Chapter III: Part 3

“Ay, ay,” which was a form of inquiry with Hillocks.

“Naebody 'ill be able tae tell a lee or play a Judas trick in Drumtochty for the space of a generation.”

V.--THE REPLENISHING OF BURNBRAE

When Hillocks arrived at the kirkyard on the Sabbath after Caesar's judgment, he found Jamie Soutar removing the last trace of Burn-brae's Displenishing Sale from the pillars of the gate.

It was the fragment with “John Baxter, outgoing tenant,” and Jamie was careful to preserve it entire.

“It 'ill be a relic,” he explained afterwards to the fathers, who were tasting the occasion in a pregnant silence, “like a Russian gun frae Alma. We 'ill no see anither fecht like it in oor day.

“Jock wes a wee hasty wi' his 'out-going,' but ye cudna expect a Kildrummie man tae ken ony better. He's gotten the gift o' the gab maist awfu', but an unctioneer sudna tak tae propheceein'; it's no cannie.

“But we maunna blame Jock, for there wes a story fleein' aboot that the factor hed got a new fairmer for Burnbrae; he 'ill be the in-comin' tenant, a'm judgin'; he 'ill be comin' in as the factor gaes oot.

“Speakin' aboot that, hae ye herd the new factor's name? they were keepin' it quiet on Friday,” and Jamie looked round with much interest.

“Ye've a tongue, Jamie,” and Drumsheugh laughed aloud, a luxury hardly known in the Glen, while even Gormack himself made a joyful noise within like the running down of an eight-day clock.

“It's an ill job weel ended,” resumed Hillocks, recalling the fathers to sobriety, “an' Burnbrae's gotten his fairm back; but it's bare the day, withoot a beast tae pit in the byres this winter, or a ploo tae turn the stubble.

“Nae doot he hed a graund sale, and the fat cattle cowed a'thing for price, but stockin' ower again 'll be a heavy loss; it's a terrible peety his lordship wesna hame suner.”

Then they went into matters thoroughly, and Drumsheugh gave judgment.

“Gin he hed back his implements, and Jean's coos, an' some o' the auld horse, an' maybe a dozen stirk, h 'd come oot richt aifter a'; a' didna hear the dealers boastin' aboot their bargains laist Friday,” he added with satisfaction.

There was a long pause in the conversation, during which Drumsheugh examined a loose slate on the roof of the church from three different points of view, and Jamie Soutar refreshed his remembrance of a neighbouring tombstone.

“Div ye mean?” began Whinnie, but broke off at the contempt in Jamie's eye.

“Sall,” Hillocks exclaimed in a little. “What think ye, Gormack?”

“They 're no veeciously inclined fouk in the Glen,” responded that worthy man, with studied moderation. “A' wudna say but it micht be dune. Maist o' what we 're aifter is in the Glen, some hole or ither. It wud croon a',” and Gormack began to warm.

“Nae fear o' the implements,” said Hillocks, in full scent, “nor the puckle young beasts, but a 'll no be satisfeed, neeburs, gin the gude wife disna get back her byre tae the last coo.”

“A 've twa stirks,” interrupted Whinnie, taking in the situation at last.

“Haud yir tongue till a' coont up the kye,” and Hillocks buckled to work.

“It's an aucht byre, and Jean keepit ane; that leaves seeven tae collect; noo a' hae twa masel, an' Netherton bocht the quey; that's three a' richt.

“Didna ye get the Angus doddie, Drumsheugh? weel, ye 'ill no be hard tae deal wi'; an' Bogie took anither--he's no here, but he's a cautious man, Bogie; there's nae fear o' him. That's five.

“Whar's the lave? Ou aye, a' mind Mary Robertson scrapit up eneuch for the white coo, a fine milker; it wud hardly be richt, maybe, tae ask her--”

“Ae coo as gude's anither tae Mary,” broke in Drumsheugh. “A 'll see she disna lose.”

“Weel, that's a' richt,” Hillocks went on; “and we 've juist tae find anither, and that 's the hale hypothic.”

“It 's no ill tae find,” said Jamie, “but it 'ill beat ye tae get her.”

“Ye're no meanin'--man,--ye hev it; the body did buy ane, an' he 'ill be wantin' twa or three notes on the bargain; Milton's a fair scannal in the Glen,” and Hillocks's countenance, a near enough man in season himself, was full of scorn.

