However, one feels less inclined to smile when the actual singing of the
psalm commences. The Metrical Psalms, sung in unison, without
accompaniment, and with strong, rugged voices predominating, are
Scottish history. They bring back the days when people did not sing
them in churches, but on hillsides in remote fastnesses, at services
conducted by a man with a price on his head, guarded by sentries lying
prone upon the skyline, on the look-out for Claverhouse and his
troopers. That is why I, coming of the stock I do, like to hear the
opening psalm at Craigfoot.
The start, as a rule, is not all what it might be, for the Scots are a
slow-moving race; and naturally it takes a little time to catch up with
Andrew Kilninver and his comparatively nimble crew. But about the middle
of the second verse we draw together, and the unsophisticated rhymes,
firmly welded now with the grand old melody, go rolling upwards and
outwards through the open door and windows, over one of the fairest and
richest farming districts in the world:
_They drop upon the pastures wide,_
_That do in deserts lie;_
_The little hills on every side_
_Rejoice right pleasantly._
_With flocks the pastures clothed be,_
_The vales with corn are clad;_
_And now they shout and sing to Thee,_
_For Thou hast made them glad._
I am a soldier, and have been a soldier all my life, so when I encounter
an assemblage of my fellow countrymen, I naturally scrutinise them from
a recruiting sergeant's point of view. (At least, Eve always said I
did.) And what a sight that congregation presented! I have encountered
many types in the course of my duty. I know our own Highlanders; I know
the French Zouave regiments; a year or two ago--in nineteen-eleven I
think it was--I saw the Prussian Guard march past the Emperor during
Grand Manoeuvres; I have ridden with the Canadian North-West Mounted
Police; I have seen a Zulu impi on the move in South Africa. All have
their own particular incomparabilities--dash, endurance, resource,
initiative--but for sheer physical solidity and fighting possibilities,
commend me to the peaceful yeoman-farming stock of the Lowlands of
Scotland. My own regiment is mainly recruited from this district, so
perhaps I am prejudiced. Still, if ever the present era of
international restlessness crystallises into something definite; if ever
The Day, about which we hear so much and know so little, really
arrives--well, I fancy that that heavily-built, round-shouldered throng
down there, with their shy, self-conscious faces and their uncomfortable
Sunday clothes, will give an account of themselves of which their sonsy,
red-cheeked wives and daughters will have no cause to feel ashamed.
*III*
After the psalm we settle down to the Doctor's first prayer. There are
two of these, separated by an entire chapter of the Old Testament--a
fairly heavy sandwich, sometimes. The first prayer lasts a quarter of
an hour, the second, eight minutes. The first prayer takes the form of
an interview between Doctor Chirnside and his Maker--an interview so
confidential in character and of a theological atmosphere so rarefied
that few of us are able to attain to it. So our attention occasionally
drops to lower altitudes. The second prayer is more adapted to humble
intellects. The Doctor refers to it as the Prayer of Intercession. In it
he prays for everything and everybody, beginning with the British Empire
and ending with the Dorcas Society. Under the cloak of Intercession,
too, he is accustomed, very ingeniously, to introduce, and comment upon,
topics of current interest. Occasionally he springs upon us a genuine
and delightful surprise. The parish still remembers the Sunday morning
in eighteen-ninety-four upon which the Doctor, in his customary
intercession for the Royal Family, got in twenty-four hours ahead of
Monday's _Scotsman_ by concluding his orison: "And we invoke Thy special
blessing, O Lord, upon the infant son (and ultimate heir to the Throne
of this country) born, _as Thou knowest, Lord_, to Her Majesty's
grandchildren, the Duke and Duchess of York, at an early hour this
morning!"
But the first prayer, as already indicated, holds no surprises. I am
therefore accustomed to devote this period to a detailed inspection of
the congregation below--an occupation which has the special merit of
being compatible with an attitude of profound devotion.
Perhaps I ought to explain how it is that I, a mere visitor, should take
such a deep interest in Craigfoot and its associations. The fact is, I
am no visitor. I was born here, not ten miles away, at The Heughs, a
little manor among the foothills, where my brother Walter and his lusty
family still flourish. As a younger son I was destined from birth for
the Army; but by the time I had passed into Sandhurst, and on to the
lordly exile of our Army in India, I knew every acre of the district. I
had tumbled into burns and been kicked off ponies all over the county.
