summed up Drumsheugh, “hes ony
richt tae speak aboot re-leegion ye canna trust in the market.”
So it came to pass that Milton counted Drumtochty as an outcast place,
because they did not speak about the affairs of the life to come, and
Drumtochty would have nothing to do with Milton, because he was not
straight in the affairs of the life which now is. Milton might have gone
down to the grave condemning and condemned had it not been for his
sore sickness, which brought him to the dust of death, and afforded
Drumsheugh the opportunity for his most beneficent achievement.
“They think he may come roond wi' care,” reported Drumsheugh, “but he
'ill be wakely for twa month, an' he'ill never be the same man again;
it's been a terrible whup.” But the kirkyard, for the first time in such
circumstances, was not sympathetic.
“It's a mercy he's no been taken awa,” responded Hillocks, after a
distinct pause, “an' it 'ill maybe be a warnin' tae him; he's no been
unco freendly sin he cam intae the Glen, either wi' his tongue or his
hands.”
“A'm no sayin' he hes, Hillocks, but it's no a time tae cuist up a man's
fauts when he's in tribble, an' it's no the wy we've hed in Drumtochty.
Milton's no fit tae meddle wi' ony-body noo, nor, for that maitter, tae
manage his ain business. There's no mair than twa, acre seen the ploo;
a'm dootin' the 'll be a puir sowin' time next spring at Milton.”
“Gin he hedna been sic a creetical an' ill-tongued body the Glen wud
sune hae cleared up his stubble; div ye mind when Netherton lost his
horses wi' the glanders, an' we jined an' did his plooin'? it wes a
wise-like day's wark.”
“Yir hert's in the richt place,” said Drums-heugh, ignoring
qualifications; “we'll haud a plooin' match at Milton, an' gie the
cratur a helpin' hand. A'm willin' tae stand ae prize, an' Burnbrae 'ill
no be behind; a' wudna say but Hillocks himsel micht come oot wi' a five
shillin' bit.”
They helped Milton out of bed next Thursday, and he sat in silence at a
gable window that commanded the bare fields. Twenty ploughs were cutting
the stubble into brown ridges, and the crows followed the men as they
guided the shares with stiff resisting body, while Drumsheugh could be
seen going from field to field with authority.
“What's this for?” inquired Milton at length; “naebody askit them,
an'... them an' me hevna been pack (friendly) thae laist twa years.”
“It's a love-darg,” said his wife, “because ye've been sober (ill), they
juist want to show kindness, bein' oor neeburs. Drumsheugh, a' hear, set
it agaein', but there's no a fairmer in the Glen hesna a hand in't wi'
horses or sic-like.”
Milton made no remark, but he was thinking, and an hour before midday he
called for his wife.
“It's rael gude o' them, an', wumman, it's mair than... a' wud hae dune
for them. An', Eesie,... gither a'thing thegither ye can get, and gie
the men a richt dinner, and bid Jeemes see that every horse hes a feed
o' corn... a full ane; dinna spare onything the day.”
It was a point of honour on such occasions that food for man and
beast should be brought with them, so that there be no charge on their
neighbour, but Drumsheugh was none the less impressed by Milton's
generous intentions. When he told Hillocks, who was acting as his
aide-de-camp, that worthy exclaimed, “Michty,” and both Drumsheugh and
Hillocks realised that a work of grace had begun in Milton.
He refused to lie down till the men and horses went out again to work,
and indeed one could not see in its own way a more heartening sight.
Pair by pair our best horses passed, each with their own ploughman, and
in a certain order, beginning with Saunders, Drumsheugh's foreman, full
of majesty at the head of the parish, and concluding with the pair of
hardy little beasts that worked the uplands of Bogleigh. A fortnight had
been spent on preparation, till every scrap of brass on the high-peaked
collars and bridles glittered in the sunlight, and the coats of the
horses were soft and shiny. The tramp of the horses' feet and the rattle
of the plough chains rang out in the cold November air, which had just
that touch of frost which makes the ground crisp for the ploughshare.