“A'm astonished at ye,” and Jamie eyed Hillocks with severity; “div ye no ken that Milton is the only man in the Glen that hes ony licht ava? he's sae releegious that a' never herd o' him daein' a dirty trick, but his conscience telt him. It 'ill cost five notes tae mak his duty plain.”

“If Milton disna gie back the beast at the roup price, in the circumstances-”

“Aye, aye, Drumsheugh,” said Hillocks encouragingly.

“Weel, he needna show his face in the Kil-drummie train, that's a'; ye have yir aucht complete noo, Hillocks, an' a 'll cast ma mind ower the implements in the sermon.”

“A 'll drive doon the twa stirks the mom's morn,” for Whinnie was anxious to show his zeal.

“Ye 'll dae naethin' o' the kind,” responded Jamie. “Burnbrae's plenishing gaed awa in a day, and it 'ill gae back in a day. Drumsheugh, ye begun the wark, and ye 'ill hae tae feenish it.”

“A 'll dae the Glen by Wednesday nicht, arf a'thing 'ill need tae be hame by Thursday, or Burnbrae'ill be in at Muirtown on Friday githerin' stock. Ye 'ill keep a quiet tongue, neeburs.”

“Lippen (trust) tae that, Drumsheugh,” Jamie answered; “it's easier than speakin' in Drumtochty.”

Drumsheugh was wrapped in thought till the Doctor came to the application, when his face lightened, and he took snuff with leisurely satisfaction.

“There wes a set o' harrows,” he admitted to Jamie afterwards, “near beat me; they're doon Dunleith wy, but a'll hae a haud o'them.”

For three days the Glen was full of mystery, and the latest news of the campaign could be had at the smiddy.

Saunders, Drumsheugh's foreman, came with some machine teeth on Monday evening, and brought the first intelligence.

“The maister's in frae the wast end, and he's no hed a single refusal; yon Dunleith fairmer that cam on the dun sheltie (pony) wes that pleased at Brunbrae getting his fairm again, he offered back the harrows himsel, and is tae send up a single ploo an' a pair o' fanners 'at gied doon yon wy.

“Drumsheugh's tae be oot at five the morn, an' he's expeckin' tae sweep the Glen,” and Saunders struck a match with emphasis.

“It beats a',” said the smith, amazed at Saunders's continued speech; “the Glen's fair roosed.”

On Wednesday evening Drumsheugh was his own messenger, but would only speak in parables.

“Gin this weather keeps on, they 'ill be cuttin' roads for the machines by the end o' the week.... A 'll need tae be aff, it's gettin' late, and a've hed twa days o't.... There 's a fell puckle fairms in the pairish, aince ye gae roond them....

“Na, na, there's waur fouk in the coonty than oor neeburs,” and now every one listened with both his ears; “the fac is, there's no ae disobleeging, ill-condeetioned wratch in Drumtochty, or ane that wudna dae his pairt by a gude man.” Whereupon the smith struck a mighty blow, and the sparks flew to the roof in celebration of a great achievement.

“It's a broon and white caufie ye hev, smith,” were Drumsheugh's last words. “Ye micht bring it up the mornin's aifternoon aboot fower, and slip it intae the park afore the hoose.”

“That's the stiffest job Drumsheugh ever pit his hand tae, an' he's dune it weel,” and then the smith meditated, “hoo did he ever get roond Milton?”

Hillocks came in late and threw some light on that problem.

“A' met Drumsheugh comin' doon frae Milton, and a' lookit at him.

“The 'ill be nane o' Jean's byre missin' the morn, Hillocks.”

“That's a' he said, but his face wes as red as the harvest mune, and you wud hae thocht tae see his walk that he wes the Earl o' Kilspindie.” Burnbrae was afterwards amazed at the duplicity of Drumtochty, which compassed him with lies and befooled him on every hand, in his local efforts to restock his farm. Hillocks declined to treat for restoration till he knew how prices stood on Friday, and Netherton, his fellow-elder, was doubtful whether he could let him have two carts, while Drumsheugh refused politely but firmly to cancel his purchase in cows. Drumtochty was triumphant over Burnbrae's victory, and full of sympathy with him in his position, but there were limits to kindness, and the Glen meant to stick by their bargains.

