Chapter II: Through the Flood (3)

For myself, I bore my new dignities with an air of modest meekness. A certain degree of starchness is indispensable for a railway director, if he means to go forward in his high calling and prosper; he must abandon all juvenile eccentricities, and aim at the appearance of a decided enemy to free trade in the article of Wild Oats. Accordingly, as the first step toward respectability, I eschewed coloured waistcoats and gave out that I was a marrying man. No man under forty, unless he is a positive idiot, will stand forth as a theoretical bachelor. It is all nonsense to say that there is anything unpleasant in being courted. Attention, whether from male or female, tickles the vanity; and although I have a reasonable, and, I hope, not unwholesome regard for the gratification of my other appetites, I confess that this same vanity is by far the most poignant of the whole. I therefore surrendered myself freely to the soft allurements thrown in my way by such matronly denizens of Glasgow as were possessed of stock in the shape of marriageable daughters; and walked the more readily into their toils because every party, though nominally for the purposes of tea, wound up with a hot supper, and something hotter still by way of assisting the digestion.

I don’t know whether it was my determined conduct at the allocation, my territorial title, or a most exaggerated idea of my circumstances, that worked upon the mind of Mr. Sawley. Possibly it was a combination of the three; but, sure enough few days had elapsed before I received a formal card of invitation to a tea and serous conversation. Now serious conversation is a sort of thing that I never shone in, possibly because my early studies were framed in a different direction; but as I really was unwilling to offend the respectable coffin-maker, and as I found that the Captain of M’Alcohol--a decided trump in his way--had also received a summons, I notified my acceptance.

M’Alcohol and I went together. The captain, an enormous brawny Celt, with superhuman whiskers and a shock of the fieriest hair, had figged himself out, _more majorum_, in the full Highland costume. I never saw Rob Roy on the stage look half so dignified or ferocious. He glittered from head to foot with dirk, pistol, and skean-dhu; and at least a hundredweight of cairngorms cast a prismatic glory around his person. I felt quite abashed beside him.

We were ushered into Mr. Sawley’s drawing-room. Round the walls, and at considerable distances from each other, were seated about a dozen characters, male and female, all of them dressed in sable, and wearing countenances of woe. Sawley advanced, and wrung me by the hand with so piteous an expression of visage that I could not help thinking some awful catastrophe had just befallen his family.

“You are welcome, Mr. Dunshunner--welcome to my humble tabernacle. Let me present you to Mrs. Sawley”--and a lady, who seemed to have bathed in the Yellow Sea, rose from her seat, and favoured me with a profound curtsey.

“My daughter--Miss Selina Sawley.”

I felt in my brain the scorching glance of the two darkest eyes it ever was my fortune to behold, as the beauteous Selina looked up from the perusal of her handkerchief hem. It was a pity that the other features were not corresponding; for the nose was flat, and the mouth of such dimensions that a harlequin might have jumped down it with impunity; but the eyes _were_ splendid.

In obedience to a sign from the hostess, I sank into a chair beside Selina; and, not knowing exactly what to say, hazarded some observation about the weather.

“Yes, it is indeed a suggestive season. How deeply, Mr. Dunshunner, we ought to feel the pensive progress of autumn toward a soft and premature decay! I always think, about this time of the year, that nature is falling into a consumption!”

“To be sure, ma’am,” said I, rather taken aback by this style of colloquy, “the trees are looking devilishly hectic.”

“Ah, you have remarked that too! Strange! It was but yesterday that I was wandering through Kelvin Grove, and as the phantom breeze brought down the withered foliage from the spray, I thought how probable it was that they might ere long rustle over young and glowing hearts deposited prematurely in the tomb!”

This, which struck me as a very passable imitation of Dickens’s pathetic writings, was a poser. In default of language, I looked Miss Sawley straight in the face, and attempted a substitute for a sigh. I was rewarded with a tender glance.

“Ah,” said she, “I see you are a congenial spirit! How delightful, and yet how rare, it is to meet with any one who thinks in unison with yourself! Do you ever walk in the Necropolis, Mr. Dunshunner? It is my favourite haunt of a morning. There we can wean ourselves, as it were, from life, and beneath the melancholy yew and cypress, anticipate the setting star. How often there have I seen the procession--the funeral of some very, _very_ little child--”

“Selina, my love,” said Mrs. Sawley, “have the kindness to ring for the cookies.”

I, as in duty bound, started up to save the fair enthusiast the trouble, and was not sorry to observe my seat immediately occupied by a very cadaverous gentleman, who was evidently jealous of the progress I was rapidly making. Sawley, with an air of great mystery, informed me that this was a Mr. Dalgleish of Raxmathrapple, the representative of an ancient Scottish family who claimed an important heritable office. The name, I thought, was familiar to me, but there was something in the appearance of Mr. Dalgleish which, notwithstanding the smiles of Miss Selina, rendered a rivalship in that quarter utterly out of the question.