The men upon the horses were the pick of the Glen for strength, and
carried themselves with the air of those who had come to do a work.
Drumsheugh was judge, and Saunders being therefore disqualified, the
first prize went to young Burnbrae, the second to Netherton's man, and
the third to Tammas Mitchell--who got seven and sixpence from Hillocks,
and bought a shawl for Annie next Friday. Drumsheugh declared it was
rig for rig the cleanest, quickest, straightest work he had seen in
Drumtochty, and when the ploughs ceased there was not a yard of oat
stubble left on Milton.
After the last horse had left and the farm was quiet again--no sign
of the day save the squares of fresh brown earth--Drumsheugh went in
alone--he had never before crossed the door--to inquire for Milton
and carry the goodwill of the Glen. Milton had prided himself on his
fluency, and had often amazed religious meetings, but now there was
nothing audible but “gratefu'” and “humbled,” and Drumsheugh set himself
to relieve the situation.
“Dinna mak sae muckle o 't man, as if we hed worked yir fairm for a year
an' savit ye frae beggary. We kent ye didna need oor help, but we juist
wantit tae be neeburly an' gie ye a lift tae health.
“A'body is pleased ye 're on the mend, and there's no ane o 's that
wudna be prood tae dae ony troke for ye till ye 're able tae manage
for yersel; a 'll come roond masel aince a week an gie a look ower the
place.” Milton said not one word as Drumsheugh rose to go, but the
grip of the white hand that shot out from below the bed-clothes was not
unworthy of Drumtochty.
“Ye said, Hillocks, that Milton wes a graund speaker,” said Drumsheugh
next Sabbath, “an' a' wes expectin' somethin' by ordinar on Thursday
nicht, but he hedna sax words, an' ilka ane wes separate frae the ither.
A 'm judgin' that it's easy tae speak frae the lips, but the words come
slow and sair frae the hert, an' Milton hes a hert; there's nae doot o'
that noo.”
On the first Sabbath of the year the people were in the second verse of
the Hundredth Psalm, when Milton, with his family, came into the kirk
and took possession of their pew. Hillocks maintained an unobtrusive
but vigilant watch, and had no fault to find this time with Milton.
The doctor preached on the Law of Love, as he had a way of doing at
the beginning of each year, and was quite unguarded in his eulogium of
brotherly kindness, but Milton did not seem to find anything wrong in
the sermon. Four times--Hillocks kept close to facts--he nodded in grave
approval, and once, when the doctor insisted with great force that
love did more than every power to make men good, Milton was evidently
carried, and blew his nose needlessly. Hillocks affirmed stoutly that
the crumpled pound note found in the recesses of the ladle that day came
from Milton, and corroborative evidence accumulated in a handsome gown
sent to Saunders' wife for the lead he gave the ploughs that famous day,
and a box of tea, enough to last her time, received by blind old Barbara
Stewart. Milton was another man, and when he appeared once more at
the station and went into a compartment left to Kildrummie, Drumsheugh
rescued him with a show of violence and brought him into the midst of
Drumtochty, who offered him exactly six different boxes on the way to
the Junction, and reviewed the crops on Milton for the last two years in
a distinctly conciliatory spirit.
Milton fought his battle well, and only once alluded to the past.
“It wes ma misfortune,” he said to Drumsheugh, as they went home from
kirk together, “tae mix wi' fouk that coonted words mair than deeds, an'
were prooder tae open a prophecy than tae dae the wull o' God.
“We thocht that oor knowledge wes deeper an' oor life better than
oor neeburs', an' a've been sairly punished. Gin a' hed been bred in
Drumtochty, a' micht never hae been a byword, but a' thank God that ma
laist years 'ill be spent amang true men, an', Drumsheugh, a'm prayin'
that afore a' dee a' also may be... a richt man.”
This was how Drumsheugh found Milton walking in crooked paths and
brought him into the way of righteousness, and Milton carried himself so
well afterwards that Drumsheugh had only one regret, and that was that
Jamie Soutar had not lived to see that even in Milton there was the
making of a man.