“It's no what a' wud hae expeckit o' the neeburs, an' least o' a' frae Drumsheugh,” Jean complained, as she sat on Thursday afternoon in the garden. Burnbrae had just returned from a very disappointing visit to Donald Menzies, who expounded a recent conflict with the devil in minute detail, but would not come within a mile of business.

“We maunna judge the fouk hardly,” said Burnbrae; “a bargain 's a bargain; they gave top prices, an' nae doot they wantit what they bocht. They did their pairt at the roup, an' it wud be unreasonable tae ask mair,” but Burnbrae was inwardly perplexed.

An hour afterwards James Soutar explained to Jean that he happened to be passing, and thought he would give them “a cry,” and ended by dragging Burnbrae off to the most distant field on the farm to decide when a patch of oats he had bought in the roup would be ready for the scythe. He then settled on a dyke, and for two hours fought the great war over again from beginning to end, with a keen dramatic instinct and an amazing flow of caustic commentary.

“A 'll no deny,” when Burnbrae compelled him to return for tea, “that a'm disappointed in the fouk sin laist Friday. They micht hae let their bargains gae an' sent ye up the rough o' the stockin'.

“Noo gin a' hed been the like o' Drumsheugh,” and Jamie again came to a halt, “a' wud hae scorned tae keep onything ye needed, but they 're grippy, there's nae doot o' that, in Drumtochty; a've thocht mony a time... is yon a cairt comin' up the road?

“If it's no a load o' implements and cairt-harness! It's terribly like Saunders frae Drumsheugh, but there's nae use cryin', for he 'ill no lat on he hears.

“Sall,” continued Jamie, as they struck the track, “there's been mair than ae cairt up here; an' a' didna see ye hed cattle in the gairden field as we passed.”

“Naither a' hev; there's no aleevin' beast on the place forbye puir Brownie. A' canna mak it oot!” and Burnbrae quickened his steps.

Donald Menzies's son passed with a bridle, as if he had left a horse “behind him, and Gormack met them on horseback, as if he had come with a cart, but, beyond the weather, they had nothing to say. Whinnie was wrestling with two stirks to get them into a field--with the result that one went up the road and another down, after the manner of their kind--and had no leisure for conversation. A large roller had stuck in the last gate, and young Netherton was not in a mood to answer questions.

“Ask Drumsheugh,” was all that could be got out of him as he backed his horse first one way and then the other.

“Ma opeenion,” said Jamie solemnly, “is that Drumtochty's gaen geit (crazy). Did ye ever see the like o' that?”

The farmhouse and other buildings made a square, and Burnbrae stood beyond speech or motion at the sight which met his eyes. The “ports” of the cart-shed, that had been a yawning void when he left, were filled once more with two carts in each--his own well-mended carts--the one behind, with the trams on the ground and the one before, suspended from the roof by the chain saddle; and if Piggie Walker was not unharnessing a pony from the old dogcart in the turnip-shed. 'The greys that made the second pair--but they were really white--and which he had grudged selling far more than the young horses, came up from the water and went sedately into the stable. Through the door he could see that Jean's byre was nearly full, and outside two calves had settled down to supper upon a guano bag with much relish. Saunders, Baxter and Tammas Mitchell were shouldering the fanners into the corn room, while the servant lassies, quite off their heads with excitement, were carrying in the dairy dishes that some cart had left. The courtyard was strewn with implements, and in the centre stood Drumsheugh full of power and forcible speech, a sight never to be forgotten.

“Hurry up wi' the fanners, lads, and yoke on the ploos, pit the harrows in the cairt-shed, an' hang thae saidles in the stable; ye micht gie the horses a feed, and see the coos hae a bite o' grass.

“Cairry that harness into the hoose, Piggie, the wife keeps it hersel; man, a' forgot tae gie ye a word; hoo did ye hear? onywy, it wes neeburly tae gie back the auld dogcairt.

“Jamie Soutar hes wiled the gude man oot o' the road, but he 'ill sune be back, an' we maun hae the place snod afore he comes.”

Then he saw Burnbrae and Jamie, and raged furiously.

“It's maist aggravatin' that some fouk 'ill come when they 're no wantit, an' stan' glowerin' till ye wud think they hed never seen a fairm toon redd (cleaned) up in their life.

