Christmas fell on a Sunday the year Dr. Davidson died, and on the
preceding Monday a groom drove up to the manse from Muirtown Castle.
“A letter, Doctor, from his lordship”--John found his master sitting
before the study fire in a reverie, looking old and sad--“and there's a
bit boxie in the kitchen.”
“Will you see, John, that the messenger has such food as we can offer
him?” and the Doctor roused himself at the sight of the familiar
handwriting; “there is that, eh, half-fowl that Rebecca was keeping for
my dinner to-day; perhaps she could do it up for him. I... do not feel
hungry to-day. And, John, will you just say that I'm sorry that... owing
to circumstances, we can't offer him refreshment?” On these occasions
the Doctor felt his straitness greatly, having kept a house in his
day where man and beast had of the best “What dis for the minister of
Drumtochty an' his... hoose 'ill dae for a groom, even though he serve
the Earl o' Kilspindie, an' a ken better than say onything tae Becca
aboot the chuckie;” this he said to himself on his way to the kitchen,
where that able woman had put the messenger from the castle in his
own place, and was treating him with conspicuous and calculated
condescension. He was a man somewhat given to appetite, and critical
about his drink, as became a servant of the Earl; but such was the
atmosphere of the manse and the awfulness of the Doctor's household that
he made a hearty dinner off ham and eggs, with good spring water, and
departed declaring his gratitude aloud.
“My dear Davidson,--
“Will you distribute the enclosed trifle among your old pensioners in
the Glen as you may see fit, and let it come from you, who would have
given them twice as much had it not been for that confounded bank. The
port is for yourself,
Sandeman's '48--the tipple you and I have tasted together for many a
year. If you hand it over to the liquidators, as you wanted to do with
the few bottles you had in your cellar, I'll have you up before the
Sheriff of Muirtown for breach of trust and embezzlement as sure as my
name is “Your old friend,
“Kilspindie.”
“P.S.--The Countess joins me in Christmas greetings and charges you to
fail us on New Year's Day at your peril. We are anxious about Hay, who
has been ordered to the front.”
The Doctor opened the cheque and stroked it gently; then he read the
letter again and snuffed, using his handkerchief vigorously. After which
he wrote:--
“Dear Kilspindie,--
“It is, without exception, the prettiest cheque I have ever had in my
hands, and it comes from as good a fellow as ever lived. You knew that
it would hurt me not to be able to give my little Christmas gifts, and
you have done this kindness. Best thanks from the people and myself, and
as for the port, the liquidators will not see a drop of it Don't believe
any of those stories about the economies at the manse which I suspect
you have been hearing from Drumtochty. Deliberate falsehoods; we
are living like fighting cocks. I'm a little shaky--hint of gout, I
fancy--but hope to be with you on New Year's Day. God bless you both,
and preserve Hay in the day of battle.
“Yours affectionately,
“Alexander Davidson.”
“Don't like that signature, Augusta,” said the Earl to his wife; “'yours
affectionately' it's true enough, for no man has a warmer heart, but he
never wrote that way before. Davidson's breaking up, and... he 'ill be
missed. I must get Manley to run out here and overhaul him when Davidson
comes down on New Year's Day. My belief is that he's been starving
himself. Peter Robertson, the land steward, says that he has never
touched a drop of wine since that bank smashed; now that won't do at our
age, but he's an obstinate fellow, Davidson, when he takes a thing into
his head.”
The Doctor's determination--after the calamity of the bank failure--to
reduce himself to the depths of poverty was wonderful, but Drumtochty
was cunning and full of tact. He might surrender his invested means and
reserve only one hundred pounds a year out of his living, but when he
sent for the Kildrummie auctioneer and instructed him to sell every
stick of furniture, except a bare minimum for one sitting-room and a
bedroom, Jock accepted the commission at once, and proceeded at eleven
miles an hour--having just bought a new horse--to take counsel with
Drumsheugh. Next Friday, as a result thereof, he dropped into the
factor's office--successor to him over whom the Doctor had triumphed
gloriously--and amid an immense variety of rural information, mentioned
that he was arranging a sale of household effects at Drumtochty Manse.
Jock was never known to be so dilatory with an advertisement before, and
ere he got it out Lord Kilspindie had come to terms with the liquidator
and settled the Doctor's belongings on him for life.
The Doctor's next effort was with his household, and for weeks the
minister looked wistfully at John and Rebecca, till at last he called
them in and stated the situation.
“You have both been... good and faithful servants to me, indeed I may
say... friends for many years, and I had hoped you would have remained
in the Manse till... so long as I was spared. And I may mention now that
I had made some slight provision that would have... made you comfortable
after I was gone.”
