Chapter II: Through the Flood (1)

Dr. MacLure did not lead a solemn procession from the sick-bed to the dining-room, and give his opinion from the hearth-rug with an air of wisdom bordering on the supernatural, because neither the Drumtochty houses nor his manners were on that large scale. He was accustomed to deliver himself in the yard, and to conclude his directions with one foot in the stirrup; but when he left the room where the life of Annie Mitchell was ebbing slowly away, our doctor said not one word, and at the sight of his face her husband’s heart was troubled.

He was a dull man, Tammas, who could not read the meaning of a sign, and laboured under a perpetual disability of speech; but love was eyes to him that day, and a mouth.

“Is ‘t as bad as yir lookin’, doctor? Tell ‘s the truth. Wull Annie no come through?” and Tammas looked MacLure straight in the face, who never flinched his duty or said smooth things.

“A’ wud gie onythin’ tae say Annie has a chance, but a’ daurna; a’ doot yir gaein’ to lose her, Tammas.”

MacLure was in the saddle, and, as he gave his judgment, he laid his hand on Tammas’s shoulder with one of the rare caresses that pass between men.

“It’s a sair business, but ye ‘ill play the man and no vex Annie; she ‘ill dae her best, a’ ‘ll warrant.”

“And a’ ‘ll dae mine,” and Tammas gave MacLure’s hand a grip that would have crushed the bones of a weakling. Drumtochty felt in such moments the brotherliness of this rough-looking man, and loved him.

Tammas hid his face in Jess’s mane, who looked round with sorrow in her beautiful eyes, for she had seen many tragedies; and in this silent sympathy the stricken man drank his cup, drop by drop.

“A’ wesna prepared for this, for a’ aye thocht she wud live the langest. . . . She’s younger than me by ten year, and never was ill. . . . We’ve been mairit twal’ year last Martinmas, but it’s juist like a year the day. . . . A’ wes never worthy o’ her, the bonniest, snoddest (neatest), kindliest lass in the Glen. . . . A’ never cud mak’ oot hoo she ever lookit at me, ‘at hesna hed ae word tae say about her till it’s ower-late. . . . She didna cuist up to me that a’ wesna worthy o’ her--no her; but aye she said, ‘Yir ma ain gudeman, and nane cud be kinder tae me.’ . . . An’ a’ wes minded tae be kind, but a’ see noo mony little trokes a’ micht hae dune for her, and noo the time is by. . . . Naebody kens hoo patient she wes wi’ me, and aye made the best o’ me, an’ never pit me tae shame afore the fouk. . . . An’ we never hed ae cross word, no ane in twal’ year. . . . We were mair nor man and wife--we were sweethearts a’ the time. . . . Oh, ma bonnie lass, what ‘ill the bairnies an’ me dae without ye, Annie?”

The winter night was falling fast, the snow lay deep upon the ground, and the merciless north wind moaned through the close as Tammas wrestled with his sorrow dry-eyed, for tears were denied Drumtochty men. Neither the doctor nor Jess moved hand or foot, but their hearts were with their fellow-creature, and at length the doctor made a sign to Marget Howe, who had come out in search of Tammas, and now stood by his side.

“Dinna mourn tae the brakin’ o’ yir hert, Tammas,” she said, “as if Annie an’ you hed never luved. Neither death nor time can pairt them that luve; there’s naethin’ in a’ the warld sae strong as luve. If Annie gaes frae the sicht o’ yir een she ‘ill come the nearer tae yir hert. She wants tae see ye, and tae hear ye say that ye ‘ill never forget her nicht nor day till ye meet in the land where there’s nae pairtin’. Oh, a’ ken what a’ ‘m sayin’, for it’s five year noo sin’ George gied awa’, an’ he’s mair wi me noo than when he was in Edinboro’ and I wes in Drumtochty.”

“Thank ye kindly, Marget; thae are gude words an’ true, an’ ye hev the richt tae say them; but a’ canna dae without seein’ Annie comin’ tae meet me in the gloamin’, an’ gaein’ in an’ oot the hoose, an’ hearin’ her ca’ me by ma name; an’ a’ ‘ll no can tell her that a’ luve her when there’s nae Annie in the hoose.

“Can naethin’ be dune, doctor? Ye savit Flora Cammil, and young Burnbrae, an’ yon shepherd’s wife Dunleith wy; an’ we were a’ sae prood o’ ye, an’ pleased tae think that ye hed keepit deith frae anither hame. Can ye no think o’ somethin’ tae help Annie, and gie her back her man and bairnies?” and Tammas searched the doctor’s face in the cold, weird light.

“There’s nae pooer in heaven or airth like luve,” Marget said to me afterward; “it mak’s the weak strong and the dumb tae speak. Oor herts were as water afore Tammas’s words, an’ a’ saw the doctor shake in his saddle. A’ never kent till that meenut hoo he hed a share in a’body’s grief, an’ carried the heaviest wecht o’ a’ the Glen. A’ peetied him wi’ Tammas lookin’ at him sae wistfully, as if he hed the keys o’ life an’ deith in his hands. But he wes honest, and wudna hold oot a false houp tae deceive a sore hert or win escape for himsel’.”

“Ye needna plead wi’ me, Tammas, to dae the best a’ can for yir wife. Man, a’ kent her lang afore ye ever luved her; a’ brocht her intae the warld, and a’ saw her through the fever when she wes a bit lassikie; a’ closed her mither’s een, and it wes me hed tae tell her she wes an orphan; an’ nae man wes better pleased when she got a gude husband, and a’ helpit her wi’ her fower bairns. A’ ‘ve naither wife nor bairns o’ ma own, an’ a’ coont a’ the fouk o’ the Glen ma family. Div ye think a’ wudna save Annie if I cud? If there wes a man in Muirtown ‘at cud dae mair for her, a’ ‘d have him this verra nicht; but a’ the doctors in Perthshire are helpless for this tribble.

