LIKE THE SPIRIT OF A LITTLE CHILD.
The smoke of the gun curled slowly and reluctantly out of the narrow
windows, and through the garret opening I heard a hurried rush of feet
beneath me on the stairs, light and quick--a woman’s footsteps when she
is young. My head span round, and had it not been for Mary Gordon, whose
arm caught and steadied me, I should doubtless have fallen from top to
bottom.
“Quintin, Quintin,” she cried, passionately, “are you hurt? Oh, my
father has slain him. Wherefore did I let him go?”
I held by the wall and steadied myself on her shoulder, scarce knowing
what I did.
Suddenly she cried aloud, a little frightened cry, and, drawing her
kerchief from her bosom, she reached up and wiped my brow, down which
red drops were trickling.
“You are hurt! You are sort hurt!” she cried. “And it is all my fault!”
Then I said, “Nay, Mary, I am not hurt. It was but a faintish turn that
came and passed.”
“Oh, come away,” she cried; “he will surely slay you if you bide here,
and your blood will be upon my hands.”
“Nay, Mary,” I answered; “the demon, and not your father, did this
thing, and such can do nothing without permission. I will yet meet and
expel the devil in the name of the Lord!”
She put her netted fingers about my arm to draw me away; nevertheless,
even then, I withstood her.
“Alexander Gordon,” I cried aloud, “the evil spirit hath done its worst.
He will now depart from you. I am coming up the ladder.”
I drew my arm free and mounted. As my head rose through the trap-door I
own that my heart quaked, but there had come with the danger and the
excitement a sort of angry exaltation which, more than aught else,
carried me onward. Also I knew within me that if, as I judged, God had
other work yet for me to do in Scotland, He would clothe me in secret
armour of proof against all assault.
Also the eyes of Mary Gordon were upon me. I had passed my word to her;
I could not go back.
As I looked about the garret between the cobwebs, the strings of onions,
and the bunches of dried herbs, I could see Sandy Gordon crouching at
the far end, all drawn together like a tailor sitting cross-legged on
his bench. He had his musket between his knees, and his great sword was
cocked threateningly over his shoulder.
“What, Corbie! Are ye there again?” cried he, fleeringly. “Then ye are
neither dead nor feared.”
“No,” said I; “the devil that possesses you has been restrained from
doing me serious hurt. I will call on the Lord to expel what He hath
already rendered powerless.”
“Man, Quintin,” he cried, “ye should have fetched Telfair and the
Presbytery with you. Ye are not fit for the job by yourself. Mind you,
this is no hotchin’ wee de’il, sitting cross-legged on the hearth in the
gloaming like Andrew Mackie’s in Ringcroft. It takes the black Father of
Spirits himself, ripe from hell, to grip the Bull of Earlstoun, and set
him to roaring like this in the blank middle of the day.”
“But,” said I, “there is One stronger than any devil or devilkin--your
father’s and your mother’s God! You are but a great bairn, Sandy. Do ye
mind where ye first learned the Lord’s Prayer and the Twenty-third
Psalm?”
At my words the great mountain of a man threw his head back and dropped
his sword.
“Aye, I mind,” he said, sullenly.
“Where was it?” said I.
“It was at my mother’s knee in the turret chamber that looks to the
woods, if ye want to ken.”
“What did your mother when ye had ended the lesson?”
“What is that to you, Quintin MacClellan?” he thundered, fiercely. “I
tell you, torment me not!”
He snarled this out at me suddenly like the roar of a beast in a cage,
thrusting forth his head at me and showing his teeth in the midst of his
red beard.
“What did your mother when ye had learned your psalm?”
“She put her hands upon my head.”
“And then what did she?”
“She prayed.”
“Do ye mind the words of that prayer?”
“I mind them.”
“Then say them.”
“I will not!” he shouted loud and fierce, clattering his gun on the
floor and leaping to his feet. His sword was in his hand, and he pointed
it threateningly at me.
“You will not say your mother’s prayer,” I answered; “then I will say it
for you.”
“No, you shall not, Quintin MacClellan,” he growled. “If it comes to
that, I will say it myself. What ken you about my mother’s prayer?”
“I have a mother of mine own, and not once nor twice she hath said a
prayer for me.”
The point of the sword dropped. He stood silent.
“Her hands were on your head,” I suggested, “you had finished your
prayers. It was in the turret chamber that looks to the north.”
“I ken--I ken!” he cried, turning his head this way and that like a
beast tied and tormented.
But in his eyes there grew a far-away look. The convulsive fingers
loosened on the sword-hilt. The blade fell unheeded to the ground and
lay beside the empty musket.
“O Lord!” he gasped, hardly above his breath, “from all the dangers of
this night keep my laddie. From powers of evil guard him with thy good
angels. The Lord Christ be his yoke-bearer. Deliver him from sin and
from himself. When I am under green kirkyard sward, be Thou to him both
father and mother. O God, Father in Heaven, bless the lad!”
It was his mother’s prayer.
And as the words came softer Alexander Gordon fell on his knees, and
moaned aloud in the dim smoky garret.
Then, judging that my work was done, I, too, kneeled on my knees, and
for the space of an hour or thereby the wind of the summer blew through
the chamber, the shadows crawled up the walls, and Alexander Gordon
moved not nor spoke.
Then I arose, took him by the hand, and bade him follow me. We went down
both of us together. And in the room below we found Mary, who had sat
listening with her head on her hand.
“Here is your father,” I said; “take him to his chamber, and when he is
ready bring him again into the great room.”
So very obediently he went with her as a little child might.
Presently she brought him in again, clean washed and with the black look
gone from his brow.
I bade her set him by the window. She looked at me to see if she should
leave us alone. But I desired her to stay.
Then very gently I set the right way before him.
“Alexander,” said I, “ye have done that which has worked great scandal.
Ye shall confess that publicly. Ye are innocent of the greater iniquity
laid to your charge. Ye shall clear yourself of that by a solemn oath
taken both in the presence of God and before men.”
“That I cannot,” said he, speaking for the first time; “the Presbytery
have refused me the privilege.”
“There is a door open for you,” I said, “in a place where the Presbytery
and your enemies have no power. It may not be long mine to offer you.
But for one day it shall be yours, and after the service on Sabbath in
the Kirk of Balmaghie ye shall stand up and clear yourself by oath of
the greater sin--after having made confession of the more venial fault.”
“I will do it!” he said, and put his hand in mine.
So I left him sitting there with his daughter, with the knowledge that
my soul had power over his. And in the eventide, greatly comforted, I
took my way homewards, knowing that he would not fail me.