“It wes kind o' ye, sir, an' mindfu'.” Rebecca spoke, not John, and her
tone was of one who might have to be firm and must not give herself away
by sentiment.
“It is no longer possible for me, through... certain events, to live as
I have been accustomed to do, and I am afraid that I must... do without
your help. A woman coming in to cook and... such like will be all I can
afford.” The expression on the housekeeper's face at this point was such
that even the Doctor did not dare to look at her again, but turned to
John, whose countenance was inscrutable.
“Your future, John, has been giving me much anxious thought, and I hope
to be able to do something with Lord Kilspindie next week. There are
many quiet places on the estate which might suit...” then the Doctor
weakened, “although I know well no place will ever be like Drumtochty,
and the old Manse will never be the same... without you. But you see how
it is... friends.”
“Doctor Davidson,” and he knew it was vain to escape her, “wi' yir
permission a wud like tae ask ye ane or twa questions, an' ye 'ill
forgie the leeberty. Dis ony man in the Pairish o' Drumtochty ken yir
wys like John? Wha 'ill tak yir messages, an' prepare the fouk for the
veesitation, an' keep the gairden snod, an' see tae a' yir trokes when
John's awa? Wull ony man ever cairry the bukes afore ye like John?”
“Never,” admitted the Doctor, “never.”
“Div ye expect the new wumman 'ill ken hoo mickle stairch tae pit in yir
stock, an' hoo mickle butter ye like on yir chicken, an' when ye change
yir flannels tae a day, an' when ye like anither blanket on yir bed, an'
the wy tae mak the currant drink for yir cold?”
“No, no, Rebecca, nobody will ever be so good to me as you've been”--the
Doctor was getting very shaky.
“Then what for wud ye send us awa, and bring in some handless, useless
tawpie that cud neither cook ye a decent meal nor keep the Manse wise
like? Is't for room? The Manse is as big as ever. Is't for meat? We'ill
eat less than she 'ill waste.”
“You know better, Rebecca,” said the Doctor, attempting to clear his
throat; “it's because... because I cannot afford to...”
“A ken very weel, an' John an' me hev settled that For thirty year
ye've paid us better than ony minister's man an' manse hoosekeeper in
Perthshire, an' ye wantit tae raise oor wages aifter we mairrit. Div ye
ken what John an' me hev in the bank for oor laist days?”
The Doctor only shook his head, being cowed for once in his life.
“Atween us, five hundred and twenty-sax pund.”
“Eleven an' sevenpence,” added John, steadying his voice with
arithmetic.
“It's five year sin we askit ye tae py naethin' mair, but juist gie's
oor keep, an' noo the time's come, an' welcome. Hev John or me ever
disobeyed ye or spoken back a' thae years?”
The Doctor only made a sign with his hand. “We' ill dae't aince, at ony
rate, for ye may gie us notice tae leave an' order us oot o' the manse;
but here we stop till we're no fit tae serve ye or ye hae nae mair need
o' oor service.” “A homologate that”--it was a brave word, and one of
which John was justly proud, but he did not quite make the most of it
that day.
“I thank you from my heart, and... I'll never speak of parting again,”
and for the first time they saw tears on the Doctor's cheek.
“John,” Rebecca turned on her husband--no man would have believed it
of the beadle of Drumtochty, but he was also... “what are ye stoiterin'
roond the table for? it's time tae set the Doctor's denner; as for
that chicken--” and Rebecca retired to the kitchen, having touched her
highest point that day.
The insurrection in the manse oozed out, and encouraged a conspiracy of
rebellion in which even the meekest people were concerned. Jean Baxter,
of Bumbrae, who had grasped greedily at the dairy contract of the manse,
when the glebe was let to Netherton, declined to render any account to
Rebecca, and the Doctor had to take the matter in hand.
“There's a little business, Mrs. Baxter, I would like to settle with
you, as I happen to be here.” The Doctor had dropped in on his way back
from Whinny Knowe, where Marget and he had been talking of George for
two hours. “You know that I have to be, eh... careful now, and I...
you will let me pay what we owe for that delicious butter you are good
enough to supply.”
“Ye 'ill surely tak a 'look roond the fields first, Doctor, an' tell's
what ye think o' the crops;” and after that it was necessary for him to
take tea. Again and again he was foiled, but he took a firm stand by
the hydrangea in the garden, where he had given them Lord Kilspindie's
message, and John Baxter stood aside that the affair might be decided in
single combat.
“Now, Mrs. Baxter, before leaving I must insist,” began the Doctor with
authority, and his stick was in his hand; but Jean saw a geographical
advantage, and seized it instantly.