“Tammas, ma puir fallow, if it could avail, a’ tell ye a’ wud lay doon this auld worn-oot ruckle o’ a body o’ mine juist tae see ye baith sittin’ at the fireside, an’ the bairns round ye, couthy an’ canty again; but it’s nae tae be, Tammas, it’s nae tae be.”

“When a’ lookit at the doctor’s face,” Marget said, “a’ thocht him the winsomest man a’ ever saw. He wes transfigured that nicht, for a’ ‘m judgin’ there’s nae transfiguration like luve.”

“It’s God’s wull an’ maun be borne, but it’s a sair wull fur me, an’ a’ ‘m no ungratefu’ tae you, doctor, for a’ ye’ve dune and what ye said the nicht,” and Tammas went back to sit with Annie for the last time.

Jess picked her way through the deep snow to the main road, with a skill that came of long experience, and the doctor held converse with her according to his wont.

“Eh, Jess, wumman, yon wes the hardest wark a’ hae tae face, and a’ wud raither hae taen ma chance o’ anither row in a Glen Urtach drift than tell Tammas Mitchell his wife wes deein’.

“A’ said she cudna be cured, and it was true, for there’s juist ae man in the land fit for ‘t, and they micht as weel try tae get the mune oot o’ heaven. Sae a’ said naethin’ tae vex Tammas’s hert, for it’s heavy eneuch withoot regrets.

“But it’s hard, Jess, that money will buy life after a’, an’ if Annie wes a duchess her man wudna lose her; but bein’ only a puir cotter’s wife, she maun dee afore the week ‘s oot.

“Gin we hed him the morn there’s little doot she wud be saved, for he hesna lost mair than five per cent. o’ his cases, and they ‘ill be puir toons-craturs, no strappin’ women like Annie.

“It’s oot o’ the question, Jess, sae hurry up, lass, for we’ve hed a heavy day. But it wud be the grandest thing that wes ever done in the Glen in oor time if it could be managed by hook or crook.

“We’ll gang and see Drumsheugh, Jess; he’s anither man sin’ Geordie Hoo’s deith, and he was aye kinder than fouk kent.” And the doctor passed at a gallop through the village, whose lights shone across the white frost-bound road.

“Come in by, doctor; a’ heard ye on the road; ye ‘ill hae been at Tammas Mitchell’s; hoo’s the gudewife? A’ doot she’s sober.”

“Annie’s deein’, Drumsheugh, an’ Tammas is like tae brak his hert.”

“That’s no lichtsome, doctor, no lichtsome, ava, for a’ dinna ken ony man in Drumtochty sae bund up in his wife as Tammas, and there’s no a bonnier wumman o’ her age crosses oor kirk door than Annie, nor a cleverer at her work. Man ye ‘ill need tae pit yir brains in steep. Is she clean beyond ye?”

“Beyond me and every ither in the land but ane, and it wud cost a hundred guineas tae bring him tae Drumtochty.”

“Certes, he’s no blate; it’s a fell chairge for a short day’s work; but hundred or no hundred we ‘ill hae him, and no let Annie gang, and her no half her years.”

“Are ye meanin’ it, Drumsheugh?” and MacLure turned white below the tan.

“William MacLure,” said Drumsheugh, in one of the few confidences that ever broke the Drumtochty reserve, “a’ ‘m a lonely man, wi’ naebody o’ ma ain blude tae care for me livin’, or tae lift me intae ma coffin when a’ ‘m deid.

“A’ fecht awa’ at Muirtown market for an extra pund on a beast, or a shillin’ on the quarter o’ barley, an’ what’s the gude o’ ‘t? Burnbrae gaes aff tae get a goon for his wife or a buke for his college laddie, an’ Lachlan Campbell ‘ill no leave the place noo without a ribbon for Flora.

“Ilka man in the Kildrummie train has some bit fairin’ in his pooch for the fouk at hame that he’s bocht wi’ the siller he won.

“But there’s naebody tae be lookin’ oot for me, an’ comin’ doon the road tae meet me, and daffin’ (joking) wi’ me aboot their fairin’, or feelin’ ma pockets. Ou, ay! A’ ‘ve seen it a’ at ither hooses, though they tried tae hide it frae me for fear a’ wud lauch at them. Me lauch, wi’ ma cauld, empty hame!

“Yir the only man kens, Weelum, that I aince luved the noblest wumman in the Glen or onywhere, an’ a’ luve her still, but wi’ anither luve noo.

“She hed given her hert tae anither, or a’ ‘ve thocht a’ micht hae won her, though nae man be worthy o’ sic a gift. Ma hert turned tae bitterness, but that passed awa’ beside the brier-bush what George Hoo lay yon sad simmer-time. Some day a’ ‘ll tell ye ma story, Weelum, for you an’ me are auld freends, and will be till we dee.”

MacLure felt beneath the table for Drumsheugh’s hand, but neither man looked at the other.

“Weel, a’ we can dae noo, Weelum, gin we haena mickle brightness in oor ain hames, is tae keep the licht frae gaein’ oot in anither hoose. Write the telegram, man, and Sandy ‘ill send it aff frae Kildrummie this verra nicht, and ye ‘ill hae yir man the morn.”

