a young man--a callant, the folk said--fu' o' book-learnin' an' grand at
the exposition, but, as was natural in sae young a man, wi' nae leevin'
experience in religion. The younger sort were greatly taken wi' his
gifts an' his gab; but auld, concerned, serious men and women were moved
even to prayer for the young man, whom they took to be a self-deceiver,
an' the parish that was like to be sae ill-supplied. It was before the
days o' the Moderates--weary fa' them; but ill things are like
guid--they baith come bit by bit, a pickle at a time; an' there were
folk even then that said the Lord had left the college professors to
their ain devices, an' the lads that went to study wi' them wad hae done
mair an' better sittin' in a peat-bog, like their forbears o' the
persecution, wi' a Bible under their oxter an' a speerit o' prayer in
their heart. There was nae doubt, onyway, but that Mr. Soulis had been
ower lang at the college. He was careful an' troubled for mony things
besides the ae thing needful. He had a feck o' books wi' him--mair than
had ever been seen before in a' that presbytery; and a sair wark the
carrier had wi' them, for they were a' like to have smoored in the
De'il's Hag between this an' Kilmackerlie. They were books o' divinity,
to be sure, or so they ca'd them; but the serious were of opinion there
was little service for sae mony, when the hale o' God's Word would gang
in the neuk o' a plaid. Then he wad sit half the day, an' half the nicht
forbye, which was scant decent--writin', nae less; an' first, they were
feared he wad read his sermons; an' syne it proved he was writin' a book
himsel', which was surely no' flttin' for ane o' his years an' sma'
experience.
Onyway it behoved him to get an auld, decent wife to keep the manse for
him an' see to his bit denners; an' he was recommended to an auld
limmer--Janet M'Clour, they ca'd her--an' sae far left to himsel' as to
be ower persuaded. There was mony advised him to the contrar, for Janet
was mair than suspeckit by the best folk in Ba'weary. Lang or that, she
had had a wean to a dragoon; she hadna come forrit[5] for maybe thretty
year; an' bairns had seen her mumblin' to hersel' up on Key's Loan in
the gloamin', whilk was an unco time an' place for a God-fearin' woman.
Howsoever, it was the laird himsel' that had first tauld the minister o'
Janet; an' in thae days he wad hae gane a far gate to pleesure the
laird. When folk tauld him that Janet was sib to the de'il, it was a'
superstition by his way o' it; an' when they cast up the Bible to him
an' the witch o' Endor, he wad threep it doun their thrapples that thir
days were a' gane by, an' the de'il was mercifully restrained.
Weel, when it got about the clachan that Janet M'Clour was to be servant
at the manse, the folk were fair mad wi' her an' him thegither; an' some
o' the guid wives had nae better to dae than get round her door-cheeks
and chairge her wi' a' that was ken't again' her, frae the sodger's
bairn to John Tamson's twa kye. She was nae great speaker; folk usually
let her gang her ain gate, an' she let them gang theirs, wi' neither
Fair-guid-een nor Fair-guid-day: but when she buckled to, she had a
tongue to deave the miller. Up she got, an' there wasna an auld story in
Ba'weary but she gart somebody lowp for it that day; they couldna say ae
thing but she could say twa to it; till, at the hinder end, the
guidwives up and claught hand o' her, an' clawed the coats aff her back,
an' pu'd her doun the clachan to the water o' Dule, to see if she were a
witch or no, soom or droun. The carline skirled till ye could hear her
at the Hangin' Shaw, an' she focht like ten; there was mony a guidwife
bure the mark o' her neist day an' mony a lang day after; an' just in
the hottest o' the collieshangie, wha suld come up (for his sins) but
the new minister.
"Women," said he (and he had a grand voice), "I charge you in the Lord's
name to let her go."
Janet ran to him--she was fair wud wi' terror--an' clang to him, an'
prayed him, for Christ's sake, save her frae the cummers; an' they, for
their pairt, tauld him a' that was ken't, an' maybe mair.