“Div ye mind, sir, comin' tae this gairden five year syne this month,
and stannin' on that verra spot aside the hydrangy?”
The Doctor scented danger, but he could not retreat.
“Weel, at ony rate, John an' me dinna forget that day, an' never wull,
for we were makin' ready tae leave the home o' the Baxters for mony
generations wi' a heavy heart, an' it wes you that stoppit us. Ye'ill
maybe no mind what ye said tae me.”
“We 'ill not talk of that to-day, Mrs. Baxter... that's past and over.”
“Aye, it's past, but it's no over, Doctor Davidson; na, na, John an' me
wesna made that wy Ye may lauch at a fulish auld wife, but ilka kirnin'
(churning) day ye veesit us again. When a'm turnin' the kirn a see ye
comin' up the road as ye did that day, an' a gar the handle keep time
wi' yir step; when a tak oot the bonnie yellow butter ye're stannin' in
the gairden, an' then a stamp ae pund wi' buttercups, an' a say, 'You're
not away yet, Bumbrae, you're not away yet'--that wes yir word tae the
gude man; and when the ither stamp comes doon on the second pund and
leaves the bonnie daisies on't, 'Better late than never, Bumbrae; better
late than never, Bumbrae.' Ye said that afore ye left, Doctor.” Baxter
was amazed at his wife, and the Doctor saw himself defeated.
“Mony a time hes John an' me sat in the summer-hoose an' brocht back
that day, an' mony a time hev we wantit tae dae somethin' for him that
keepit the auld roof-tree abune oor heads. God forgie me, Doctor, but
when a heard ye hed gien up yir glebe ma hert loupit, an' a said tae
John, 'The 'ill no want for butter at the manse sae lang as there's a
Baxter in Bumbrae.'
“Dinna be angry, sir,” but the flush that brought the Doctor's face unto
a state of perfection was not anger. “A ken it's a leeberty we're takin*
an' maybe a'm presumin' ower far, but gin ye kent hoo sair oor herts
were wi' gratitude ye wudna deny us this kindness.”
“Ye 'ill lat the Doctor come awa noo, gude wife, tae see the young
horse,” and Doctor Davidson was grateful to Burnbrae for covering his
retreat.
This spirit spread till Hillocks lifted up his horn, outwitting the
Doctor with his attentions, and reducing him to submission. When the
beadle dropped in upon Hillocks one day, and, after a hasty review of
harvest affairs, mentioned that Doctor Davidson was determined to walk
in future to and from Kildrummie Station, the worthy man rose without a
word, and led the visitor to the shed where his marvellous dog-cart was
kept.
“Div ye think that a' cud daur?” studying its general appearance with
diffidence.
“There's nae sayin' hoo it micht look wi' a wash,” suggested John.
“Sall, it's fell snod noo,” after two hours' honest labour, in which
John condescended to share, “an* the gude wife 'ill cover the cushions.
Dinna lat on, but a'll be at the gate the morn afore the Doctor starts,”
and Peter Bruce gave it to be understood that when Hillocks convoyed the
Doctor to the compartment of the third rigidly and unanimously reserved
for him, his manner, both of walk and conversation, was changed, and it
is certain that a visit he made to Piggie Walker on the return journey
was unnecessary save for the purpose of vain boasting. It was not,
however, to be heard of by the Doctor that Hillocks should leave his
work at intervals to drive him to Kildrummie, and so there was a war of
tactics, in which the one endeavoured to escape past the bridge without
detection, while the other swooped down upon him with the dog-cart. On
the Wednesday when the Doctor went to Muirtown to buy his last gifts to
Drumtochty, he was very cunning, and ran the blockade while Hillocks
was in the corn room, but the dog-cart was waiting for him in the
evening--Hillocks having been called to Kildrummie by unexpected
business, at least so he said--and it was a great satisfaction
afterwards to Peter Bruce that he placed fourteen parcels below the seat
and fastened eight behind--besides three which the Doctor held in his
hands, being fragile, and two, soft goods, on which Hillocks sat for
security. For there were twenty-seven humble friends whom the Doctor
wished to bless on Christmas Day.
When he bade the minister good-bye at his gate, Hillocks prophesied a
storm, and it was of such a kind that on Sunday morning the snow was
knee-deep on the path from the manse to the kirk, and had drifted up
four feet against the door through which the Doctor was accustomed to
enter in procession.
“This is unfortunate, very unfortunate,” when John reported the state
of affairs to the Doctor, “and we must just do the best we can in the
circumstances, eh?”