“Yir the man a’ coonted ye, Drumsheugh, but ye ‘ill grant me a favour. Ye ‘ill lat me pay the half, bit by bit. A’ ken yir wullin’ tae dae ‘t a’; but a’ haena mony pleasures, an’ a’ wud like tae hae ma ain share in savin’ Annie’s life.”

Next morning a figure received Sir George on the Kildrummie platform, whom that famous surgeon took for a gillie, but who introduced himself as “MacLure of Drumtochty.” It seemed as if the East had come to meet the West when these two stood together, the one in travelling furs, handsome and distinguished, with his strong, cultured face and carriage of authority, a characteristic type of his profession; and the other more marvellously dressed than ever, for Drumsheugh’s top-coat had been forced upon him for the occasion, his face and neck one redness with the bitter cold, rough and ungainly, yet not without some signs of power in his eye and voice, the most heroic type of his noble profession. MacLure compassed the precious arrival with observances till he was securely seated in Drumsheugh’s dog-cart,--a vehicle that lent itself to history,--with two full-sized plaids added to his equipment--Drumsheugh and Hillocks had both been requisitioned; and MacLure wrapped another plaid round a leather case, which was placed below the seat with such reverence as might be given to the Queen’s regalia. Peter attended their departure full of interest, and as soon as they were in the fir woods MacLure explained that it would be an eventful journey.

“It’s a’richt in here, for the wind disna get at the snow; but the drifts are deep in the Glen, and th’ ‘ill be some engineerin’ afore we get tae oor destination.”

Four times they left the road and took their way over fields; twice they forced a passage through a slap in a dyke; thrice they used gaps in the paling which MacLure had made on his downward journey.

“A’ seleckit the road this mornin’, an’ a’ ken the depth tae an inch; we ‘ill get through this steadin’ here tae the main road, but our worst job ‘ill be crossin’ the Tochty.

“Ye see, the bridge hes been shakin’ wi’ this winter’s flood, and we daurna venture on it, sae we hev tae ford, and the snaw’s been meltin’ up Urtach way. There’s nae doot the water’s gey big, and it’s threatenin’ tae rise, but we ‘ill win through wi’ a warstle.

“It micht be safer tae lift the instruments oot o’ reach o’ the water; wud ye mind haddin’ them on yir knee till we’re ower, an’ keep firm in yir seat in case we come on a stane in the bed o’ the river.”

By this time they had come to the edge, and it was not a cheering sight. The Tochty had spread out over the meadows, and while they waited they could see it cover another two inches on the trunk of a tree. There are summer floods, when the water is brown and flecked with foam, but this was a winter flood, which is black and sullen, and runs in the centre with a strong, fierce, silent current. Upon the opposite side Hillocks stood to give directions by word and hand, as the ford was on his land, and none knew the Tochty better in all its ways.

They passed through the shallow water without mishap, save when the wheel struck a hidden stone or fell suddenly into a rut; but when they neared the body of the river MacLure halted, to give Jess a minute’s breathing.

“It ‘ill tak’ ye a’ yir time, lass, an’ a’ wud raither be on yir back; but ye never failed me yet, and a wumman’s life is hangin’ on the crossin’.”

With the first plunge into the bed of the stream the water rose to the axles, and then it crept up to the shafts, so that the surgeon could feel it lapping in about his feet, while the dog-cart began to quiver, and it seemed as if it were to be carried away. Sir George was as brave as most men, but he had never forded a Highland river in flood, and the mass of black water racing past beneath, before, behind him, affected his imagination and shook his nerves. He rose from his seat and ordered MacLure to turn back, declaring that he would be condemned utterly and eternally if he allowed himself to be drowned for any person.

“Sit doon!” thundered MacLure. “Condemned ye will be, suner or later, gin ye shirk yir duty, but through the water ye gang the day.”

Both men spoke much more strongly and shortly, but this is what they intended to say, and it was MacLure that prevailed.

Jess trailed her feet along the ground with cunning art, and held her shoulder against the stream; MacLure leaned forward in his seat, a rein in each hand, and his eyes fixed on Hillocks, who was now standing up to the waist in the water, shouting directions and cheering on horse and driver:

“Haud tae the richt, doctor; there’s a hole yonder. Keep oot o’ ‘t for ony sake. That’s it; yir daein’ fine. Steady, man, steady. Yir at the deepest; sit heavy in yir seats. Up the channel noo, and ye ‘ill be oot o’ the swirl. Weel dune, Jess! Weel dune, auld mare! Mak’ straicht for me, doctor, an’ a’ ‘ll gie ye the road oot. Ma word, ye’ve dune yir best, baith o’ ye, this mornin’,” cried Hillocks, splashing up to the dog-cart, now in the shallows.

“Sall, it wes titch an’ go for a meenut in the middle; a Hielan’ ford is a kittle (hazardous) road in the snaw-time, but ye ‘re safe noo.

“Gude luck tae ye up at Westerton, sir; nane but a richt-hearted man wud hae riskit the Tochty in flood. Ye ‘re boond tae succeed aifter sic a graund beginnin’,” for it had spread already that a famous surgeon had come to do his best for Annie, Tammas Mitchell’s wife.

Two hours later MacLure came out from Annie’s room and laid hold of Tammas, a heap of speechless misery by the kitchen fire, and carried him off to the barn, and spread some corn on the threshing-floor, and thrust a flail into his hands.

“Noo we ‘ve tae begin, an’ we ‘ill no be dune for an’ ‘oor, and ye ‘ve tae lay on without stoppin’ till a’ come for ye; an’ a’ ‘ll shut the door tae haud in the noise, an’ keep yir dog beside ye, for there maunna be a cheep aboot the house for Annie’s sake.”