"Woman," says he to Janet, "is this true?"
"As the Lord sees me," says she, "as the Lord made me, no a word o't.
Forbye the bairn," says she, "I've been a decent woman a' my days."
"Will you," says Mr. Soulis, "in the name of God, and before me, His
unworthy minister, renounce the devil and his works?"
Weel, it wad appear that when he askit that, she gave a girn that fairly
frichtit them that saw her, an' they could hear her teeth play dirl
thegither in her chafts; but there was naething for't but the ae way or
the ither; an' Janet lifted up her hand an' renounced the de'il before
them a'.
"And now," says Mr. Soulis to the guidwives, "home with ye, one and all,
and pray to God for His forgiveness."
An' he gied Janet his arm, though she had little on her but a sark, an'
took her up the clachan to her ain door like a leddy o' the land; an'
her screighin' and laughin' as was a scandal to be heard.
There were mony grave folk lang ower their prayers that nicht; but when
the morn cam' there was sic a fear fell upon a' Ba'weary that the bairns
hid theirsels, an' even the men-folk stood an' keekit frae their doors.
For there was Janet comin' doun the clachan--her or her likeness, nane
could tell--wi' her neck thrawn, an' her heid on ae side, like a body
that has been hangit, an' a girn on her face like an unstreakit corp. By
an' by they got used wi' it, an' even speered at her to ken what was
wrang; but frae that day forth she couldna speak like a Christian woman,
but slavered an' played click wi' her teeth like a pair o' shears; an'
frae that day forth the name o' God cam' never on her lips. Whiles she
wad try to say it, but it michtna be. Them that kenned best said least;
but they never gied that Thing the name o' Janet M'Clour; for the auld
Janet, by their way o't, was in muckle hell that day. But the minister
was neither to haud nor to bind; he preached about naething but the
folk's cruelty that had gi'en her a stroke of the palsy; he skelpit the
bairns that meddled her; an' he had her up to the manse that same nicht,
an' dwalled there a' his lane wi' her under the Hangin' Shaw.
Weel, time gaed by: an' the idler sort commenced to think mair lichtly
o' that black business. The minister was weel thocht o'; he was aye late
at the writing, folk wad see his can'le doon by the Dule water after
twal' at e'en; an' he seemed pleased wi' himsel' an' upsitten as at
first, though a' body could see that he was dwining. As for Janet she
cam' an' she gaed; if she didna speak muckle afore, it was reason she
should speak less then; she meddled naebody; but she was an eldritch
thing to see, an' nane wad hae mistrysted wi' her for Ba'weary glebe.
About the end o' July there cam' a spell o' weather, the like o't never
was in that countryside; it was lown an' het an' heartless; the herds
couldna win up the Black Hill, the bairns were ower weariet to play; an'
yet it was gousty too, wi' claps o' het wund that rumm'led in the glens,
and bits o' shouers that slockened naething. We aye thocht it but to
thun'er on the morn; but the morn cam', an' the morn's morning, an' it
was aye the same uncanny weather, sair on folks and bestial. O' a' that
were the waur, nane suffered like Mr. Soulis; he could neither sleep nor
eat, he tauld his elders; an' when he wasna writin' at his weary book,
he wad be stravaguin' ower a' the countryside like a man possessed, when
a' body else was blithe to keep caller ben the house.
Abune Hangin' Shaw, in the bield o' the Black Hill, there's a bit
enclosed grund wi' an iron yett; an' it seems, in the auld days, that
was the kirkyaird o' Ba'weary, and consecrated by the Papists before the
blessed licht shone upon the kingdom. It was a great howff o' Mr.
Soulis's, onyway; there he wad sit an' consider his sermons; an' indeed
it's a bieldy bit. Weel, as he cam' ower the wast end o' the Black Hill
ae day, he saw first twa, an' syne fower, an' syne seeven corbie craws
fleein' round an' round abune the auld kirkyaird. They flew laigh an'
heavy, an' squawked to ither as they gaed; an' it was clear to Mr.