I hate injustice, so let me do the honour in description to the Sawley banquet. The tea-urn most literally corresponded to its name. The table was decked out with divers platters, containing seed-cakes cut into rhomboids, almond biscuits, and ratafia-drops. Also on the sideboard there were two salvers, each of which contained a congregation of glasses, filled with port and sherry. The former fluid, as I afterward ascertained, was of the kind advertised as “curious,” and proffered for sale at the reasonable rate of sixteen shillings per dozen. The banquet, on the whole, was rather peculiar than enticing; and, for the life of me, I could not divest myself of the idea that the self-same viands had figured, not long before, as funeral refreshments at a dirgie. No such suspicion seemed to cross the mind of M’Alcohol, who hitherto had remained uneasily surveying his nails in a corner, but at the first symptom of food started forward, and was in the act of making a clean sweep of the china, when Sawley proposed the singular preliminary of a hymn.

The hymn was accordingly sung. I am thankful to say it was such a one as I never heard before, or expect to hear again; and unless it was composed by the Reverend Saunders Peden in an hour of paroxysm on the moors, I cannot conjecture the author. After this original symphony, tea was discussed, and after tea, to my amazement, more hot brandy-and-water than I ever remember to have seen circulated at the most convivial party. Of course this effected a radical change in the spirits and conversation of the circle. It was again my lot to be placed by the side of the fascinating Selina, whose sentimentality gradually thawed away beneath the influence of sundry sips, which she accepted with a delicate reluctance. This time Dalgleish of Raxmathrapple had not the remotest chance. M’Alcohol got furious, sang Gaelic songs, and even delivered a sermon in genuine Erse, without incurring a rebuke; while, for my own part, I must needs confess that I waxed unnecessarily amorous, and the last thing I recollect was the pressure of Mr. Sawley’s hand at the door, as he denominated me his dear boy, and hoped I would soon come back and visit Mrs. Sawley and Selina. The recollection of these passages next morning was the surest antidote to my return.

Three weeks had elapsed, and still the Glenmutchkin Railway shares were at a premium, though rather lower than when we sold. Our engineer, Watty Solder, returned from his first survey of the line, along with an assistant who really appeared to have some remote glimmerings of the science and practice of mensuration. It seemed, from a verbal report, that the line was actually practicable; and the survey would have been completed in a very short time, “if,” according to the account of Solder, “there had been ae hoos in the glen. But ever sin’ the distillery stoppit--and that was twa year last Martinmas--there wasna a hole whaur a Christian could lay his head, muckle less get white sugar to his toddy, forby the change-house at the clachan; and the auld lucky that keepit it was sair forfochten wi’ the palsy, and maist in the dead-thraws. There was naebody else living within twal’ miles o’ the line, barring a taxman, a lamiter, and a bauldie.”

We had some difficulty in preventing Mr. Solder from making this report open and patent to the public, which premature disclosure might have interfered materially with the preparation of our traffic tables, not to mention the marketable value of the shares. We therefore kept him steadily at work out of Glasgow, upon a very liberal allowance, to which, apparently, he did not object.

“Dunshunner,” said M’Corkindale to me one day, “I suspect that there is something going on about our railway more than we are aware of. Have you observed that the shares are preternaturally high just now?”

“So much the better. Let’s sell.”

“I did so this morning, both yours and mine, at two pounds ten shillings premium.”

“The deuce you did! Then we’re out of the whole concern.”

“Not quite. If my suspicions are correct, there’s a good deal more money yet to be got from the speculation. Somebody had been bulling the stock without orders; and, as they can have no information which we are not perfectly up to, depend upon it, it is done for a purpose. I suspect Sawley and his friends. They have never been quite happy since the allocation; and I caught him yesterday pumping our broker in the back shop. We’ll see in a day or two. If they are beginning a bearing operation, I know how to catch them.”

And, in effect, the bearing operation commenced. Next day, heavy sales were effected for delivery in three weeks; and the stock, as if water-logged, began to sink. The same thing continued for the following two days, until the premium became nearly nominal. In the meantime, Bob and I, in conjunction with two leading capitalists whom we let into the secret, bought up steadily every share that was offered; and at the end of a fortnight we found that we had purchased rather more than double the amount of the whole original stock. Sawley and his disciples, who, as M’Corkindale suspected, were at the bottom of the whole transaction, having beared to their hearts’ content, now came into the market to purchase, in order to redeem their engagements.

I have no means of knowing in what frame of mind Mr. Sawley spent the Sunday, or whether he had recourse for mental consolation to Peden; but on Monday morning he presented himself at my door in full funeral costume, with about a quarter of a mile of crape swathed round his hat, black gloves, and a countenance infinitely more doleful than if he had been attending the interment of his beloved wife.

“Walk in, Mr. Sawley,” said I, cheerfully. “What a long time it is since I have had the pleasure of seeing you--too long indeed for brother directors! How are Mrs. Sawley and Miss Selina? Won’t you take a cup of coffee?”

“Grass, sir, grass!” said Mr. Sawley, with a sigh like the groan of a furnace-bellows. “We are all flowers of the oven--weak, erring creatures, every one of us. Ah, Mr. Dunshunner, you have been a great stranger at Lykewake Terrace!”

“Take a muffin, Mr. Sawley. Anything new in the railway world?”