“A’ ‘ll dae onythin’ ye want me, but if--if----”

“A’ ‘ll come for ye, Tammas, gin there be danger; but what are ye feard for wi’ the Queen’s ain surgeon here?”

Fifty minutes did the flair rise and fall, save twice, when Tammas crept to the door and listened, the dog lifting his head and whining.

It seemed twelve hours instead of one when the door swung back, and MacLure filled the doorway, preceded by a great burst of light, for the sun had arisen on the snow.

His face was as tidings of great joy, and Elspeth told me that there was nothing like it to be seen that afternoon for glory, save the sun itself in the heavens.

“A’ never saw the marrow o’ ‘t, Tammas, an’ a’ ‘ll never see the like again; it’s a’ ower, man, withoot a hitch frae beginnin’ tae end, and she’s fa’in’ asleep as fine as ye like.”

“Dis he think Annie--‘ill live?”

“Of course he dis, and be aboot the hoose inside a month; that’s the gude o’ bein’ a clean-bluided, weel-livin’--

“Preserve ye, man, what’s wrang wi’ ye? It’s a mercy a’ keppit ye, or we wud hev hed anither job for Sir George.

“Ye ‘re a’richt noo; sit doon on the strae. A’ ‘ll come back in a while, an’ ye ‘ill see Annie, juist for a meenut, but ye maunna say a word.”

Marget took him in and let him kneel by Annie’s bedside.

He said nothing then or afterward for speech came only once in his lifetime to Tammas, but Annie whispered, “Ma ain dear man.”

When the doctor placed the precious bag beside Sir George in our solitary first next morning, he laid a check beside it and was about to leave.

“No, no!” said the great man. “Mrs. Macfadyen and I were on the gossip last night, and I know the whole story about you and your friend.

“You have some right to call me a coward, but I ‘ll never let you count me a mean, miserly rascal,” and the check with Drumsheugh’s painful writing fell in fifty pieces on the floor.

As the train began to move, a voice from the first called so that all the station heard:

“Give ‘s another shake of your hand, MacLure; I’m proud to have met you; your are an honour to our profession. Mind the antiseptic dressings.”

It was market-day, but only Jamie Soutar and Hillocks had ventured down.

“Did ye hear yon, Hillocks? Hoo dae ye feel? A’ ‘ll no deny a’ ‘m lifted.”

Half-way to the Junction Hillocks had recovered, and began to grasp the situation.

“Tell ‘us what he said. A’ wud like to hae it exact for Drumsheugh.”

“Thae’s the eedentical words, an’ they’re true; there’s no a man in Drumtochty disna ken that, except ane.”

“An’ wha’s that Jamie?”

“It’s Weelum MacLure himsel’. Man, a’ ‘ve often girned that he sud fecht awa’ for us a’, and maybe dee before he kent that he had githered mair luve than ony man in the Glen.

“‘A’ ‘m prood tae hae met ye,’ says Sir George, an’ him the greatest doctor in the land. ‘Yir an honour tae oor profession.’

“Hillocks, a’ wudna hae missed it for twenty notes,” said James Soutar, cynic in ordinary to the parish of Drumtochty.

WANDERING WILLIE’S TALE, By Sir Walter Scott

“Honest folks like me! How do ye ken whether I am honest, or what I am? I may be the deevil himsell for what ye ken, for he has power to come disguised like an angel of light; and, besides, he is a prime fiddler. He played a sonata to Corelli, ye ken.”

There was something odd in this speech, and the tone in which it was said. It seemed as if my companion was not always in his constant mind, or that he was willing to try if he could frighten me. I laughed at the extravagance of his language, however, and asked him in reply if he was fool enough to believe that the foul fiend would play so silly a masquerade.

“Ye ken little about it--little about it,” said the old man, shaking his head and beard, and knitting his brows. “I could tell ye something about that.”

What his wife mentioned of his being a tale-teller as well as a musician now occurred to me; and as, you know, I like tales of superstition, I begged to have a specimen of his talent as we went along.

“It is very true,” said the blind man, “that when I am tired of scraping thairm or singing ballants I whiles make a tale serve the turn among the country bodies; and I have some fearsome anes, that make the auld carlines shake on the settle, and the bits o’ bairns skirl on their minnies out frae their beds. But this that I am going to tell you was a thing that befell in our ain house in my father’s time--that is, my father was then a hafflins callant; and I tell it to you, that it may be a lesson to you that are but a young thoughtless chap, wha ye draw up wi’ on a lonely road; for muckle was the dool and care that came o’ ‘t to my gudesire.”

He commenced his tale accordingly, in a distinct narrative tone of voice, which he raised and depressed with considerable skill; at times sinking almost into a whisper, and turning his clear but sightless eyeballs upon my face, as if it had been possible for him to witness the impression which his narrative made upon my features. I will not spare a syllable of it, although it be of the longest; so I make a dash--and begin:

Ye maun have heard of Sir Robert Redgauntlet of that ilk, who lived in these parts before the dear years. The country will lang mind him; and our fathers used to draw breath thick if ever they heard him named. He was out wi’ the Hielandmen in Montrose’s time; and again he was in the hills wi’ Glencairn in the saxteen hundred and fifty-twa; and sae when King Charles the Second came in, wha was in sic favour as the laird of Redgauntlet? He was knighted at Lonon Court, wi’ the king’s ain sword; and being a red-hot prelatist, he came down here, rampauging like a lion, with commission of lieutenancy (and of lunacy, for what I ken), to put down a’ the Whigs and Covenanters in the country. Wild wark they made of it; for the Whigs were as dour as the Cavaliers were fierce, and it was which should first tire the other. Redgauntlet was aye for the strong hand; and his name is kend as wide in the country as Claverhouse’s or Tam Dalyell’s. Glen, nor dargle, nor mountain, nor cave could hide the puir hill-folk when Redgauntlet was out with bugle and bloodhound after them, as if they had been sae mony deer. And, troth, when they fand them, they didna make muckle mair ceremony than a Hielandman wi’ a roebuck. It was just, “Will ye tak’ the test?” If not--“Make ready--present--fire!” and there lay the recusant.