I knew everybody who lived there, from our local overlord, the Earl of
Eskerley, down to Bob Reid, the signal porter at the railway
station--who, being well aware that I went fishing every Wednesday at
Burling, two stations up the line, was accustomed on those occasions to
refuse right of way to the morning train, palpitating for its connection
with the junction ten miles distant, until my tardy bicycle swept round
the curve of the road and deposited me panting on the platform.
Inevitably, the day came when I fell in love--with Eve. That was no
novelty for Eve; for she and her elder sister, Diana, had most of us on
a string in those days. Baronrigg was the lodestone of every young
spark in the county, except during those dismal months in summer when
our twin divinities were spirited away to London for the season. Some
were able to follow them there; but I was not. Neither was Eric
Bethune. Regimental duty forbade, though we did what we could with the
generous leave available in the early nineties.
Ultimately, I was taken and Eric was left. Why Eve took me I have never
known. I was only an infantry subaltern, and a younger son into the
bargain. But she picked me out from the crowd, and waited for me, bless
her! for seven years. My theory was, and is, that a woman only marries
a man for one of two reasons--either because he gives her "a thrill," or
because she thinks he requires taking care of. There was no doubting
Eve's reason for marrying me. She took care of me for one rapturous
year; and then she left me, and took her baby with her. To-day both lie
in the private burial-ground of Baronrigg. That is why I always accept
Tom's annual invitation to stay there at Easter, rather than go to my
brother Walter's cheery but distracting establishment at The Heughs.
That is enough about me. Now let us get back to the congregation.
It was a representative throng, yet not entirely representative. For
one thing, our chief territorial and social luminary, Lord Eskerley, is
a member of the Church of England; and when he goes to church at
all--which is usually just after a heart-attack, or just before a
General Election--he goes to Fiddrie. For another, no Scottish
assemblage can be counted truly representative which takes no account of
the adherents of Holy Church--as a peep into Father Kirkpatrick's
tightly-packed conventicle on the other side of the glen would tell us.
But when all is said, the parish church is still the focus of Scottish
rural life, and I was well content with the selection of friends who
filled the pews below me.
There was old General Bothwell, of Springburn, a Mutiny and Crimean
veteran--altogether quite a celebrity among a generation which knows
nothing of actual warfare. (After all, the South African affair touched
our civil community very lightly.) Beside the General sits his son
Jack, home on leave from India. He commands a company in a Pathan
regiment. The General is trying hard not to look proud of Jack.
Just behind the Bothwells sit the Graemes, of Burling--Sir Alistair, his
Lady, and their three tall daughters, known and celebrated throughout
the county as "The Three Grenadiers." Across the aisle sits old Couper,
of Abbottrigg--the largest farmer in the district, and one of the best
curlers in Scotland--with his wife. The old couple are alone now, for
all their sons and daughters are married. However, a good many of them
are present in other parts of the church, holding a fidgety third
generation down in its seat.
Just in front of the Coupers I observe Mr. Gillespie, manager of our
branch of the Bank of Scotland, a man of immense discretion and many
secrets. With him, Mrs. Gillespie. Also the two Misses Gillespie,
locally and affectionately renowned as "Spot" and "Plain." I notice
that their son, Robert, who is studying for the Ministry in distant
Edinburgh, is with them for the week-end.
Farther back, at the end of a long pew, just under the public gallery,
sits Galbraith, our chemist and druggist, a small man with a heavy
cavalry moustache and--the not uncommon accompaniment of a small man--a
large wife and twelve children. The children fall into two groups,
separated by an interval of seven years. The first group--four in
number, and somewhat wizened in appearance--were born and reared upon
the slender profits of a retail business in tooth-brushes, patent
medicines, and dog-soap. The other eight--fat and well-liking--began to
appear serially after Mr. Galbraith had amassed a sudden and unexpected
fortune out of a patent sheep-dip of his own invention, which has made
the name of Galbraith celebrated as far away as Australia.
