And then Domsie would chuckle with a keen sense of irony at the theology
underneath. “For the summer Sacrament,” he would add after a pause,
“we had a discourse on sin wi' twa heads, 'Original Sin' and 'Actual
Transgressions'; and after Maister Deuchar finished wi' the first, he
aye snuffed, and said with great cheerfulness: 'Now let us proceed to
actual transgressions.'”
Although Domsie's tales had never in them the body of the Doctor's, yet
he told them with such a pawkie humour, that Drumsheugh was fain between
the two to cry for mercy, being often reduced to the humiliation of open
laughter, of which he was afterwards much ashamed.
On that day, however, when Domsie made his lamentable announcement, it
was evident to his friends that he was cast down, and ill at ease. He
only glanced at a Horace which the Doctor had been fool enough to buy in
Edinburgh, and had treasured up for Domsie's delectation at the close
of the school year--the kind of book he loved to handle, linger over,
return to gaze at, for all the world like a Catholic with a relic.
“Printed, do you see, by Henry Stephen, of Paris; there's his trademark,
a philosopher gathering twigs from the tree of knowledge--and bound by
Boyet--old French morocco. There is a coat of arms--I take it of a
peer of France;” and the Doctor, a born book-collector, showed all its
points, as Drumsheugh would have expatiated on a three-year-old bullock.
Domsie could not quite resist the contagious enthusiasm; putting on his
spectacles to test the printing; running his hand over the gold tooling
as one strokes a horse's glossy skin, and tasting afresh one or two
favourite verses from a Horace printed and bound by the master craftsmen
of their day. But it was only a brief rally, and Domsie sank again into
silence, from which neither kindly jest nor shrewd country talk could
draw him, till at last the Doctor asked him a straight question, which
was going far for us, who thought it the worst of manners to pry into
one's secrets: “What ails you, Dominie? Are any of your laddies going
back on you?” and the Doctor covered the inquiry by reminding Drumsheugh
that his glass was low.
“Na, na; they are fechting hard wi' body and mind, an' daein' their
verra best, accordin' tae their pairts. Some o' the Drumtochty scholars
lived and some dee'd in the war at the University, but there wasna ane
disgraced his pairish.”
“They have made it known in every University of Scotland,” broke in the
Doctor, “and also their master's name.”
“Ye've aye made ower mickle o' my wark, but a'm grateful this nicht an'
content to tak' a' ye say in yir goodness, for a've sent oot ma last
scholar,” and Domsie's voice broke.
“Not a bit of it Man alive, you're fit for ten years yet, and as for
laddies, I know four in the school that'll do you credit, or I'm not
minister of Drumtochty.”
“If it's the siller for their fees,” began Drums-heugh, inwardly
overcome by Domsie's unexpected breakdown.
Domsie waved his hand. “The laddies are there, and the twa or three
notes 'ill be gotten as afore, but it 'ill no be me that 'ill feenish
them.”
“What is the meaning of this, Mister Jamieson?” demanded the Doctor
sternly, for the woeful dejection of Domsie was telling on him also.
“It's been on ma mind for years to retire, an maybe I should hae dune
it lang syne; but it was hard on flesh an' blude. I hev taught ma last
class, and ye will need to get another Dominie,” and Domsie, who was
determined to play the man, made a show of filling his glass, with a
shaking hand.
“Ye're an Aiberdeenshire man, a ken, though maist fouk hae forgotten
that ye're no ain' o' oorsels, but div ye tell me that ye're gain'
tae leave us after a' thae years an' a' the bairns ye've educat?” and
Drumsheugh grew indignant “Dinna be feared, Drumsheugh, or think me
ungrateful. I may gang north tae see ma birthplace aince mair, an' the
graves o' ma fouk, an' there's another hoose in Aberdeen I would like
tae see, and then I'm comin' back to Drumtochty to live an' dee here
among the friends that hev been kind to me.”
“This has come suddenly, Domsie, and is a little upsetting,” and
Drumsheugh noticed that the Doctor was shaken. “We have worked side by
side for a long time, church and school, and I was hoping that there
would be no change till--till we both retired altogether; we're about
the same age. Can't you think over it--eh, Dominie?”
“God kens, Doctor, a dinna lik' the thocht o't, but it's for the gude
o' the schule. A'm no hearing sae weel as aince a did, an' ma hands are
shakin' in the writin'. The scholars are gettin' their due, for a'm
no failin' in humanity (Latin), but the ither bairns are losing their
share, and ma day's dune.
“Ye'ill just say that a'm retirin' an' thank a' body for their
consideration, and, Doctor, a've juist a favour tae ask. Gin a new
schule an' maister's hoose be built, will ye lat me get the auld ane; it
'ill no be worth much, an'... I wud like tae end ma days there.”
“Whate'er you want, Domsie, and ye 'ill come to the Manse till it be
free, and we 'ill have many a night among the classics, but... this is
bad news for the Glen, come who may in your place,” and then, though
each man did his part bravely, it was a cheerless evening.
Next day Domsie left to make his pious pilgrimage, and on the Sabbath
there was only one subject in the kirkyard.
“Div ye no think, neebours,” said Hillocks, after a tribute had been
paid to Domsie's services, “that he oucht tae get some bit testimonial?
It wudna be wiselike tae let him slip oot o' the schule withoot a word
frae the Glen.”
Hillocks paused, but the fathers were so much astonished at Hillocks
taking the initiative in expenditure that they waited for further
speech.
“Noo, Pitscothrie is no a pairish tae pit beside Drumtochty for ae
meenut, but when their Dominie gied up his post, if the bodies didna
gather fifty pund for him; they ca'd it a purse o' sovereigns in the
_Advertiser_, but that was juist a genteel name for't.
“A'm no sayin*,” continued Hillocks, “that it wud be safe tae trust
Domsie wi' as mickle siller at a time; he wud be off tae Edinburgh an'
spend it on auld bukes, or may be divide it up amang his students. He's
careless, is Domsie, an' inclined to be wastefu'; but we micht gie him
somethin' tae keep.”
“What wud ye say,” suggested Whinnie, when the kirkyard was revolving
the matter, “if we got him a coo 'at wud gie him milk and be a bit troke
tae occupy his time? What he didna need cud be made into butter and sent
tae Muirtown; it wud be a help.”
“Ye have an oreeginal mind,” said Jamie, who always on those occasions
pitied the woman that was married to Whinnie, “an' a'm sure yir
perposal 'll be remembered. Domsie feedin' his coo on the road-side,
wi' a Latin buke in his hand, wud be interestin'.”
“It's most aggravatin',” broke in Hillocks, who was much annoyed at the
turn things had taken, “that ye winna gie me time tae feenish, an' 'ill
set Domsie stravaging the roads at the tail o' a coo for his last days.”
“It was Jamie,” remonstrated Whinnie.
“Haud yir tongue.” Hillocks felt the time was short, and he had an idea
that must be ventilated. “A was considerin' that Domsie's snuff-box is
gey far thro' wi't A'm judjin' it has seen thirty years, at on y rate,
and it was naethin tae boast o' at the beginnin'. A've seen fresh hinges
pit on it twice masel.
“Now, gin we bocht a snod bit silver boxie ain pit an inscription on't
wi'