Far and wide was Sir Robert hated and feared. Men thought he had a direct compact with Satan; that he was proof against steel, and that bullets happed aff his buff-coat like hailstanes from a hearth; that he had a mear that would turn a hare on the side of Carrifra-gauns (a precipitous side of a mountain in Moffatdale); and muckle to the same purpose, of whilk mair anon. The best blessing they wared on him was, “Deil scowp wi’ Redgauntlet!” He wasna a bad master to his ain folk, though, and was weel aneugh liked by his tenants; and as for the lackeys and troopers that rade out wi’ him to the persecutions, as the Whigs caa’d those killing-times, they wad hae drunken themsells blind to his health at ony time.

Now you are to ken that my gudesire lived on Redgauntlet’s grund--they ca’ the place Primrose Knowe. We had lived on the grund, and under the Redgauntlets, since the riding-days, and lang before. It was a pleasant bit; and, I think the air is callerer and fresher there than onywhere else in the country. It’s a’ deserted now; and I sat on the broken door-cheek three days since, and was glad I couldna see the plight the place was in--but that’s a’ wide o’ the mark. There dwelt my gudesire, Steenie Steenson; a rambling, rattling chiel’ he had been in his young days, and could play weel on the pipes; he was famous at “hoopers and girders,” a’ Cumberland couldna touch him at “Jockie Lattin,” and he had the finest finger for the back-lilt between Berwick and Carlisle. The like o’ Steenie wasna the sort that they made Whigs o’. And so he became a Tory, as they ca’ it, which we now ca’ Jacobites, just out of a kind of needcessity, that he might belang to some side or other. He had nae ill-will to the Whig bodies, and liked little to see the blude rin, though, being obliged to follow Sir Robert in hunting and hoisting, watching and warding, he saw muckle mischief, and maybe did some that he couldna avoid.

Now Steenie was a kind of favourite with his master, and kend a’ the folk about the castle, and was often sent for to play the pipes when they were at their merriment. Auld Dougal MacCallum, the butler, that had followed Sir Robert through gude and ill, thick and thin, pool and stream, was specially fond of the pipes, and aye gae my gudesire his gude word wi’ the laird; for Dougal could turn his master round his finger.

Weel, round came the Revolution, and it had like to hae broken the hearts baith of Dougal and his master. But the change was not a’thegether sae great as they feared and other folk thought for. The Whigs made an unco crawing what they wad do with their auld enemies, and in special wi’ Sir Robert Redgauntlet. But there were ower-mony great folks dipped in the same doings to make a spick-and-span new warld. So Parliament passed it a’ ower easy; and Sir Robert, bating that he was held to hunting foxes instead of Covenanters, remained just the man he was. His revel was as loud, and his hall as weel lighted, as ever it had been, though maybe he lacked the fines of the nonconformists, that used to come to stock his larder and cellar; for it is certain he began to be keener about the rents than his tenants used to find him before, and they behooved to be prompt to the rent-day, or else the laird wasna pleased. And he was sic an awsome body that naebody cared to anger him; for the oaths he swore, and the rage that he used to get into, and the looks that he put on made men sometimes think him a devil incarnate.

Weel, my gudesire was nae manager--no that he was a very great misguider--but he hadna the saving gift, and he got twa terms’ rent in arrear. He got the first brash at Whitsunday put ower wi’ fair word and piping; but when Martinmas came there was a summons from the grund officer to come wi’ the rent on a day preceese, or else Steenie behooved to flit. Sair wark he had to get the siller; but he was weel freended, and at last he got the haill scraped thegether--a thousand merks. The maist of it was from a neighbour they caa’d Laurie Lapraik--a sly tod. Laurie had wealth o’ gear, could hunt wi’ the hound and rin wi’ the hare, and be Whig or Tory, saunt or sinner, as the wind stood. He was a professor in the Revolution warld, but he liked an orra sough of the warld, and a tune on the pipes weel aneugh at a by-time; and, bune a’, he thought he had gude security for the siller he len my gudesire ower the stocking at Primrose Knowe.

Away trots my gudesire to Redgauntlet Castle wi’ a heavy purse and a light heart, glad to be out of the laird’s danger. Weel, the first thing he learned at the castle was that Sir Robert had fretted himsell into a fit of the gout because he did no appear before twelve o’clock. It wasna a’thegether for sake of the money, Dougal thought, but because he didna like to part wi’ my gudesire aff the grund. Dougal was glad to see Steenie, and brought him into the great oak parlour; and there sat the laird his leesome lane, excepting that he had beside him a great, ill-favoured jackanape that was a special pet of his. A cankered beast it was, and mony an ill-natured trick it played; ill to please it was, and easily angered--ran about the haill castle, chattering and rowling, and pinching and biting folk, specially before ill weather, or disturbance in the state. Sir Robert caa’d it Major Weir, after the warlock that was burnt; and few folk liked either the name or the conditions of the creature--they thought there was something in it by ordinar--and my gudesire was not just easy in mind when the door shut on him, and he saw himsell in the room wi’ naebody but the laird, Dougal MacCallum, and the major--a thing that hadna chanced to him before.