“Ah, my dear sir,--my good Mr. Augustus Reginald,--I wanted to have some serious conversation with you on that very point. I am afraid there is something far wrong indeed in the present state of our stock.”

“Why, to be sure it is high; but that, you know, is a token of the public confidence in the line. After all, the rise is nothing compared to that of several English railways; and individually, I suppose, neither of us has any reason to complain.”

“I don’t like it,” said Sawley, watching me over the margin of his coffee-cup; “I don’t like it. It savours too much of gambling for a man of my habits. Selina, who is a sensible girl, has serious qualms on the subject.”

“Then why not get out of it? I have no objection to run the risk, and if you like to transact with me, I will pay you ready money for every share you have at the present market price.”

Sawley writhed uneasily in his chair.

“Will you sell me five hundred, Mr. Sawley? Say the word and it is a bargain.”

“A time-bargain?” quavered the coffin-maker.

“No. Money down, and scrip handed over.”

“I--I can’t. The fact is, my dear young friend, I have sold all my stock already!”

“Then permit me to ask, Mr. Sawley, what possible objection you can have to the present aspect of affairs? You do not surely suppose that we are going to issue new shares and bring down the market, simply because you have realised at a handsome premium?”

“A handsome premium! O Lord!” moaned Sawley.

“Why, what did you get for them?”

“Four, three, and two and a half.”

“A very considerable profit indeed,” said I; “and you ought to be abundantly thankful. We shall talk this matter over at another time, Mr. Sawley, but just now I must beg you to excuse me. I have a particular engagement this morning with my broker--rather a heavy transaction to settle--and so--”

“It’s no use beating about the bush any longer,” said Mr. Sawley, in an excited tone, at the same time dashing down his crape-covered castor on the floor. “Did you ever see a ruined man with a large family? Look at me, Mr. Dunshunner--I’m one, and you’ve done it!”

“Mr. Sawley! Are you in your senses?”

“That depends on circumstances. Haven’t you been buying stock lately?”

“I am glad to say I have--two thousand Glenmutchkins, I think, and this is the day of delivery.”

“Well, then, can’t you see how the matter stands? It was I who sold them!”

“Well!”

“Mother of Moses, sir! Don’t you see I’m ruined?”

“By no means--but you must not swear. I pay over the money for your scrip, and you pocket a premium. It seems to me a very simple transaction.”

“But I tell you I haven’t got the scrip!” cried Sawley, gnashing his teeth, while the cold beads of perspiration gathered largely on his brow.

“That is very unfortunate! Have you lost it?”

“No! the devil tempted me, and I oversold!”

There was a very long pause, during which I assumed an aspect of serious and dignified rebuke.

“Is it possible?” said I, in a low tone, after the manner of Kean’s offended fathers. “What! you, Mr. Sawley--the stoker’s friend--the enemy of gambling--the father of Selina--condescend to so equivocal a transaction? You amaze me! But I never was the man to press heavily on a friend”--here Sawley brightened up. “Your secret is safe with me, and it shall be your own fault if it reaches the ears of the Session. Pay me over the difference at the present market price, and I release you of your obligation.”

“Then I’m in the Gazette, that’s all,” said Sawley, doggedly, “and a wife and nine beautiful babes upon the parish! I had hoped other things from you, Mr. Dunshunner--I thought you and Selina--”

“Nonsense, man! Nobody goes into the Gazette just now--it will be time enough when the general crash comes. Out with your cheque-book, and write me an order for four and twenty thousand. Confound fractions! In these days one can afford to be liberal.”

“I haven’t got it,” said Sawley. “You have no idea how bad our trade has been of late, for nobody seems to think of dying. I have not sold a gross of coffins this fortnight. But I’ll tell you what--I’ll give you five thousand down in cash, and ten thousand in shares; further I can’t go.”

“Now, Mr. Sawley,” said I, “I may be blamed by worldly-minded persons for what I am going to do; but I am a man of principle, and feel deeply for the situation of your amiable wife and family. I bear no malice, though it is quite clear that you intended to make me the sufferer. Pay me fifteen thousand over the counter, and we cry quits for ever.”

“Won’t you take the Camlachie Cemetery shares? They are sure to go up.”

“No!”

“Twelve hundred Cowcaddens Water, with an issue of new stock next week?”

“Not if they disseminated the Gauges!”

“A thousand Ramshorn Gas--four per cent. guaranteed until the act?”

“Not if they promised twenty, and melted down the sun in their retort!”

“Blawweary Iron? Best spec. going.”

“No, I tell you once for all! If you don’t like my offer,--and it is an uncommonly liberal one,--say so, and I’ll expose you this afternoon upon ‘Change.”

“Well then, there’s a cheque. But may the--”

“Stop, sir! Any such profane expressions, and I shall insist upon the original bargain. So then, now we’re quits. I wish you a very good-morning, Mr. Sawley, and better luck next time. Pray remember me to your amiable family.”

The door had hardly closed upon the discomfited coffin-maker, and I was still in the preliminary steps of an extempore _pas seul_, intended as the outward demonstration of exceeding inward joy, when Bob M’Corkindale entered. I told him the result of the morning’s conference.