“The fac is,” and Drumsheugh relapsed into private life, “the neeburs thocht ye micht be the better of some o' yir plenishin' back tae begin wi', an' the maist o' what's in the Glen 'ill be here afore nicht.

“Dinna say a word aboot it; it wud hae been a disgrace tae see ye buyin' in the Muirtown market, an' yir goods on oor fairms. We're hard, but we 're no sae mean as that. Whup that reapin' machine oot o' the road, Tammas,” shouted Drumsheugh, creating a skilful diversion for Burnbrae's benefit.

Two cows came round the corner, and made for their byre with the air of persons glad to find themselves in familiar surroundings after discomposing adventures in foreign parts. Hawkie stepped aside at the door to allow Queenie to enter first, for there is a strict order of precedence among cows, and however it might have been disregarded in strange byres, good manners must be observed at home.

Three minutes later Hillocks sauntered in with explanations.

“They kent their ain road as sune as we got sicht o' the hooses; it 's a fine hairst day, Drumsheugh; is the byre fillin'?”

“It's full, man; the laist coo 's in, and Burnbrae 's aff tae tell the gude wife; naebody hes failed, Hillocks, an' a'm expectin' the ministers up every minute.”

Jean was utterly dazed, and Burnbrae knew not what to do with her. Between the going and the coming her strength had given, and she could only sit motionless except when she wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“If Doctor Davidson isna comin' up the near road wi' Maister Cunningham. Drumsheugh's telt them, a'll wager, and they're comin' tae wush us weel.

“It's a terrible peety, Jean, ye 're no able tae see them,” continued Burnbrae, with great cunning; “they wud nearly need tae get their tea comin' sae far, an' Drumsheugh tae, for he's hed an aifternune.

“But it canna be helpit noo, an' of coorse the'ill be naethin' for them; a 'll juist say ye 're no yersel the day, an' tell the lassies tae bring in a jug o' milk,” and Burnbrae made for the door.

“Wud ye daur tae send onybody awa frae oor hoose this day withoot brakin' bread, tae say naethin'o' the ministers?” and Jean was already hunting for her best dress. “Gae doon this meenut an' show them ower the place, an', John, man, keep them awa for an 'oor.”

When the party returned from their round all things were ready, and Jean received the company in her black silk and a cap that called forth the warm congratulations of the doctor.

It was a meal to be remembered, and remained a date for calculation while the old people lived. Twenty times at least did Jean apologise for its imperfection--the scones which wanted more firing and the butter that was soft through heat--and as many times did the doctor declare with solemnity that he never expected to taste the like again till he returned to Burnbrae. Seven times exactly did Jean go out to supplement the table with forgotten dainties, and once she was so long away that Drumsheugh accused her of visiting the byre.

“No likely wi' this goon on. It's plain ye ken little o' women fouk, Drumsheugh.”

“Ye juist keekit in, a'm thinking tae see that the hale aucht were in their sta's, eh, gude wife?” and when Jean's face pled guilty, Burnbrae laughed joyfully, and declared that “the elder wes comin' on,” and that “they micht see a mistress in Drumsheugh yet.”

They all did their part, but it was agreed that the doctor excelled beyond competition. He told his best stories in a way that amazed even his faithful elder, while Drumsheugh and Burnbrae watched for the coming point to honour it with vociferous applause, and again would deploy in front to draw forth another favourite. No one could have felt happy if Mr. Cunningham had taken to anecdotage, but his honest effort to follow the lead and be in at the death with each story was delightful. Once also he threw in a quotation from the Georgies, which the doctor declared the cleverest thing he had ever heard, and the abashed man became the object of silent admiration for sixty seconds. One of the lassies, specially dressed for the occasion, was continually bringing in hot water and reserve tea-pots, till the doctor accused Drumsheugh of seven cups, and threatened him with the session for immoderate drinking; and Drumsheugh hinted that the doctor was only one short himself. Simple fooling of country folk, that would sound very poor beside the wit of the city, but who shall estimate the love in Burnbrae's homely room that evening?

When at last the doctor rose to go, in spite of Jean's last remonstrance that he had eaten nothing, Burnbrae said he would like the ministers to take the reading that night, and then they all went into the kitchen, which had been made ready. A long table stood in the centre, and at one end lay the old family Bible; round the table gathered Burnbrae's sons and the serving lads and women. Doctor Davidson motioned to the Free Church minister to take his place at the head.

