MY LADY OF PRIDE.
Within the kirk of Balmaghie there spread from gable to gable a dim sea
of faces, men standing in corners, men holding by windows, men peering
in at the low doorway, while the women cowered upon folded plaids, or
sat closely wedged together upon little creepie stools. So great a
multitude had assembled that day that the bairns who had no voice in the
ministerial call were in danger of being put without to run wild among
the gravestones. But this I forbade, though I doubt not many of the
youthful vagabondage would have preferred such an exodus to the hot and
crowded kirk that day of high summer.
I was well through my discourse, and entering upon my last “head,” when
I heard a stir at the door. I paused somewhat markedly lest there should
be some unseemly disturbance. But I saw only a great burly red-bearded
gentleman with his hair a little touched with grey. The men about the
porch made room for him with mighty deference.
Clinging to his arm was a young girl, with a face lily-pale, dark eyes
and wealth of hair. And instead of the bare head and modest snood of the
country maid, or the mutch of the douce matron, there was upon the
lady’s head a brave new-fashioned hat with a white feather.
I knew them in a moment--Alexander Gordon of Earlstoun and his daughter
Mary.
I cannot tell if my voice trembled, or whether I showed any signs of the
abounding agitation of my spirit. But certain it is that for a space,
which to me seemed ages, the course of my thought went from me. I spoke
words idle and empty, and it was only by the strongest effort of will
that I recalled myself to the solemn matters in hand. That this should
have happened in my trial sermon vexed me sore. For at that time I knew
not that these disturbances, so great-seeming to the speaker, are
little, if at all, observed by his hearers, who are ever willing to lay
the blame upon their own lack of comprehension rather than upon their
instructor’s want of clearness.
But the moment after, with a strong uprising of my spirit, I won above
the turmoil of my intellects, and ended with a great outgoing of my
heart, charging those before me to lay aside the evils of their life and
enter upon the better way with zeal and assured confidence.
And seeing that the people were much moved by my appeal I judged wise to
let them go with what fire of God they had gotten yet burning in their
hearts. I closed therefore quickly, and so dismissed the congregation.
Then, when I came down to go from the kirk, the people were already
dispersing. The great red-bearded man came forward and put his hand on
my shoulder.
“Young sir,” he said, “it is true that ye have left the hill-folk, and
with your feet have walked in devious ways. Notwithstanding, if what we
have heard to-day be your message, we shall yet have you on your knees
before the Eldership of the Societies. For the heart of the man who can
thus speak is with us of the wilderness, and not among the flesh-pots of
an Erastian Egypt.”
At which I shook my head, not seeing how true his words were to prove,
nor yet how soon the Kirk of Scotland was to bow the head, which
hitherto had only bent to her heavenly Lord, to the sceptre of clay and
the rule of a feckless earthly monarch.
But though I looked wistfully at Mary Gordon, and would have gone
forward to help her upon her horse where it stood tethered at the
kirk-liggate, she passed me by as though she had not seen me, which
surely was not well done of her. Instead she beckoned a young man from
the crowd in the kirkyard, who came forward with his hat in his hand and
convoyed her to her horse with a privileged and courtly air. Then the
three rode off together, Alexander Gordon turning about in his saddle
and crying back to me in his loud, hearty manner, “Haste ye and come
over to the Earlstoun, and we will yet show you the way across the Red
Sea out of the Land of Bondage.”
And I was left standing there sadly enough, yet for my life I cannot
tell why I should have been sad. For the folk came thronging about me,
shaking me by the hand, and saying that now they had found their
minister and would choose me in spite of laird or prince or presbytery.
For it seems that already some of my sayings had given offence in high
quarters.
Yet it was as if I heard not these good folk, for (God forgive me) even
at that solemn moment my thoughts were circling about that proud young
lass, who had not deigned me a look even in the hour of triumph, but had
ridden so proudly away with the man who was doubtless her lover.
Thus I stood awhile dumbly at gaze, without finding a word to say to
any. And the folk, thinking that the spirit of the spoken Word was yet
upon me, drew off a little.
Then there came a voice in mine ear, low and persuasive, that awoke me
from my dream.
“This is my father, who would bid ye welcome, and that kindly, to his
house of Drumglass.”
It was the young maid whose piece I had eaten in the morning.
The feeling in my heart that I had been shamed and slighted by Mary
Gordon made Mistress Jean Gemmell’s word sweet and agreeable to me. I
turned me about and found myself clasping the hands of a rugged old man
with a broad and honest face, who took snuff freely with one hand, while
he shook mine with the other.
“I’m prood to see ye, young sir,” he said, “prood to see ye! My dochter
Jean here, a feat and bonny bit lass, has telled me that I am to gie ye
my guid word. And my guid word ye shall hae. And mony o’ the elders and
kirk-members owes siller to auld Drummie; aye, aye, and they shall do as
I say or I shall ken the reason----”
“But, sir,” I said hastily, “I desire no undue influence to be used. Let
my summons, if it come, be the call of a people of one mind concerning
the fitting man to have the oversight of them in the things of the
spirit.”
“Of one mind!” exclaimed the old man, taking snuff more freely than
ever. “Ye are dootless a maist learned and college-bred young lad, with
rowth o’ lear and lashin’s o’ grace, but ye dinna ken this pairish o’
Balmaghie if ye think that ye can ever hae the folk o’ wan mind. Laddie,
the thing’s no possible. There’s as mony minds in Balmaghie as there’s
folk in it. And a mair unruly, camsteery pairish there’s no between
Kirkmaiden and the wild Hieland border. But auld Drummie can guide
them--ow, aye, auld Drummie can work them. He can turn them that owes
him siller round his finger, and they can leaven the congregation--hear
ye that, young man!”
“If the people of this parish desire me for their minister, they will
send me the call,” answered I, pointedly. For these things, as I have
ever believed, are in a Higher Hand.
“Doubtless, doubtless,” quoth auld Drummie; “but the Balmaghie folk are
none of the waur o’ a bit spur in their flank like a reesty[8] powny
that winna gang. They mind a minute’s jag frae the law mair nor the hale
grace o’ God for a month, and mind ye that! Gin ye come amang us, lad,
I’ll learn ye a trick or twa aboot the folk o’ Balmaghie that ye will be
the wiser o’. Mind, I hae been here a’ my life, and an elder o’ the kirk
for thirty year!”
“I am much indebted, sir, for your good intentions, but----”
“Nae buts,” cried auld Drummie. “I hae my dochter Jean’s word that ye
are a braw callan and deserve the pairish, and the pairish ye shall
hae.”
“I am much indebted to your daughter,” I made answer. “She succoured me
with bread to eat this morning, when in the kirkyard I was ready to
faint with hunger. Without her kindness I know not how I would have come
through the fatigues of this day’s exercises.”
“Ow, aye,” said the old man; “that’s just like my dochter Jean. And a
douce ceevil lassock she is. But ye should see my ither dochter afore ye
craw sae croose aboot Jean.”
“You have another daughter?” I said, politely.
“Aye,” he cried, with enthusiasm. “Man, where hae ye comed frae that ye
haena heard o’ Alexander-Jonita, the lass wha can tame a wild stallion
that horse-dealers winna tackle, and ride it stride-leg like a man.
There’s no’ a maiden in a’ the country can hand a cannle to
Alexander-Jonita, the dochter o’ Nathan Gemmell of Drumglass, in the
pairish o’ Balmaghie.”