“What wud be yir wull, sir?” but John's tone did not encourage any
concessions.
“Well, it would never do for you to be going down bare-headed on such a
day, and it's plain we can't get in at the front door. What do you say
to taking in the books by the side door, and I'll just come down in my
top-coat, when the people are gathered”; but the Doctor did not show a
firm mind, and it was evident that he was thinking less of himself than
of John.
“All come for ye at the usual 'oor,” was all that functionary deigned to
reply, and at a quarter to twelve he brought the gown and bands to the
study--he himself being in full black.
“The drift 'ill no tribble ye, an' ye 'ill no need tae gang roond; na,
na,” and John could not quite conceal his satisfaction, “we 'ill no
start on the side door aifter five and thirty years o' the front.” So
the two old men--John bare-headed, the Doctor in full canonicals and
wearing his college cap--came down on a fair pathway between two banks
of snow three feet high, which Saunders from Drumsheugh and a dozen
plowmen had piled on either side. The kirk had a severe look that day,
with hardly any women or children to relieve the blackness of the men,
and the drifts reaching to the sills of the windows, while a fringe of
snow draped their sides.
The Doctor's subject was the love of God, and it was noticed that he
did not read, but spoke as if he had been in his study. He also dwelt so
affectingly on the gift of Christ, and made so tender an appeal unto his
people, that Drumsheugh blew his nose with vigour, and Hillocks himself
was shaken. After they had sung the paraphrase--
“To Him that lov'd the souls of men,
And washed us in His blood,”
the Doctor charged those present to carry his greetings to the folk at
home, and tell them they were all in his heart After which he looked
at his people as they stood for at least a minute, and then lifting his
hands, according to the ancient fashion of the Scottish Kirk, he blessed
them. His gifts, with a special message to each person, he sent by
faithful messengers, and afterwards he went out through the snow to make
two visits. The first was to blind Marjorie, who was Free Kirk, but
to whom he had shown much kindness all her life. His talk with her was
usually of past days and country affairs, seasoned with wholesome humour
to cheer her heart, but to-day he fell into another vein, to her great
delight, and they spoke of the dispensations of Providence.
“'Whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth,' Marjorie, is a very instructive
Scripture, and I was thinking of it last night You have had a long and
hard trial, but you have doubtless been blessed, for if you have not
seen outward things, you have seen the things... of the soul.” The
Doctor hesitated once or twice, as one who had not long travelled this
road.
“You and I are about the same age, Marjorie, and we must soon... depart
My life was very... prosperous, but lately it has pleased the Almighty
to... chasten me. I have now, therefore, some hope also that I may be
one of His children.”
“He wes aye gude grain, the Doctor,” Marjorie said to her friend after
he had left, “but he's hed a touch o' the harvest sun, and he's been
ripening.”
Meanwhile the Doctor had gone on to Tochty Lodge, and was standing in
the stone hall, which was stripped and empty of the Camegies for ever.
Since he was a laddie in a much-worn kilt and a glengarry bonnet without
tails, he had gone in and out the Lodge, and himself had seen four
generations--faintly remembering the General's grandfather. Every inch
of the house was familiar to him, and associated with kindly incidents.
He identified the spaces on the walls where the portraits of the
cavaliers and their ladies had hung; he went up to the room where the
lairds had died and his friend had hoped to fall on sleep; he visited
the desolate gallery where Kate had held court and seemed to begin
a better day for the old race; then he returned and stood before the
fireplace in which he had sat long ago and looked up to see the stars
in the sky. Round that hearth many a company of brave men and fair
women had gathered, and now there remained of this ancient stock but two
exiles--one eating out his heart in poverty and city life, and a girl
who had for weal or woe, God only knew, passed out of the line of her
traditions. A heap of snow had gathered on the stone, where the honest
wood fire had once burned cheerily, and a gust of wind coming down the
vast open chimney powdered his coat with drift It was to him a sign that
the past was closed, and that he would never again stand beneath that
roof.
He opened the gate of the manse, and then, under a sudden impulse, went
on through deep snow to the village and made a third visit--to Archie
Moncur, whom he found sitting before the fire reading the _Temperance
Trumpet_. Was there ever a man like Archie?--so gentle and fierce, so
timid and fearless, so modest and persevering. He would stoop to lift a
vagrant caterpillar from the cart track, and yet had not adjectives to
describe the infamy of a publican; he would hardly give an opinion on
the weather, but he fought the drinking customs of the Glen like a lion;
he would only sit in the lowest seat in any place, but every winter he
organised--at great trouble and cost of his slender means--temperance
meetings which were the fond jest of the Glen. From year to year
he toiled on, without encouragement, without success, hopeful,
uncomplaining, resolute, unselfish, with the soul of a saint and the
spirit of a hero in his poor, deformed, suffering little body. He
humbled himself before the very bairns, and allowed an abject like
Milton to browbeat him with Pharisaism, but every man in the Glen knew
that Archie would have gone to the stake for the smallest jot or tittle
of his faith.