Soulis that something had put them frae their ordinar'. He wasna easy
fleyed, an' gaed straucht up to the wa's; an' what suld he find there
but a man, or the appearance o' a man, sittin' in the inside upon a
grave. He was of a great stature, an' black as hell, an' his e'en were
singular to see.[6] Mr. Soulis had heard tell o' black men, mony's the
time; but there was something unco about this black man that daunted
him. Het as he was, he took a kind o' cauld grue in the marrow o' his
banes; but up he spak for a' that; an' says he: "My friend, are you a
stranger in this place?" The black man answered never a word; he got
upon his feet, an' begoud to hirsle to the wa' on the far side; but he
aye lookit at the minister; an' the minister stood an' lookit back; till
a' in a meenit the black man was ower the wa' an' rinnin' for the bield
o' the trees. Mr. Soulis, he hardly kenned why, ran after him; but he
was fair forjeskit wi' his walk an' the het, unhalesome weather; an' rin
as he likit, he got nae mair than a glisk o' the black man amang the
birks, till he won doun to the foot o' the hillside, an' there he saw
him ance mair, gaun hap-step-an'-lowp ower Dule water to the manse.
Mr. Soulis wasna weel pleased that this fearsome gangrel suld mak' sae
free wi' Ba'weary manse; an' he ran the harder, an', wet shoon, ower the
burn, an' up the walk; but the deil a black man was there to see. He
stepped out upon the road, but there was naebody there; he gaed a' ower
the gairden, but na, nae black man. At the hinder end, an' a bit feared,
as was but natural, he lifted the hasp an' into the manse; an' there was
Janet M'Clour before his een, wi' her thrawn craig, an' nane sae pleased
to see him. An' he aye minded sinsyne, when first he set his een upon
her, he had the same cauld and deidly grue.
"Janet," says he, "have you seen a black man?"
"A black man?" quo' she. "Save us a'! Ye're no wise, minister. There's
nae black man in a' Ba'weary."
But she didna speak plain, ye maun understand; but yam-yammered, like a
powney wi' the bit in its moo.
"Weel," says he, "Janet, if there was nae black man, I have spoken with
the Accuser of the Brethren."
An' he sat down like ane wi' a fever, an' his teeth chittered in his
heid.
"Hoots," says she, "think shame to yoursel', minister"; an' gied him a
drap brandy that she keept aye by her.
Syne Mr. Soulis gaed into his study amang a' his books. It's a lang,
laigh, mirk chalmer, perishin' cauld in winter, an' no' very dry even in
the tap o' the simmer, for the manse stands near the burn. Sae doun he
sat, an' thocht o' a' that had come an' gane since he was in Ba'weary,
an' his hame, an' the days when he was a bairn an' ran daffin' on the
braes; an' that black man aye ran in his heid like the owercome o' a
sang. Aye the mair he thocht, the mair he thocht o' the black man. He
tried the prayer, an' the words wadna come to him; an' he tried, they
say, to write at his book, but he couldna mak' nae mair o' that. There
was whiles he thocht the black man was at his oxter, an' the swat stood
upon him cauld as well-water; an' there was ither whiles when he cam' to
himsel' like a christened bairn an' minded naething.
The upshot was that he gaed to the window an' stood glowrin' at Dule
water. The trees are unco thick, an' the water lies deep an' black under
the manse; an' there was Janet washin' the cla'es wi' her coats kilted.
She had her back to the minister, an' he, for his pairt, hardly kenned
what he was lookin' at. Syne she turned round, an' shawed her face; Mr.