“You have let him off too easily,” said the political economist. “Had I been his creditor, I certainly should have sacked the shares into the bargain. There is nothing like rigid dealing between man and man.”

“I am contented with moderate profits,” said I; “besides, the image of Selina overcame me. How goes it with Jobson and Grabbie?”

“Jobson had paid, and Grabbie compounded. Heckles--may he die an evil death!--has repudiated, become a lame duck, and waddled; but no doubt his estate will pay a dividend.”

“So then, we are clear of the whole Glenmutchkin business, and at a handsome profit.”

“A fair interest for the outlay of capital--nothing more. But I’m not quite done with the concern yet.”

“How so? not another bearing operation?”

“No; that cock would hardly fight. But you forget that I am secretary to the company, and have a small account against them for services already rendered. I must do what I can to carry the bill through Parliament; and, as you have now sold your whole shares, I advise you to resign from the direction, go down straight to Glenmutchkin, and qualify yourself for a witness. We shall give you five guineas a day, and pay all your expenses.”

“Not a bad notion. But what has become of M’Closkie, and the other fellow with the jaw-breaking name?”

“Vich-Induibh? I have looked after their interests as in duty bound, sold their shares at a large premium, and despatched them to their native hills on annuities.”

“And Sir Polloxfen?”

“Died yesterday of spontaneous combustion.”

As the company seemed breaking up, I thought I could not do better than take M’Corkindale’s hint, and accordingly betook myself to Glenmutchkin, along with the Captain of M’Alcohol, and we quartered ourselves upon the Factor for Glentumblers. We found Watty Solder very shaky, and his assistant also lapsing into habits of painful inebriety. We saw little of them except of an evening, for we shot and fished the whole day, and made ourselves remarkably comfortable. By singular good luck, the plans and sections were lodged in time, and the Board of Trade very handsomely reported in our favour, with a recommendation of what they were pleased to call “the Glenmutchkin system,” and a hope that it might generally be carried out. What this system was, I never clearly understood; but, of course, none of us had any objections. This circumstance gave an additional impetus to the shares, and they once more went up. I was, however, too cautious to plunge a second time in to Charybdis, but M’Corkindale did, and again emerged with plunder.

When the time came for the parliamentary contest, we all emigrated to London. I still recollect, with lively satisfaction, the many pleasant days we spent in the metropolis at the company’s expense. There were just a neat fifty of us, and we occupied the whole of a hotel. The discussion before the committee was long and formidable. We were opposed by four other companies who patronised lines, of which the nearest was at least a hundred miles distant from Glenmutchkin; but as they founded their opposition upon dissent from “the Glenmutchkin system” generally, the committee allowed them to be heard. We fought for three weeks a most desperate battle, and might in the end have been victorious, had not our last antagonist, at the very close of his case, pointed out no less than seventy-three fatal errors in the parliamentary plan deposited by the unfortunate Solder. Why this was not done earlier, I never exactly understood; it may be that our opponents, with gentlemanly consideration, were unwilling to curtail our sojourn in London--and their own. The drama was now finally closed, and after all preliminary expenses were paid, sixpence per share was returned to the holders upon surrender of their scrip.

Such is an accurate history of the Origin, Rise, Progress, and Fall of the Direct Glenmutchkin Railway. It contains a deep moral, if anybody has sense enough to see it; if not, I have a new project in my eye for next session, of which timely notice shall be given.

THRAWN JANET, By Robert Louis Stevenson

The Reverend Murdoch Soulis was long minister of the moorland parish of Balweary, in the vale of Dule. A severe, bleak-faced old man, dreadful to his hearers, he dwelt in the last years of his life, without relative or servant or any human company, in the small and lonely manse under the Hanging Shaw. In spite of the iron composure of his features, his eye was wild, scared, and uncertain; and when he dwelt, in private admonitions, on the future of the impenitent, it seemed as if his eye pierced through the storms of time to the terrors of eternity. Many young persons, coming to prepare themselves against the season of the holy communion, were dreadfully affected by his talk. He had a sermon on I Pet. V. 8, “The devil as a roaring lion,” on the Sunday after every 17th of August, and he was accustomed to surpass himself upon that text both by the appalling nature of the matter and the terror of his bearing in the pulpit. The children were frightened into fits, and the old looked more than usually oracular, and were, all that day, full of those hints that Hamlet deprecated. The manse itself, where it stood by the water of Dule among some thick trees, with the Shaw overhanging it on the one side, and on the other many cold, moorish hilltops rising toward the sky, had begun, at a very early period of Mr. Soulis’s ministry, to be avoided in the dusk hours by all who valued themselves upon their prudence; and guidmen sitting at the clachan alehouse shook their heads together at the thought of passing late by that uncanny neighbourhood. There was one spot, to be more particular, which was regarded with especial awe. The manse stood between the highroad and the water of Dule, with a gable to each; its bank was toward the kirktown of Balweary, nearly half a mile away; in front of it, a bare garden, hedged with thorn, occupied the land between the river and the road. The house was two stories high, with two large rooms on each. It opened not directly on the garden, but on a causewayed path, or passage, giving on the road on the one hand, and closed on the other by the tall willows and elders that bordered on the stream. And it was this strip of causeway that enjoyed among the young parishioners of Balweary so infamous a reputation. The minister walked there often after dark, sometimes groaning aloud in the instancy of his unspoken prayers; and when he was from home, and the manse door was locked, the more daring school-boys ventured, with beating hearts, to “follow my leader” across that legendary spot.

