Chapter XXXI: An Awful Visitor

It became noised abroad that the devil had been seen in Airlie. The Minister's sons not only took up the story which had been told them by their brother Wattie, but added to it and embellished it until it assumed quite dramatic proportions, and was picturesquely minute in detail. The rumour that grew and widened in the village was that, on the Sabbath forenoon, a black Something had been seen wandering about in the snow round the Manse. The boys, on returning from church, had heard mysterious voices in the deep silence of the small garden. Then Wattie, drawing near to the back-door, had suddenly been blinded by a rush of wind; flames darted out from the house and surrounded him; the current of air drove him into a snowdrift; and the awful Something, with a shriek of fiendish laughter, had fled past him and disappeared, and there was a low rumble, as of distant thunder echoing along the hollow stillness of the sky.

That was the rumour of Sunday night and the following morning; but during the day of Monday there were bruited round some strange stories of mysterious footprints which had been perceived in the snow. A track had been observed leading over the moor towards the garden-wall, and suddenly stopping there. Now, not only was it impossible for any being of mortal shape and limbs to leap that high wall, but there was this further peculiarity remarked, that the footprints formed but one line. A slight fall of snow, it is true, during the morning had somewhat blurred the outline of these marks; but it was confidently asserted that they were not such as had ever been made by the impress of a human foot.

Towards nightfall Mr. Gillespie, having finished off some parochial business, deemed it his duty to go up to the Manse to communicate these disturbing stories to the Minister. The Schoolmaster had a visitor that evening--Mr. Cruikshanks, the Tailor--who sometimes dropped in to have a glass of toddy and a chat over public affairs. The Tailor was a small, thin, black-a-vised man, of highly nervous temperament, who was suspected of having been a Chartist, and who had been known at a public meeting in Saltcoats--for he was a great orator--to express views which were of a wild and revolutionary nature. Nevertheless, up here in Airlie he conducted himself in a fitting manner; went regularly to church; observed the Communion; never failed to have the mended pair of breeks or the new coat home in good time; and, if he did sympathise with the French republicans, said little about it. Indeed, it was not to be controverted that the Pensioner knew far more about France and the French than the excitable little Tailor; for the former had driven whole regiments of prisoners before him like sheep, and could tell you how the contemptible and weakly things asked for water and bread, using language of their own for want of a better education.

Mr. Cruikshanks had also heard the ugly rumours current in the village, and quite agreed that the Schoolmaster should go up to the Manse.

"Not," said he, with an oratorical gesture, "because ye believe in them, sir; but because the Minister maun be warned to set his face against the superstitions o' the vulgar. The dawn o' leeberty, Mr. Gillespie, though oft delayed, is never won; and the triumph o' the great principles o' rationalism that is progressin' faur and wide----"

"Rationalism! rationalism!" said the Schoolmaster, in dismay. "Do ye ken what ye're sayin', man?"

"Which is not the rationalism o' the vulgar, sir," observed the Tailor, calmly. "'Tis of another complexion and pale cast of thought. It has naething to do wi' releegion. It is the new spirit--the blawin' up o' the auld fossils and formations--the light that never was in poet's dream. But I will gang wi' ye, sir, to the Minister's, if ye are so minded."

The two went out together. By the help of the yellow light from the small windows, they picked their way through the muddy and half melted snow of the village street. When they had got clear of the small houses, they found the snow lying thick and crisp and dry on the highway; and it needed all their watchfulness to decipher, by the aid of the starlight, the line of the moorland road. There was no one abroad at that hour. The villagers had been glad to get into their warm homes out of the cold and bitter wind that blew along the white uplands. From over the broad moor there came not the least sound; and the only living thing visible seemed the countless myriads of stars, which shone coldly and clearly through the frosty atmosphere. The Schoolmaster and his companion spoke but little as they went; they were too much engaged in finding the path through the snow.

Suddenly the Tailor stopped and involuntarily laid his hand on his neighbour's arm.

"What is it?" said the Schoolmaster, with a start.

But he had scarcely uttered the words when he saw what had caused his companion to stand still, with his face looking over the moor. Before them--a dark mass in the starlight--stood Airlie Church; and at one end of it--that farthest from the door--the windows seemed to be lighted up with a dull red glow.

"Wha can be in the kirk at this time o' nicht?" said the Schoolmaster, quite forgetting to choose proper English phrases.

The Tailor said nothing. He was thinking of Alloway Kirk and the wild revels that had been celebrated there. His talk about the superstitions of the vulgar had gone from his memory; he only saw before him, over a waste of snow and under a starlit sky, a church which could, for no possible reason, be occupied, but which had its windows touched from the inside with a glow of light.

"Man and boy," said the Schoolmaster, "I have lived in Airlie these twenty years, and never saw such a thing. It is a fearsome licht that. It would be our duty to go and see what it means----"

"There I dinna agree wi' ye!" said the Tailor, angrily. "What business is it o' ours? Folks dinna sweeten their ain yill by meddlin' wi' other folk's barrels. I am for lettin' the kirk alane. Doubtless it is lichted up for some purpose. Why, dinna ye ken that the Minister's niece was brought up as a Roman; and that the Catholics like to hae a' mainner o' mysterious services in the dead o' nicht?"