Soulis had the same cauld grue as twice that day afore, an' it was borne
in upon him what folk said, that Janet was deid lang syne, an' this was
a bogle in her clay-cauld flesh. He drew back a pickle and he scanned
her narrowly. She was tramp-trampin' in the cla'es, croonin' to hersel';
and eh! Gude guide us, but it was a fearsome face. Whiles she sang
louder, but there was nae man born o' woman that could tell the words o'
her sang; an' whiles she lookit side-lang doun, but there was naething
there for her to look at. There gaed a scunner through the flesh upon
his banes; an' that was Heeven's advertisement. But Mr. Soulis just
blamed himsel', he said, to think sae ill o' a puir, auld afflicted wife
that hadna a freend forbye himsel'; an' he put up a bit prayer for him
an' her, an' drank a little caller water--for his heart rose again' the
meat--an' gaed up to his naked bed in the gloamin'.
That was a nicht that has never been forgotten in Ba'weary, the nicht o'
the seeventeenth o' August, seeventeen hun'er' an' twal'. It had been
het afore, as I hae said, but that nicht it was better than ever. The
sun gaed doun amang unco-lookin' clouds; it fell as mirk as the pit; no'
a star, no' a breath o' wund; ye couldna see your han' afore your face,
an' even the auld folk cuist the covers frae their beds an' lay pechin'
for their breath. Wi' a' that he had upon his mind, it was geyan
unlikely Mr. Soulis wad get muckle sleep. He lay an' he tummled; the
gude, caller bed that he got into brunt his very banes; whiles he slept,
an' whiles he waukened; whiles he heard the time o' nicht, an' whiles a
tyke yowlin' up the muir, as if somebody was deid; whiles he thocht he
heard bogles claverin' in his lug, an' whiles he saw spunkies in the
room. He behoved, he judged, to be sick; an' sick he was--little he
jaloosed the sickness.
At the hinder end he got a clearness in his mind, sat up in his sark on
the bed-side, an' fell thinkin' ance mair o' the black man an' Janet. He
couldna weel tell how--maybe it was the cauld to his feet--but it cam'
in upon him wi' a spate that there was some connection between thir twa,
an' that either or baith o' them were bogles. An' just at that moment,
in Janet's room, which was neist to his, there cam' a stramp o' feet as
if men were wars'lin', an' then a loud bang; an' then a wund gaed
reishling round the fower quarters o' the house; an' then a' was aince
mair as seelent as the grave.
Mr. Soulis was feared for neither man nor deevil. He got his tinder-box,
an' lit a can'le, an' made three steps o't ower to Janet's door. It was
on the hasp, an' he pushed it open, an' keekit bauldly in. It was a big
room, as big as the minister's ain, an' plenished wi' grand, auld, solid
gear, for he had naething else. There was a fower-posted bed wi' auld
tapestry; an' a braw cabinet o' aik, that was fu' o' the minister's
divinity books, an' put there to be out o' the gate; an' a wheen duds o'
Janet's lying here an' there about the floor. But nae Janet could Mr.
Soulis see; nor ony sign o' a contention. In he gaed (an' there's few
that wad hae followed him) an' lookit a' round, an' listened. But there
was naething to be heard, neither inside the manse nor in a' Ba'weary
parish, an' naething to be seen but the muckle shadows turnin' round the
can'le. An' then a' at aince, the minister's heart played dunt an' stood
stock-still; an' a cauld wund blew amang the hairs o' his heid. Whaten a
weary sicht was that for the puir man's een! For there was Janet hangin'
frae a nail beside the auld aik cabinet: her heid aye lay on her
shouther, her een were steekit, the tongue projected frae her mouth, an'
her heels were twa feet clear abune the floor.
"God forgive us all!" thocht Mr. Soulis; "poor Janet's dead."
He cam' a step nearer to the corp; an' then his heart fair whammled in
his inside. For, by what cantrip it wad ill beseem a man to judge, she
was hingin' frae a single nail an' by a single wursted thread for
darnin' hose.