This atmosphere of terror, surrounding, as it did, a man of God of spotless character and orthodoxy, was a common cause of wonder and subject of inquiry among the few strangers who were led by chance or business into that unknown, outlying country. But many even of the people of the parish were ignorant of the strange events which had marked the first year of Mr. Soulis’s ministrations; and among those who were better informed, some were naturally reticent, and others shy of that particular topic. Now and again, only, one of the older folk would warm into courage over his third tumbler, and recount the cause of the minister’s strange looks and solitary life.

Fifty years syne, when Mr. Soulis cam’ first into Ba’weary, he was still a young man,--a callant, the folk said,--fu’ o’ book-learnin’ and grand at the exposition, but, as was natural in sae young a man, wi’ nae leevin’ experience in religion. The younger sort were greatly taken wi’ his gifts and his gab; but auld, concerned, serious men and women were moved even to prayer for the young man, whom they took to be a self-deceiver, and the parish that was like to be sae ill supplied. It was before the days o’ the Moderates--weary fa’ them; but ill things are like guid--they baith come bit by bit, a pickle at a time; and there were folk even then that said the Lord had left the college professors to their ain devices, an’ the lads that went to study wi’ them wad hae done mair and better sittin’ in a peat-bog, like their forebears of the persecution, wi’ a Bible under their oxter and a speerit o’ prayer in their heart. There was nae doubt, onyway, but that Mr. Soulis had been ower-lang at the college. He was careful and troubled for mony things besides the ae thing needful. He had a feck o’ books wi’ him--mair than had ever been seen before in a’ that presbytery; and a sair wark the carrier had wi’ them, for they were a’ like to have smoored in the Deil’s Hag between this and Kilmackerlie. They were books o’ divinity, to be sure, or so they ca’d them; but the serious were o’ opinion there was little service for sae mony, when the hail o’ God’s Word would gang in the neuk of a plaid. Then he wad sit half the day and half the nicht forby, which was scant decent--writin’, nae less; and first they were feard he wad read his sermons; and syne it proved he was writin’ a book himsel’, which was surely no fittin’ for ane of his years an’ sma’ experience.

Onyway, it behooved him to get an auld, decent wife to keep the manse for him an’ see to his bit denners; and he was recommended to an auld limmer,--Janet M’Clour, they ca’d her,--and sae far left to himsel’ as to be ower-persuaded. There was mony advised him to the contrar’, for Janet was mair than suspeckit by the best folk in Ba’weary. Lang or that, she had had a wean to a dragoon; she hadnae come forrit for maybe thretty year; and bairns had seen her mumblin’ to hersel’ up on Key’s Loan in the gloamin’, whilk was an unco time an’ place for a God-fearin’ woman. Howsoever, it was the laird himsel’ that had first tauld the minister o’ Janet; and in thae days he wad have gane a far gate to pleesure the laird. When folk tauld him that Janet was sib to the deil, it was a’ superstition by his way of it; and’ when they cast up the Bible to him, an’ the witch of Endor, he wad threep it doun their thrapples that thir days were a’ gane by, and the deil was mercifully restrained.

Weel, when it got about the clachan that Janet M’Clour was to be servant at the manse, the folk were fair mad wi’ her an’ him thegether; and some o’ the guidwives had nae better to dae than get round her door-cheeks and chairge her wi’ a’ that was kent again’ her, frae the sodger’s bairn to John Tamson’s twa kye. She was nae great speaker; folk usually let her gang her ain gait, an’ she let them gang theirs, wi’ neither fair guid-e’en nor fair guid-day; but when she buckled to, she had a tongue to deave the miller. Up she got, an’ there wasnae an auld story in Ba’weary but she gart somebody lowp for it that day; they couldnae say ae thing but she could say twa to it; till, at the hinder end, the guidwives up and claught haud of her, and clawed the coats aff her back, and pu’d her doun the clachan to the water o’ Dule, to see if she were a witch or no, soum or droun. The carline skirled till ye could hear her at the Hangin’ Shaw, and she focht like ten; there was mony a guid wife bure the mark of her neist day an’ mony a lang day after; and just in the hettest o’ the collieshangie, wha suld come up (for his sins) but the new minister.

“Women,” said he (and he had a grand voice), “I charge you in the Lord’s name to let her go.”

Janet ran to him--she was fair wud wi’ terror--an’ clang to him, an’ prayed him, for Christ’s sake, save her frae the cummers; an’ they, for their pairt, tauld him a’ that was kent, and maybe mair.

“Woman,” says he to Janet, “is this true?”

“As the Lord sees me,” says she, “as the Lord made me, no a word o’ ‘t. Forby the bairn,” says she, “I’ve been a decent woman a’ my days.”