Sir Robert sat, or, I should say, lay, in a great arm-chair, wi’ his grand velvet gown, and his feet on a cradle, for he had baith gout and gravel, and his face looked as gash and ghastly as Satan’s. Major Weir sat opposite to him, in a red-laced coat, and the laird’s wig on his head; and aye as Sir Robert girned wi’ pain, the jackanape girned too, like a sheep’s head between a pair of tangs--an ill-faur’d, fearsome couple they were. The laird’s buff-coat was hung on a pin behind him and his broadsword and his pistols within reach; for he keepit up the auld fashion of having the weapons ready, and a horse saddled day and night, just as he used to do when he was able to loup on horseback, and sway after ony of the hill-folk he could get speerings of. Some said it was for fear of the Whigs taking vengeance, but I judge it was just his auld custom--he wasna gine not fear onything. The rental-book, wi’ its black cover and brass clasps, was lying beside him; and a book of sculduddery sangs was put betwixt the leaves, to keep it open at the place where it bore evidence against the goodman of Primrose Knowe, as behind the hand with his mails and duties. Sir Robert gave my gudesire a look, as if he would have withered his heart in his bosom. Ye maun ken he had a way of bending his brows that men saw the visible mark of a horseshoe in his forehead, deep-dinted, as if it had been stamped there.

“Are ye come light-handed, ye son of a toom whistle?” said Sir Robert. “Zounds! If you are--”

My gudesire, with as gude a countenance as he could put on, made a leg, and placed the bag of money on the table wi’ a dash, like a man that does something clever. The laird drew it to him hastily. “Is all here, Steenie, man?”

“Your honour will find it right,” said my gudesire.

“Here, Dougal,” said the laird, “gie Steenie a tass of brandy, till I count the siller and write the receipt.”

But they werena weel out of the room when Sir Robert gied a yelloch that garr’d the castle rock. Back ran Dougal; in flew the liverymen; yell on yell gied the laird, ilk ane mair awfu’ than the ither. My gudesire knew not whether to stand or flee, but he ventured back into the parlour, where a’ was gaun hirdie-girdie--naebody to say “come in” or “gae out.” Terribly the laird roared for cauld water to his feet, and wine to cool his throat; and ‘Hell, hell, hell, and its flames’, was aye the word in his mouth. They brought him water, and when they plunged his swoln feet into the tub, he cried out it was burning; and folks say that it _did_ bubble and sparkle like a seething cauldron. He flung the cup at Dougal’s head and said he had given him blood instead of Burgundy; and, sure aneugh, the lass washed clotted blood aff the carpet the neist day. The jackanape they caa’d Major Weir, it jibbered and cried as if it was mocking its master. My gudesire’s head was like to turn; he forgot baith siller and receipt, and downstairs he banged; but, as he ran, the shrieks came fainter and fainter; there was a deep-drawn shivering groan, and word gaed through the castle that the laird was dead.

Weel, away came my gudesire wi’ his finger in his mouth, and his best hope was that Dougal had seen the money-bag and heard the laird speak of writing the receipt. The young laird, now Sir John, came from Edinburgh to see things put to rights. Sir John and his father never ‘greed weel. Sir John had been bred an advocate, and afterward sat in the last Scots Parliament and voted for the Union, having gotten, it was thought, a rug of the compensations--if his father could have come out of his grave he would have brained him for it on his awn hearthstane. Some thought it was easier counting with the auld rough knight than the fair-spoken young ane--but mair of that anon.

Dougal MacCallum, poor body, neither grat nor graned, but gaed about the house looking like a corpse, but directing, as was his duty, a’ the order of the grand funeral. Now Dougal looked aye waur and waur when night was coming, and was aye the last to gang to his bed, whilk was in a little round just opposite the chamber of dais, whilk his master occupied while he was living, and where he now lay in state, as they can’d it, weeladay! The night before the funeral Dougal could keep his awn counsel nae longer; he came doun wi’ his proud spirit, and fairly asked auld Hutcheon to sit in his room with him for an hour. When they were in the round, Dougal took a tass of brandy to himsell, and gave another to Hutcheon, and wished him all health and lang life, and said that, for himsell, he wasna lang for this warld; for that every night since Sir Robert’s death his silver call had sounded from the state chamber just as it used to do at nights in his lifetime to call Dougal to help to turn him in his bed. Dougal said that being alone with the dead on that floor of the tower (for naebody cared to wake Sir Robert Redgauntlet like another corpse), he had never daured to answer the call, but that now his conscience checked him for neglecting his duty; for, “though death breaks service,” said MacCallum, “it shall never weak my service to Sir Robert; and I will answer his next whistle, so be you will stand by me, Hutcheon.”

Hutcheon had nae will to the wark, but he had stood by Dougal in battle and broil, and he wad not fail him at this pinch; so doun the carles sat ower a stoup of brandy, and Hutcheon, who was something of a clerk, would have read a chapter of the Bible; but Dougal would hear naething but a blaud of Davie Lindsay, whilk was the waur preparation.

When midnight came, and the house was quiet as the grave, sure enough the silver whistle sounded as sharp and shrill as if Sir Robert was blowing it; and up got the twa auld serving-men, and tottered into the room where the dead man lay. Hutcheon saw aneugh at the first glance; for there were torches in the room, which showed him the foul fiend, in his ain shape, sitting on the laird’s coffin! Ower he couped as if he had been dead. He could not tell how lang he lay in a trance at the door, but when he gathered himsell he cried on his neighbour, and getting nae answer raised the house, when Dougal was found lying dead within twa steps of the bed where his master’s coffin was placed. As for the whistle, it was gane anes and aye; but mony a time was it heard at the top of the house on the bartizan, and amang the auld chimneys and turrets where the howlets have their nests. Sir John hushed the matter up, and the funeral passed over without mair bogie wark.