It's an awfu' thing to be your lane at nicht wi' siccan prodigies o'
darkness; but Mr. Soulis was strong in the Lord. He turned an' gaed his
ways oot o' that room, an' lockit the door ahint him; an' step by step,
doon the stairs, as heavy as leed; an' set doon the can'le on the table
at the stairfoot. He couldna pray, he couldna think, he was dreepin' wi'
caul' swat, an' naething could he hear but the dunt-dunt-duntin' o' his
ain heart. He micht maybe hae stood there an hour, or maybe twa, he
minded sae little; when a' o' a sudden, he heard a laigh, uncanny steer
upstairs; a foot gaed to an' fro in the chalmer whaur the corp was
hingin'; syne the door was opened, though he minded weel that he had
lockit it; an' syne there was a step upon the landin', an' it seemed to
him as if the corp was lookin' ower the rail an' doun upon him whaur he
stood.
He took up the can'le again (for he couldna want the licht), an' as
saftly as ever he could, gaed straucht out o' the manse an' to the far
end o' the causeway. It was aye pit-mirk; the flame o' the can'le, when
he set it on the grund, brunt steedy and clear as in a room; naething
moved, but the Dule water seepin' an' sabbin' doun the glen, an' yon
unhaly footstep that cam' ploddin' doun the stairs inside the manse. He
kenned the foot ower weel, for it was Janet's; an' at ilka step that
cam' a wee thing nearer, the cauld got deeper in his vitals. He
commended his soul to Him that made an' keepit him; "and, O Lord," said
he, "give me strength this night to war against the powers of evil."
By this time the foot was comin' through the passage for the door; he
could hear a hand skirt alang the wa', as if the fearsome thing was
feelin' for its way. The saughs tossed an' maned thegither, a lang sigh
cam' ower the hills, the flame o' the can'le was blawn aboot; an' there
stood the corp o' Thrawn Janet, wi' her grogram goun an' her black
mutch, wi' the heid aye upon the shouther, an' the girn still upon the
face o't--leevin', ye wad hae said--deid, as Mr. Soulis weel
kenned--upon the threshold o' the manse.
It's a strange thing that the saul o' man should be that thirled into
his perishable body; but the minister saw that, an' his heart didna
break.
She didna stand there lang; she began to move again an' cam' slowly
towards Mr. Soulis whaur he stood under the saughs. A' the life o' his
body, a' the strength o' his speerit, were glowerin' frae his een. It
seemed she was gaun to speak, but wanted words, an' made a sign wi' the
left hand. There cam' a clap o' wund, like a cat's fuff; oot gaed the
can'le, the saughs skreighed like folk; and Mr. Soulis kenned that, live
or die, this was the end o't.
"Witch, beldame, devil!" he cried, "I charge you, by the power of God,
begone--if you be dead, to the grave--if you be damned, to hell."
An' at that moment the Lord's ain hand out o' the Heevens struck the
Horror whaur it stood; the auld, deid, desecrated corp o' the
witch-wife, sae lang keepit frae the grave an' hirsled round by de'ils,
lowed up like a brunstane spunk an' fell in ashes to the grund; the
thunder followed, peal on dirlin' peal, the rairin' rain upon the back
o' that; an' Mr. Soulis lowped through the garden hedge, an' ran, wi'
skelloch upon skelloch, for the clachan.
That same mornin', John Christie saw the Black Man pass the Muckle Cairn
as it was chappin' six; before eicht, he gaed by the change-house at
Knockdow; an' no' lang after, Sandy M'Lellan saw him gaun linkin' doun
the braes frae Kilmackerlie. There's little doubt but it was him that
dwalled sae lang in Janet's body; but he was awa' at last; an' sinsyne
the de'il has never fashed us in Ba'weary.
But it was a sair dispensation for the minister; lang, lang he lay
ravin' in his bed; an' frae that hour to this he was the man ye ken the
day.
FOOTNOTES:
[5] "To come forrit"--to offer oneself as a communicant.
[6] It was a common belief in Scotland that the devil appeared as a
black man. This appears in several witch trials, and I think in
Law's "Memorials," that delightful storehouse of the quaint and
grisly.
END OF VOL. V
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