“Will you,” says Mr. Soulis, “in the name of God, and before me, His unworthy minister, renounce the devil and his works?”

Weel, it wad appear that, when he askit that, she gave a girn that fairly frichtit them that saw her, an’ they could hear her teeth play dirl thegether in her chafts; but there was naething for it but the ae way or the ither; an’ Janet lifted up her hand and renounced the deil before them a’.

“And now,” says Mr. Soulis to the guidwives, “home with ye, one and all, and pray to God for His forgiveness.”

And he gied Janet his arm, though she had little on her but a sark, and took her up the clachan to her ain door like a leddy of the land, an’ her scrieghin’ and laughin’ as was a scandal to be heard.

There were mony grave folk lang ower their prayers that nicht; but when the morn cam’ there was sic a fear fell upon a’ Ba’weary that the bairns hid theirsel’s, and even the men folk stood and keekit frae their doors. For there was Janet comin’ doun the clachan,--her or her likeness, nane could tell,--wi’ her neck thrawn, and her heid on ae side, like a body that has been hangit, and a girn on her face like an unstreakit corp. By-an’-by they got used wi’ it, and even speered at her to ken what was wrang; but frae that day forth she couldnae speak like a Christian woman, but slavered and played click wi’ her teeth like a pair o’ shears; and frae that day forth the name o’ God cam’ never on her lips. Whiles she wad try to say it, but it michtnae be. Them that kenned best said least; but they never gied that Thing the name o’ Janet M’Clour; for the auld Janet, by their way o’ ‘t, was in muckle hell that day. But the minister was neither to haud nor to bind; he preached about naething but the folk’s cruelty that had gien her a stroke of the palsy; he skelpt the bairns that meddled her; and he had her up to the manse that same nicht, and dwalled there a’ his lane wi’ her under the Hangin’ Shaw.

Weel, time gaed by, and the idler sort commenced to think mair lichtly o’ that black business. The minister was weel thocht o’; he was aye late at the writing--folk wad see his can’le doon by the Dule Water after twal’ at e’en; and he seemed pleased wi’ himsel’ and upsitten as at first, though a’ body could see that he was dwining. As for Janet, she cam’ an’ she gaed; if she didnae speak muckle afore, it was reason she should speak less then; she meddled naebody; but she was an eldritch thing to see, an’ nane wad hae mistrysted wi’ her for Ba’weary glebe.

About the end o’ July there cam’ a spell o’ weather, the like o’ ‘t never was in that countryside; it was lown an’ het an’ heartless; the herds couldnae win up the Black Hill, the bairns were ower-weariet to play; an’ yet it was gousty too, wi’ claps o’ het wund that rummled in the glens, and bits o’ shouers that slockened naething. We aye thocht it but to thun’er on the morn; but the morn cam’, an’ the morn’s morning, and it was aye the same uncanny weather; sair on folks and bestial. Of a’ that were the waur, nane suffered like Mr. Soulis; he could neither sleep nor eat, he tauld his elders; an’ when he wasnae writin’ at his weary book, he wad be stravaguin’ ower a’ the country-side like a man possessed, when a’ body else was blithe to keep caller ben the house.

Abune Hangin’ Shaw, in the bield o’ the Black Hill, there’s a bit enclosed grund wi’ an iron yert; and it seems, in the auld days, that was the kirkyaird o’ Ba’weary, and consecrated by the papists before the blessed licht shone upon the kingdom. It was a great howff, o’ Mr. Soulis’s onyway; there he would sit an’ consider his sermons’ and inded it’s a bieldy bit. Weel, as he came ower the wast end o’ the Black Hill, ae day, he saw first twa, an’ syne fower, an’ syne seeven corbie craws fleein’ round an’ round abune the auld kirkyaird. They flew laigh and heavy, an’ squawked to ither as they gaed; and it was clear to Mr. Soulis that something had put them frae their ordinar. He wasna easy fleyed, an’ gaed straucht up to the wa’s; and what suld he find there but a man, or the appearance of a man, sittin’ in the inside upon a grave. He was of a great stature, an’ black as hell, and his een were singular to see. Mr. Soulis had heard tell o’ black men, mony’s the time; but there was something unco abut this black man that daunted him. Het as he was, he took a kind o’ cauld grue in the marrow o’ his banes; but up he spak’ for a’ that; an’ says he, “My friend, are you a stranger in this place?” The black man answered never a word; he got upon his feet, an’ begude to hirsel to the wa’ on the far side; but he aye lookit at the minister; an’ the minister stood an’ lookit back; till a’ in a meenute the black man was ower the wa’ an’ rinnin’ for the bield o’ the trees. Mr. Soulis, he hardly kenned why, ran after him; but he was sair forjaskit wi’ his walk an’ the het, unhalesome weather; and rin as he likit, he got nae mair than a glisk o’ the black man amang the birks, till he won doun to the foot o’ the hillside, an’ there he saw him ance mair, gaun, hap, step, an’ lowp, ower Dule Water to the manse.