Over the way from Galbraith, in a side pew, sits Shanks, the joiner. He
is a poor creature, lacking in ability either to ply his trade or invent
reasons for not doing so. Eve used to say that Shanks never by any
chance acceded to a professional summons, and that his excuses were
three in number, and were employed in monotonous rotation--firstly, that
he had swallowed some tacks; secondly, that he had had to bury "a
relation of the wife's"; thirdly, that one of his numerous offspring had
been overtaken by a fit.
Behind Shanks sit the Misses Peabody. They are the daughters of a
retired merchant of Leith, who died many years ago. They inhabit a
villa on the outskirts of our little town, live on an annuity, and exist
precariously in that narrow social borderland which divides town-folk
from gentry.
Passing on, I note that Mr. Menzies, Lord Eskerley's factor, has at last
provided himself with a wife--a stranger to me. Well, Menzies is well
connected and has an excellent house; so, doubtless, the lady will be
comfortable. But I wish he had not gone so far afield. There is
nothing wrong with the girls in this district, Menzies! _Experto
crede_!
My eye wanders on over the bowed heads. Finally it reaches the third pew
from the front, and I am aware of the handsome presence of my friend
Eric Bethune, of Buckholm. Beside him, bolt upright, with a critical
eye fixed upon Doctor Chirnside, sits his eccentric lady mother. Eric's
attitude is more devout, but I observe that his head is turned sideways,
and that he is grinning sympathetically at Tommy Milroy over the way,
whose little nose is being relentlessly pressed to the book-board by an
iron maternal hand encased in a hot black kid glove.
Eric, although he is as old as myself, is still very much of a boy--or
perhaps I ought, in strict candour, to say a child. He was a child at
school--in his exuberant vitality, his sudden friendships, his
petulance. He was a child at Sandhurst; he was a child as a
subaltern--at times, almost a baby. But he has been my friend all my
life, and I admire him more than any man I know; perhaps because he
possesses all the qualities which I lack. He is tall and debonair; I
am--well, neither. He is impulsive, frank, and popular; I am cautious,
reticent and regarded as a little difficult. (This is not true really,
only there is no Eve now to tell me what to say to people.)
But, above all, Eric is a soldier. In the South African War he was
Adjutant of our Second Battalion. They were sent out rather late, and
only got to work after Paardeburg. I was with the other battalion, and
saw nothing of Eric, but his Colonel considered him the smartest
Adjutant in the Division, and recommended him for the D.S.O. He got it,
but always declared that he had had no chance to earn it, except by
instructing the men very thoroughly in what is vulgarly known as the art
of "Spit and Polish." Certainly they were the best turned-out crowd I
have ever seen, when they marched through the streets of Edinburgh on
their return.
Directly after that we both went back to India. We were anxious to go.
Eve had died just before I sailed for South Africa; Diana had broken off
her engagement with Eric and married Tom Birnie three years earlier.
But I did not stay in India very long. I was restless for home again;
and, having decided that the Regular Army could now get along without my
services, I sent in my papers and settled in London. When Roy was nine
years old his mother followed her sister. She had survived Eve only six
years, for the same lung trouble had marked them down long ago. After
that Eric felt that he could come back to Buckholm. So he came, and
they gave him command of the Regimental Depot, with the rank of Major.
The Depot is not far away from here, and he is able to join his mother
at Buckholm for much of the time. He is quite his old self now, and he
has made the Third Battalion a marvel of smartness and efficiency. But
there is one house which he never visits--Baronrigg. I do not blame
him. His memories there are not like mine. Moreover, besides hating
Tom Birnie, he dislikes Roy. I am surprised at this, because the boy is
the image of his mother. Still, I suppose a man may be forgiven for
disliking a boy who should have been his own son, but is not. Anyhow, I
know I shall not meet Eric during my stay at Baronrigg, so I have
arranged to lunch at Buckholm after church to-day.
That covers the congregation, I think. (Doctor Chirnside is working up
to his peroration, and in a few minutes we shall be erect again.) I
look over them once more. Altogether, a sturdy, satisfactory
assemblage, from laird to ploughman. We have not changed much in the
last two hundred years, nor will during the next two hundred, so far as
I can see. We are Conservatives of Conservatives, although we return a
Liberal. We shall go on tilling the fat soil, and raising fat cattle,
and marrying young, and having big families, and sending a few of the
boys into the Army, and a few to the Colonies, and keep the rest at home
to marry strapping girls and have more big families, until the end of
time.