This explanation seemed to afford the Tailor very great relief. He insisted upon it even to the point of losing his temper. What right had the Schoolmaster to interfere with other people's religion? Why didn't he do as he would be done by?

"But we ought to see what it is," said the Schoolmaster.

"Ye may gang if ye like," said the Tailor, firmly. "Deil the bit o' me 'll steer!"

The Schoolmaster drew back. He was not going to cross the moor alone--especially with those rumours of mysterious footprints about.

"Perhaps ye are right, Mr. Cruikshanks," he said. "But we maun gang on and tell the Minister."

"Surely, surely," said the Tailor, with eagerness. "We hae a sacred duty to perform. We maun get a lamp to see our way, and the keys o' the kirk, and the Minister and Andrew Bogue will come wi' us. The notion o' its being witches--ha! ha!--it is quite rideeklous. Such superstitions, sir, have power wi' the vulgar, but wi' men like you and me, Mr. Gillespie, wha have studied such things, and appeal to the licht o' reason, it is not for us to give way to idle fears. No; we will go up to the door o' the kirk, and we will have the maitter explained on rationalistic principles----"

"I wish, Mr. Cruikshanks," said the Schoolmaster, with a sort of nervous anxiety and anger, "ye wouldna talk and talk about your rationalism and your rationalistic principles. I declare, to hear ye, ane would think there wasna a heeven above us."

But the Tailor continued his discourse on the sublime powers of reason, and waxed more and more buoyant and eloquent, until, the two having reached the gate of the Manse, the Tailor turned upon his companion, and with scorn hinted that he, the Schoolmaster, had succumbed to childish fears on seeing the kirk windows lit up.

"What more simple," said the Tailor, in his grandest manner, "than to have walked up to the door, gone in, and demanded to know what was the reason o' the licht? That is what common sense and reason would dictate; but when fears and superstitions rise and dethrone the monarch from his state, the lord of all is but a trumpery vassal--a trumpery vassal, Mr. Gillespie!"

The Schoolmaster was too indignant--and perhaps too much relieved on finding himself within the shelter of the Manse wall--to reply. The two neighbours walked up to the door of the Manse--looking rather suspiciously at the gloomy corners around them, and the black shadows of the trees--and knocked. The door was opened half an inch.

"Who's there?" said Leezibeth.

"Me," said the Schoolmaster.

"Who's me?" said the voice from within--the door being still kept on the point of shutting.

"Bless my life and body!" cried the Schoolmaster, provoked out of all patience. "Is this a night to keep a human being starving in the snaw? Let us in, woman!"

With which he drove the door before him and entered the passage, confronting the terrified Leezibeth, who dropped her candle there and then, and left the place in darkness.

The Minister opened the parlour door, and the light streamed out on the strangers. Without being asked, the Schoolmaster and the Tailor stumbled into the room, and stood, with dazed eyes, looking alternately at the Minister and at Coquette, who lay on the sofa with an open book beside her.

"What is the matter? What is the matter?" said the Minister; for both the men seemed speechless with fear.

"Has she no been at the kirk the nicht?" said the Tailor.

"Who?" said the Minister, beginning to think that both of his visitors must be drunk.

"Her," said the Tailor--"your niece, sir--Miss Cassilis."

"At the kirk? She has not been out of the house for months."

"But--but--but there is somebody in the kirk at this present meenute," said the Tailor, breathlessly.

"Nonsense!" said the Minister, with some impatience. "What do you mean?"

"As sure as daith, sir, the kirk's in a lowe!" blurted out the Tailor again, though he still kept his eyes glaring in a fascinated way on Coquette.

To tell the truth, Coquette began to laugh. The appearance and talk of the two strangers--whether the result of drink or of fright--were altogether so abnormal and ludicrous that, for the life of her, she could not keep from smiling. Unfortunately, this conduct on her part, occurring at such a moment, seemed to confirm the suspicions of the two men. They regarded her as if she were a witch who had been playing pranks with them on the moor, had whipped herself home, and was now mocking them. Vague recollections of "Tam o' Shanter" filled their minds with forebodings. Who knew but that she was connected with these mysterious things of which the village had been talking? Why should the stories have centred upon the Manse? Was she not a Roman, and a foreigner--a creature whose dark eyes were full of concealed meaning--of malicious mischief--of unholy laughter? No wonder there were strange footprints about, or that the kirk was "in a lowe" at midnight.

The Minister abruptly recalled them from their dazed and nervous speculations by demanding to know what they had seen. Together they managed to produce the story in full; and the Minister said he would himself at once go over the moor to the kirk.

"Micht not Andrew Bogue come wi' a lantern?" said the Tailor; and the Minister at once assented.

With that, the spirits of the two heroes rose. They would inquire into this matter. They would have no devilish cantrips going on in the parish, if they could help it. And so they once more sallied out into the cold night air; and, with much loud talking and confident suggestion, struck across the snow of the moor.