Mr. Soulis wasna weel pleased that this fearsome gangrel suld mak’ sae free wi’ Ba’weary manse; an’ he ran the harder, an’ wet shoon, ower the burn, an’ up the walk; but the deil a black man was there to see. He stepped out upon the road, but there was naebody there; he gaed a’ ower the gairden, but na, nae black man. At the hinder end, and a bit feard as was but natural, he lifted the hasp and into the manse; and there was Janet M’Clour before his een, wi’ her thrawn craig, and nane sae pleased to see him. And he aye minded sinsyne, when first he set his een upon her, he had the same cauld and deidy grue.

“Janet,” says he, “have you seen a black man?”

“A black man?” quo’ she. “Save us a’! Ye ‘re no wise, minister. There’s nae black man in a’ Ba’weary.”

But she didna speak plain, ye maun understand; but yam-yammered, like a powny wi’ the bit in its moo.

“Weel,” says he, “Janet, if there was nae black man, I have spoken with the Accuser of the Brethren.”

And he sat down like ane wi’ a fever, an’ his teeth chittered in his heid.

“Hoots!” says she, “think shame to yoursel’, minister,” an’ gied him a drap brandy that she keept aye by her.

Syne Mr. Soulis gaed into his study amang a’ his books. It’s a lang, laigh, mirk chalmer, perishin’ cauld in winter, an’ no very dry even in the top o’ the simmer, for the manse stands near the burn. Sae doun he sat, and thocht of a’ that had come an’ gane since he was in Ba’weary, an’ his hame, an’ the days when he was a bairn an’ ran daffin’ on the braes; and that black man aye ran in his heid like the owercome of a sang. Aye the mair he thocht, the mair he thocht o’ the black man. He tried the prayer, an’ the words wouldnae come to him; an’ he tried, they say, to write at his book, but he couldnae mak’ nae mair o’ that. There was whiles he thocht the black man was at his oxter, an’ the swat stood upon him cauld as well-water; and there was other whiles when he cam’ to himsel’ like a christened bairn and minded naething.

The upshot was that he gaed to the window an’ stood glowrin’ at Dule Water. The trees are unco thick, an’ the water lies deep an’ black under the manse; and there was Janet washing’ the cla’es wi’ her coats kilted. She had her back to the minister, an’ he for his pairt, hardly kenned what he was lookin’ at. Syne she turned round, an’ shawed her face; Mr. Soulis had the same cauld grue as twice that day afore, an’ it was borne in upon him what folk said, that Janet was deid lang syne, an’ this was a bogle in her clay-cauld flesh. He drew back a pickle and he scanned her narrowly. She was tramp-trampin’ in the cla’es, croonin’ to hersel’; and eh! Gude guide us, but it was a fearsome face. Whiles she sang louder, but there was nae man born o’ woman that could tell the words o’ her sang; an’ whiles she lookit sidelang doun, but there was naething there for her to look at. There gaed a scunner through the flesh upon his banes; and that was Heeven’s advertisement. But Mr. Soulis just blamed himsel’, he said, to think sae ill of a puir auld afflicted wife that hadnae a freend forby himsel’; an’ he put up a bit prayer for him an’ her, an’ drank a little caller water,--for his heart rose again’ the meat,--an’ gaed up to his naked bed in the gloaming.

That was a nicht that has never been forgotten in Ba’weary, the nicht o’ the seeventeenth of August, seventeen hun’er’ an’ twal’. It had been het afore, as I hae said, but that nicht it was hetter than ever. The sun gaed doun amang unco-lookin’ clouds; it fell as mirk as the pit; no a star, no a breath o’ wund; ye couldnae see your han’ afore your face, and even the auld folk cuist the covers frae their beds and lay pechin’ for their breath. Wi’ a’ that he had upon his mind, it was gey and unlikely Mr. Soulis wad get muckle sleep. He lay an’ he tummled; the gude, caller bed that he got into brunt his very banes; whiles he slept, and whiles he waukened; whiles he heard the time o’ nicht, and whiles a tike yowlin’ up the muir, as if somebody was deid; whiles he thocht he heard bogles claverin’ in his lug, an’ whiles he saw spunkies in the room. He behooved, he judged, to be sick; an’ sick he was--little he jaloosed the sickness.

At the hinder end, he got a clearness in his mind, sat up in his sark on the bedside, and fell thinkin’ ance mair o’ the black man an’ Janet. He couldnae weel tell how,--maybe it was the cauld to his feet,--but it cam’ in upon him wi’ a spate that there was some connection between thir twa, an’ that either or baith o’ them were bogles. And just at that moment, in Janet’s room, which was neist to his, there cam’ a stamp o’ feet as if men were wars’lin’, an’ then a loud bang; an’ then a wund gaed reishling round the fower quarters of the house; an’ then a’ was ance mair as seelent as the grave.