But when a’ was ower, and the laird was beginning to settle his affairs, every tenant was called up for his arrears, and my gudesire for the full sum that stood against him in the rental-book. Weel, away he trots to the castle to tell his story, and there he is introduced to Sir John, sitting in his father’s chair, in deep mourning, with weepers and hanging cravat, and a small walking-rapier by his side, instead of the auld broadsword that had a hunderweight of steel about it, what with blade, chape, and basket-hilt. I have heard their communings so often tauld ower that I almost think I was there mysell, though I couldna be born at the time. (In fact, Alan, my companion, mimicked, with a good deal of humour, the flattering, conciliating tone of the tenant’s address and the hypocritical melancholy of the laird’s reply. His grandfather, he said, had while he spoke, his eye fixed on the rental-book, as if it were a mastiff-dog that he was afraid would spring up and bite him.)

“I wuss ye joy, sir, of the head seat and the white loaf and the brid lairdship. Your father was a kind man to freends and followers; muckle grace to you, Sir John, to fill his shoon--his boots, I suld say, for he seldom wore shoon, unless it were muils when he had the gout.”

“Ay, Steenie,” quoth the laird, sighing deeply, and putting his napkin to his een, “his was a sudden call, and he will be missed in the country; no time to set his house in order--weel prepared Godward, no doubt, which is the root of the matter; but left us behind a tangled hesp to wind, Steenie. Hem! Hem! We maun go to business, Steenie; much to do, and little time to do it in.”

Here he opened the fatal volume. I have heard of a thing they call Doomsday book--I am clear it has been a rental of back-ganging tenants.

“Stephen,” said Sir John, still in the same soft, sleekit tone of voice--“Stephen Stevenson, or Steenson, ye are down here for a year’s rent behind the hand--due at last term.”

_Stephen._ Please your honour, Sir John, I paid it to your father.

_Sir John._ Ye took a receipt, then, doubtless, Stephen, and can produce it?

_Stephen._ Indeed, I hadna time, an it like your honour; for nae sooner had I set doun the siller, and just as his honour, Sir Robert, that’s gaen, drew it ill him to count it and write out the receipt, he was ta’en wi’ the pains that removed him.

“That was unlucky,” said Sir John, after a pause. “But ye maybe paid it in the presence of somebody. I want but a _talis qualis_ evidence, Stephen. I would go ower-strictly to work with no poor man.”

_Stephen._ Troth, Sir John, there was naebody in the room but Dougal MacCallum, the butler. But, as your honour kens, he has e’en followed his auld master.

“Very unlucky again, Stephen,” said Sir John, without altering his voice a single note. “The man to whom ye paid the money is dead, and the man who witnessed the payment is dead too; and the siller, which should have been to the fore, is neither seen nor heard tell of in the repositories. How am I to believe a’ this?”

_Stephen._ I dinna ken, your honour; but there is a bit memorandum note of the very coins, for, God help me! I had to borrow out of twenty purses; and I am sure that ilka man there set down will take his grit oath for what purpose I borrowed the money.

_Sir John._ I have little doubt ye _borrowed_ the money, Steenie. It is the _payment_ that I want to have proof of.

_Stephen._ The siller maun be about the house, Sir John. And since your honour never got it, and his honour that was canna have ta’en it wi’ him, maybe some of the family may hae seen it.

_Sir John._ We will examine the servants, Stephen; that is but reasonable.

But lackey and lass, and page and groom, all denied stoutly that they had ever seen such a bag of money as my gudesire described. What saw waur, he had unluckily not mentioned to any living soul of them his purpose of paying his rent. Ae quean had noticed something under his arm, but she took it for the pipes.

Sir John Redgauntlet ordered the servants out of the room and then said to my gudesire, “Now, Steenie, ye see ye have fair play; and, as I have little doubt ye ken better where to find the siller than ony other body, I beg in fair terms, and for your own sake, that you will end this fasherie; for, Stephen, ye maun pay or flit.”

“The Lord forgie your opinion,” said Stephen, driven almost to his wits’ end--“I am an honest man.”

“So am I, Stephen,” said his honour; “and so are all the folks in the house, I hope. But if there be a knave among us, it must be he that tells the story he cannot prove.” He paused, and then added, mair sternly: “If I understand your trick, sir, you want to take advantage of some malicious reports concerning things in this family, and particularly respecting my father’s sudden death, thereby to cheat me out of the money, and perhaps take away my character by insinuating that I have received the rent I am demanding. Where do you suppose the money to be? I insist upon knowing.”

My gudesire saw everything look so muckle against him that he grew nearly desperate. However, he shifted from one foot to another, looked to every corner of the room, and made no answer.

“Speak out, sirrah,” said the laird, assuming a look of his father’s, a very particular ane, which he had when he was angry--it seemed as if the wrinkles of his frown made that selfsame fearful shape of a horse’s shoe in the middle of his brow; “speak out, sir! I _will_ know your thoughts; do you suppose that I have this money?”

“Far be it frae me to say so,” said Stephen.

“Do you charge any of my people with having taken it?”

“I wad be laith to charge them that may be innocent,” said my gudesire; “and if there be any one that is guilty, I have nae proof.”

“Somewhere the money must be, if there is a word of truth in your story,” said Sir John; “I ask where you think it is--and demand a correct answer!”

“In hell, if you _will_ have my thoughts of it,” said my gudesire, driven to extremity--“in hell! with your father, his jackanape, and his silver whistle.”