We are a little disturbed, to be sure, at the present state of the world
outside. A street-bred Government, with both eyes on the industrial
vote, has recently compelled us, even us, to disburse our hard-earned
pennies upon stamps, to be stuck at frequent intervals upon an
objectionable card. We are informed that this wasteful and uncongenial
exercise is designed to bestow upon us the benefits of insurance against
sickness--upon us, who are never either sick or sorry; and if ever we
are, are taken care of (under an unwritten compact of immemorial
antiquity) by the employers who have known us and ours for generations
back. Other political upheavals are agitating the country, but they
leave us cold in comparison with this superfluous imposition of
benevolence.
But still, politicians are always with us, and must be endured; so what
matter? Our valleys stand so thick with corn that they laugh and sing,
and even with Income Tax at one and twopence in the pound, things might
be worse. After all, we have our health, and perhaps it is our duty to
contribute to the insurance of those sickly city folk. A few stamps are
not a very high price to pay for peace and prosperity and sleepy
contentment in the heart of the British Empire.
*IV.*
... I think I must have begun to nod a little. It was a warm morning,
and the sunshine and the songs of the birds without, and the
confidential rumblings of Doctor Chirnside within, had exercised a
soporific effect. But I opened my eyes with a jerk, and observed that
the Netherby pew was occupied.
Netherby has stood empty so long that it is quite a shock to see its pew
inhabited at all. It is a conspicuous pew, in the corner of the church,
to the left of the pulpit, and my unregenerate nephews and nieces call
it "The Loose Box." It is built in the form of a hollow square, and is
surrounded by dingy red rep curtains, which enable its occupants to gaze
upon the officiating clergy without themselves being gazed upon by the
congregation. However, the pew is overlooked by the Baronrigg gallery.
This morning the Netherby pew contained seven occupants, humped devoutly
round the square table in the centre. Upon the table reposed a
gentleman's silk hat, or topper. Now, in this part of the country,
gentlemen do not wear silk hats on Sunday. They wear bowlers, or
Homburg hats, or even motoring caps. Neither do they wear frock-coats,
like the obvious proprietor of "The Loose Box." He was a squarely-built
man, and from what I could see of his face, he wore mutton-chop
whiskers. There was also a middle-aged lady in a rather unsuitable hat.
There were two boys of nineteen or twenty. There were two or three small
children, constrained and restless. There was an elderly man with a
beard like a goat's, gazing upwards at Doctor Chirnside with an air
which struck me as critical. One felt that he would have taken the
Doctor's place without any pressing whatsoever. I put him down for a
visitor of some kind.
And there was a girl. At least, there was a hat--a big black tulle
hat--and I assumed that there was a girl underneath it. I could see her
frock, which was white. So were her gloves, which extended above her
elbows. Her hands were long and slim. I began to feel curious to see
her face.
Suddenly I realised that I was not alone in this ambition. On my left,
that young rascal Roy was hanging outward and downward at a dangerous
and indecorous angle, in a characteristically thorough attempt to look
under the brim of the black tulle hat. Needless to say, in romantic
enterprises of this kind, competition, especially with the young, makes
one feel merely foolish, so I resumed my normal position and closed my
eyes with an air of severe reproof.
Almost directly afterwards the First Prayer came to a conclusion, and we
all sat up. Simultaneously the girl in the hat lifted her head. The
Parish Church is small and the range was comparatively short. For a
moment her face was upturned in our direction. I heard Roy give a gasp
of admiration.
"Let us read together," suggested the indefatigable Doctor Chirnside,
"in the Fifty-Fifth Chapter of the Book of the Prophet Isaiah. Chapter
Fifty-Five. The first verse. _Ho, every one that thirsteth..._"
But I am afraid I was not listening. I was watching the girl's face--as
well I might, for it was the face of a flower. She leaned back in her
seat against the wall, and composed herself for the Fifty-Fifth Chapter
of Isaiah. Suddenly, for some reason, she lifted her head again. This
time her eyes encountered Master Roy's honest and rapturous gaze. They
fell immediately, but up from the open throat of her white Sunday frock,
over her face, and right into the roots of her abundant fair hair, ran a
vivid burning blush.