“Archie,” said the Doctor, who would not sit down, and whose coming
had thrown the good man into speechless confusion, “it's the day of
our Lord's birth, and I wish to give you and all my friends of the Free
Kirk--as you have no minister just now--hearty Christmas greeting. May
peace be in your kirk and homes... and hearts.
“My thoughts have been travelling back of late over those years since I
was ordained minister of this parish and the things which have happened,
and it seemed to me that no man has done his duty by his neighbour or
before God with a more single heart than you, Archie.”
“God bless you.” Then on the doorstep the Doctor shook hands again and
paused for a minute. “You have fought a good fight, Archie--I wish we
could all say the same... a good fight.”
For an hour Archie was so dazed that he was not able to say a word,
and could do nothing but look into the fire, and then he turned to his
sisters, with that curious little movement of the hand which seemed to
assist his speech.
“The language wes clean redeeklus, but it wes kindly meant... an' it
maks up for mony things.... The Doctor wes aye a gentleman, an' noo...
ye can see that he's... something mair.”
Drumsheugh dined with the Doctor that night, and after dinner John
opened for them a bottle of Lord Kilspindie's wine.
“It is the only drink we have in the house, for I have not been using
anything of that kind lately, and I think we may have a glass together
for the sake of Auld Lang Syne.”
They had three toasts, “The Queen,” and “The Kirk of Scotland,” and “The
friends that are far awa,” after which--for the last included both the
living and the dead--they sat in silence. Then the Doctor began to speak
of his ministry, lamenting that he had not done better for his people,
and declaring that if he were spared he intended to preach more
frequently about the Lord Jesus Christ.
“You and I, Drumsheugh, will have to go a long journey soon, and give an
account of our lives in Drumtochty. Perhaps we have done our best as men
can, and I think we have tried; but there are many things we might have
done otherwise, and some we ought not to have done at all.
“It seems to me now, the less we say in that day of the past the
better.... We shall wish for mercy rather than justice, and”--here the
Doctor looked earnestly over his glasses at his elder--“we would be none
the worse, Drums-heugh, of a friend to... say a good word for us both in
the great court.”
“A've thocht that masel”--it was an agony for Drumsheugh to speak--“mair
than aince. Weelum MacLure wes... ettlin' (feeling) aifter the same
thing the nicht he slippit awa, an' gin ony man cud hae stude on his ain
feet... yonder, it was... Weelum.”
The Doctor read the last chapter of the Revelation of St John at prayers
that evening with much solemnity, and thereafter prayed concerning those
who had lived together in the Glen that they might meet at last in the
City.
“Finally, most merciful Father, we thank Thee for Thy patience with
us and the goodness Thou hast bestowed upon us, and for as much as Thy
servants have sinned against Thee beyond our knowledge, we beseech Thee
to judge us not according to our deserts, but according to the merits
and intercession of Jesus Christ our Lord.” He also pronounced the
benediction--which was not his wont at family worship--and he shook
hands with his two retainers; but he went with his guest to the outer
door.
“Good-bye, Drumsheugh... you have been... a faithful friend and elder.”
When John paid his usual visit to the study before he went to bed, the
Doctor did not hear him enter the room. He was holding converse with
Skye, who was seated on a chair, looking very wise and much interested.
“Ye're a bonnie beastie, Skye”--like all Scots, the Doctor in his tender
moments dropped into dialect--“for a'thing He made is verra gude. Ye've
been true and kind to your master, Skye, and ye 'ill miss him if he
leaves ye. Some day ye 'ill die also, and they 'ill bury ye, and I doubt
that 'ill be the end o' ye, Skye.
“Ye never heard o' God, Skye, or the Saviour, for ye're juist a puir
doggie; but your master is minister of Drumtochty, and... a sinner
saved... by grace.”
The Doctor was so much affected as he said the last words slowly
to himself that John went out on tiptoe, and twice during the night
listened--fancying he heard Skye whine. In the morning the Doctor was
still sitting in his big chair, and Skye was fondly licking a hand that
would never again caress him, while a miniature of Daisy--the little
maid who had died in her teens, and whom her brother had loved to
his old age--lay on the table, and the Bible was again open at the
description of the New Jerusalem.