Mr. Soulis was feard for neither man nor deevil. He got his tinder-box, an’ lit a can’le, an’ made three steps o’ ‘t ower to Janet’s door. It was on the hasp, an’ he pushed it open, an’ keeked bauldly in. It was a big room, as big as the minister’s ain, an’ plenished wi’ grand, auld, solid gear, for he had naething else. There was a fower-posted bed wi’ auld tapestry; and a braw cabinet of aik, that was fu’ o’ the minister’s divinity books, an’ put there to be out o’ the gate; an’ a wheen duds o’ Janet’s lying here and there about the floor. But nae Janet could Mr. Soulis see, nor ony sign of a contention. In he gaed (an’ there’s few that wad hae followed him), an’ lookit a’ round, an’ listened. But there was naethin’ to be heard neither inside the manse nor in a’ Ba’weary parish, an’ naethin’ to be seen but the muckle shadows turnin’ round the can’le. An’ then a’ at aince the minister’s heart played dunt an’ stood stock-still, an’ a cauld wund blew amang the hairs o’ his heid. Whaten a weary sicht was that for the puir man’s een! For there was Janet hangin’ frae a nail beside the auld aik cabinet; her heid aye lay on her shouther, her een were steeked, the tongue projecket frae her mouth, and her heels were twa feet clear abune the floor.

“God forgive us all!” thocht Mr. Soulis, “poor Janet’s dead.”

He cam’ a step nearer to the corp; an’ then his heart fair whammled in his inside. For--by what cantrip it wad ill beseem a man to judge--she was hingin’ frae a single nail an’ by a single wursted thread for darnin’ hose.

It’s an awfu’ thing to be your lane at nicht wi’ siccan prodigies o’ darkness; but Mr. Soulis was strong in the Lord. He turned an’ gaed his ways oot o’ that room, and locket the door ahint him; and step by step doon the stairs, as heavy as leed; and set doon the can’le on the table at the stair-foot. He couldnae pray, he couldnae think, he was dreepin’ wi’ caul’ swat, an’ naething could he hear but the dunt-dunt-duntin’ o’ his ain heart. He micht maybe have stood there an hour, or maybe twa, he minded sae little; when a’ o’ a sudden he heard a laigh, uncanny steer upstairs; a foot gaed to an’ fro in the cham’er whair the corp was hingin’; syne the door was opened, though he minded weel that he had lockit it; an’ syne there was a step upon the landin’, an’ it seemed to him as if the corp was lookin’ ower the tail and doun upon him whaur he stood.

He took up the can’le again (for he couldnae want the licht), and, as saftly as ever he could, gaed straucht out o’ the manse an’ to the far end o’ the causeway. It was aye pit-mirk; the flame o’ the can’le, when he set it on the grund, brunt steedy and clear as in a room; naething moved, but the Dule Water seepin’ and sabbin’ doon the glen, an’ yon unhaly footstep that cam’ plodding’ doun the stairs inside the manse. He kenned the foot ower-weel, for it was Janet’s; and at ilka step that cam’ a wee thing nearer, the cauld got deeper in his vitals. He commended his soul to Him that made an’ keepit him; “and, O Lord,” said he, “give me strength this night to war against the powers of evil.”

By this time the foot was comin’ through the passage for the door; he could hear a hand skirt alang the wa’, as if the fearsome thing was feelin’ for its way. The saughs tossed an’ maned thegether, a long sigh cam’ ower the hills, the flame o’ the can’le was blawn aboot; an’ there stood the corp of Thrawn Janet, wi’ her grogram goun an’ her black mutch, wi’ the heid aye upon the shouther, an’ the girn still upon the face o’ ‘t,--leevin’, ye wad hae said--deid, as Mr. Soulis weel kenned,--upon the threshold o’ the manse.

It’s a strange thing that the saul of man should be thirled into his perishable body; but the minister saw that, an’ his heart didnae break.

She didnae stand there lang; she began to move again, an’ cam’ slowly toward Mr. Soulis whaur he stood under the saughs. A’ the life o’ his body, a’ the strength o’ his speerit, were glowerin’ frae his een. It seemed she was gaun to speak, but wanted words, an’ made a sign wi’ the left hand. There cam’ a clap o’ wund, like a cat’s fuff; oot gaed the can’le, the saughs skrieghed like folk’ an’ Mr. Soulis kenned that, live or die, this was the end o’ ‘t.

“Witch, beldam, devil!” he cried, “I charge you, by the power of God, begone--if you be dead, to the grave; if you be damned, to hell.”

An’ at that moment the Lord’s ain hand out o’ the heevens struck the Horror whaur it stood; the auld, deid, desecrated corp o’ the witch-wife, sae lang keepit frae the grave and hirselled round by deils, lowed up like a brunstane spunk and fell in ashes to the grund; the thunder followed, peal on dirling peal, the rairing rain upon the back o’ that; and Mr. Soulis lowped through the garden hedge, and ran, wi’ skelloch upon skelloch, for the clachan.

That same mornin’ John Christie saw the black man pass the Muckle Cairn as it was chappin’ six; before eicht, he gaed by the change-house at Knockdow; an’ no lang after, Sandy M’Lellan saw him gaun linkin’ doun the braes frae Kilmackerlie. There’s little doubt but it was him that dwalled sae lang in Janet’s body; but he was awa’ at last; and sinsyne the deil has never fashed us in Ba’weary.

But it was a sair dispensation for the minister; lang, lang he lay ravin’ in his bed; and frae that hour to this, he was the man ye ken the day.

End of Project Gutenberg’s Stories by English Authors: Scotland, by Various