As they drew near to the small church the talking died down. The red light was clearly seen in the windows. Andrew Bogue, who had been a few steps ahead of the party, in order to show them the way, suggested that he should fall behind, so that the light would shine more clearly around their feet. Against this both the Schoolmaster and the Tailor strongly protested; and the discussion ended by the Minister impatiently taking the lamp into his own hand and going forward. The _posse comitatus_ followed close, and in deep silence. Indeed, there was not a sound heard, save the soft yielding of the crisp snow; and in the awful stillness--under the great canopy of sparkling stars--the red windows of the small and dark building glimmered in front of them.

The Minister walked up to the door, the others keeping close behind him. He endeavoured to open it; it was locked.

"The keys, Andrew," he said.

"I--I--I didna bring any keys," said Andrew, testily. He was angry with his tongue for stammering, and with his throat for choking.

"And how did ye expect us to get in?" asked the Minister.

"Why, I thocht--I thocht that if there was anybody in the kirk, the door would be open," answered Andrew, querulously.

"Go back to the Manse and get them," said the Minister perhaps with concealed irony.

"By mysel'?" quoth Andrew. "Across the moor by mysel'? What for does any human being want to get into the kirk? Doubtless there are some bits o' wanderin' bodies inside; would ye turn them out in the cauld? If ye do want to look into the kirk, there is a ladder 'at ye can pit against the wa'."

Andrew was ordered to bring the ladder; but he professed his inability to carry it. The Schoolmaster and the Tailor went with him to a nook behind some back-door; and presently reappeared--walking stealthily and conversing in whispers--with the ladder, which they placed against the wall. The Schoolmaster, with a splendid assumption of bravery, clambered up the steps, and paused when the tip of his nose received the light from the panes. The others breathlessly awaited his report.

"I canna see any thing," he whispered, coming down rather rapidly.

But where the Schoolmaster had gone, the Tailor would go. Mr. Cruikshanks went, bravely up the ladder, and peered in at the window. What could be the meaning of this ghastly stillness, and the yellow light burning somewhere in the church? He had heard of awful scenes, in which corpse-lights had come forth all over a churchyard, with vague forms flitting about, in the midst of peals of demoniac laughter. But here was no sound--no movement--only the still glare of a ruddy light, coming from whence he knew not.

But what was this that suddenly echoed along the empty church? The Tailor grasped the top rung of the ladder. He would have given worlds to have got down; but if he had let go, his trembling legs would have thrown him backward. Something was moving in the dim and solitary building--his breath came and went--his head swam round--the ladder trembled within his grip. And at the same moment there was a startling cry, a smothered shriek from the Schoolmaster, as he turned to find in the darkness a figure approaching him. Andrew fell back from the foot of the ladder; and therewithal down came the ladder and the Tailor together with a crash upon Andrew and his lamp, burying the one in the snow, and smashing the other to pieces. A succession of piteous cries from the Tailor broke the silence of the moor; until the Minister, dragging him out of the snow, bade him cease his howling. The Schoolmaster had abruptly retreated; and now the group of explorers, partly on the ground and partly upright, was approached by this dusky figure.

"What is that?" said the Schoolmaster, in an agonised whisper. "Oh, what is't?--what is't? What can it be, sir? Speak till't!"

The Minister having put the Tailor on his legs--though they were scarcely able to support him--turned to the newcomer, and said--

"Well, who are you?"

"Me, sir? Me?" said a deep bass voice, in rather an injured tone, "I'm Tammas Kilpaitrick."

"What! Kilpaitrick the joiner?" said the Schoolmaster.

"Well, I hope sae," said the man; "and I dinna ken what for ye should run away frae a body as though he was a warlock."

"But how came ye in the kirk at this time o' night?" said the Minister.

"Deed, ye may well ask," said the worthy joiner; "for it's little my maister allows me for overtime; and if he will put me to jobs like this after my day's work is done, I hope he'll gie me some fire and better company than a wheen rats and mice. Will Mr. Bogue take hame the keys that my maister got frae his wife this afternoon?"

But Mr. Bogue was still in the snow, groaning. When they picked him up they found that the lantern had severely cut his nose, which was bleeding freely. Whereupon the Sehoolmaster waxed valiant, and vouchsafed to the joiner an explanation of the panic, which, he said, was the work "o' that poor body, the Tailor. And, mark me, Mr. Kilpaitrick," he added, "it is not every man that would have insisted on seeing to the bottom o' this maitter, as I did this night. It was our duty to investigate--or, as I might say, to examine--into what might have raised superstitious fears in Airlie, especially as regards the stories that have been about. It shames me that, as we were proceeding in a lawful--or, I might say, legitimate--manner, to inquire, that poor body, the Tailor, should have set up an eldritch screech, as if he was possessed. He is a poor body, that Tailor, and subject to the fears of the vulgar. If ye hear the neighbours talk o' this night's doings, ye will be able, Mr. Kilpaitrick, to say who behaved themselves like men; and I'm thinking that we will be glad o' your company across the moor, and ye will then come in and hae a glass o' toddy wi' us, Mr. Kilpaitrick. As for the Tailor there, the poor craytur has scarcely come to his senses yet; but we maun take him safe hame."