Down the stairs he ran (for the parlour was nae place for him after such a word), and he heard the laird swearing blood and wounds behind him, as fast as ever did Sir Robert, and roaring for the bailie and the baron-officer.

Away rode my gudesire to his chief creditor (him they caa’d Laurie Lapraik), to try if he could make onything out of him; but when he tauld his story, he got the worst word in his wame--thief, beggar, and dyvour were the saftest terms; and to the boot of these hard terms, Laurie brought up the auld story of dipping his hand in the blood of God’s saunts, just as if a tenant could have helped riding with the laird, and that a laird like Sir Robert Redgauntlet. My gudesire was, by this time, far beyond the bounds of patience, and, while he and Laurie were at deil speed the liars, he was wanchancie aneugh to abuse Lapraik’s doctrine as weel as the man, and said things that garr’d folks’ flesh grue that heard them--he wasna just himsell, and he had lived wi’ a wild set in his day.

At last they parted, and my gudesire was to ride hame through the wood of Pitmurkie, that is a’ fou of black firs, as they say. I ken the wood, but the firs may be black or white for what I can tell. At the entry of the wood there is a wild common, and on the edge of the common a little lonely change-house, that was keepit then by an hostler wife,--they suld hae caa’d her Tibbie Faw,--and there puir Steenie cried for a mutchkin of brandy, for he had had no refreshment the haill day. Tibbie was earnest wi’ him to take a bite of meat, but he couldna think o’ ‘t, nor would he take his foot out of the stirrup, and took off the brandy, wholely at twa draughts, and named a toast at each. The first was, the memory of Sir Robert Redgauntlet, and may he never lie quiet in his grave till he had righted his poor bond-tenant; and the second was, a health to Man’s Enemy, if he would but get him back the pock of siller, or tell him what came o’ ‘t, for he saw the haill world was like to regard him as a thief and a cheat, and he took that waur than even the ruin of his house and hauld.

On he rode, little caring where. It was a dark night turned, and the trees made it yet darker, and he let the beast take its ain road through the wood; when all of a sudden, from tired and wearied that it was before, the nag began to spring and flee and stend, that my gudesire could hardly keep the saddle. Upon the whilk, a horseman, suddenly riding up beside him, said, “That’s a mettle beast of yours, freend; will you sell him?” So saying, he touched the horse’s neck with his riding-wand, and it fell into its auld heigh-ho of a stumbling trot. “But his spunk’s soon out of him, I think,” continued the stranger, “and that is like mony a man’s courage, that thinks he wad do great things.”

My gudesire scarce listened to this, but spurred his horse, with “Gude-e’en to you, freend.”

But it’s like the stranger was ane that doesna lightly yield his point; for, ride as Steenie liked, he was aye beside him at the selfsame pace. At last my gudesire, Steenie Steenson, grew half angry, and, to say the truth, half feard.

“What is it that you want with me, freend?” he said. “If ye be a robber, I have nae money; if ye be a leal man, wanting company, I have nae heart to mirth or speaking; and if ye want to ken the road, I scarce ken it mysell.”

“If you will tell me your grief,” said the stranger, “I am one that, though I have been sair miscaa’d in the world, am the only hand for helping my freends.”

So my gudesire, to ease his ain heart, mair than from any hope of help, told him the story from beginning to end.

“It’s a hard pinch,” said the stranger; “but I think I can help you.”

“If you could lend me the money, sir, and take a lang day--I ken nae other help on earth,” said my gudesire.

“But there may be some under the earth,” said the stranger. “Come, I’ll be frank wi’ you; I could lend you the money on bond, but you would maybe scruple my terms. Now I can tell you that your auld laird is disturbed in his grave by your curses and the wailing of your family, and if ye daur venture to go to see him, he will give you the receipt.”

My gudesire’s hair stood on end at this proposal, but he thought his companion might be some humoursome chield that was trying to frighten him, and might end with lending him the money. Besides, he was bauld wi’ brandy, and desperate wi’ distress; and he said he had courage to go to the gate of hell, and a step farther, for that receipt. The stranger laughed.

Weel, they rode on through the thickest of the wood, when, all of a sudden, the horse stopped at the door of a great house; and, but that he knew the place was ten miles off, my father would have thought he was at Redgauntlet Castle. They rode into the outer courtyard, through the muckle faulding yetts, and aneath the auld portcullis; and the whole front of the house was lighted, and there were pipes and fiddles, and as much dancing and deray within as used to be at Sir Robert’s house at Pace and Yule, and such high seasons. They lap off, and my gudesire, as seemed to him, fastened his horse to the very ring he had tied him to that morning when he gaed to wait on the young Sir John.

“God!” said my gudesire, “if Sir Robert’s death be but a dream!”

He knocked at the ha’ door just as he was wont, and his auld acquaintance, Dougal MacCallum--just after his wont, too--came to open the door, and said, “Piper Steenie, are ye there lad? Sir Robert has been crying for you.”

My gudesire was like a man in a dream--he looked for the stranger, but he was gane for the time. At last he just tried to say, “Ha! Dougal Driveower, are you living? I thought ye had been dead.”

“Never fash yoursell wi’ me,” said Dougal, “but look to yoursell; and see ye tak’ naething frae onybody here, neither meat, drink, or siller, except the receipt that is your ain.”

So saying, he led the way out through the halls and trances that were weel kend to my gudesire, and into the auld oak parlour; and there was as much singing of profane sangs, and birling of red wine, and blasphemy and sculduddery, as had ever been in Redgauntlet Castle when it was at the blythest.