“This is your family, and your elder's house.” But Cunningham spoke out instantly with a clear voice:

“Doctor Davidson, there is neither Established nor Free Church here this night; we are all one in faith and love, and you were ordained before I was born.”

“I thank you, sir, for this honour,” said the doctor, and Drumsheugh said that he had never seen him look so pleased.

He was already selecting the psalm, when Burnbrae asked leave to say a word, and there was such a stillness that the ticking of the clock in the lobby was heard over the kitchen.

“It isna needfu' for me tae tell ye, freends, that my mind is wi' the Free Kirk in her contention, and a' houp for grace tae obey ma licht as lang as a' live.

“Nae man's conscience, hooever, is a law tae his neebur, but every man maun follow the guidance o' the Speerit; an' gin a' hev said a hasty or bitter word against the Auld Kirk, or called her ony unworthy name thae past years, a' want tae say that nane regrets it mair than a' dae masel, and it becomes me, this nicht, tae ask yir pardon.”

“You never did anything of the kind, Burnbrae,” said the doctor huskily. “I wish to God we were all as good men,” and the Free Kirk elder and the Moderate minister clasped hands across the open Bible. Then the doctor cleared his throat with great majesty, and gave out the Hundred-and-thirty-third Psalm:

“Behold how good a thing it is,
And how becoming well,
Together, such as brethren are
In unity to dwell.”

And the sweet sound of Eastgate floated out on the peaceful air of the Glen, where the harvest moon was shining upon fields of gold.

A MANIFEST JUDGMENT

When the practice of Drumtochty was advertised, and the duties defined by geography--the emoluments being treated with marked reserve--the medical profession did not contend in a body for the post, and it was more than a year before William Maclure had a successor. During the interregnum temporary physicians of varied experience and erratic character took charge of our health for short periods, and the Glen had experiences which are still fondly cherished, and afforded Elspeth Macfadyen the raw material for some of her most finished products. One of these worthies was a young gentleman twenty-four years of age and of Irish descent, whose thirst for fees and hatred of anything beyond the minimum of labour bordered on genius. It was he who declined to enter Lizzie Taylor's house, although sent for in the most interesting circumstances, and discoursed outside the door with a volubility that seemed almost Satanic, till he had received an earnest of ten shillings in fourteen coins of the realm. Perhaps the Glen was more indignant when Dr. O'Bralligan declined to rise one night and go to Glen Urtach, “not even if his sainted grandmother came to ask him, riding on-the back of the Angel Gabriel.”

“It 'ill no be Gabriel 'at 'ill tak chairge o' him,” said Janies Soutar succinctly. And the feeling in the kirkyard was so decided that O'Bralligan left within a week, explaining to Peter Bruce at the Junction that the people of Drumtochty were the “most oudacious and on-reasonable set o' blackguards” he had ever seen.

His successor had enjoyed the remarkable privilege of ministering in a fleeting capacity to the health of sixty-three parishes during a professional practice of under twenty years, and retained through all vicissitudes a pronounccd Glasgow accent, and an unquenchable thirst for distilled liquors. Dr. Murchieson was not greedy about fees, and had acquired considerable skill in his eventful life, so the Glen endured him for three months, but used him with precautions.

“Gin ye catch him gaein' east,” Hillocks summed up, “he's as quiet a man as ye wud wish, and skilly tae, but comin' wast he's clean redeeklus; last nicht,” added Hillocks, “he wes cairyin' his hat on the pint o' his stick an' singin' 'Scots wha hae.'”

An unaccountable tendency in certain states of mind to prescribe calomel tried the patience of the Glen, and Gormack conceived a personal prejudice against Murchieson because he had ordered him to be blistered with croton oil till he returned next day, when Gormack had a “titch” of bronchitis; but his cup ran over the night he sounded a pillow instead of Maggie Martin's lungs, and gave her mother no hope.

“Congested frae top tae bottom; nae whasle (rales) at a' the day; naethin' can be dune; a fine lassie,” and he departed, after a brief nap, full of music.

Hillocks drove him to the station, and he seemed to bear no grudge.

“That maks saxty-fower--a 've forgotten the names, but a' keep the coont.”

His farewell was divided between a generous appreciation of Drumtochty and an unfeigned regret that Kildrummie had no refreshment-room.

“Ilka trade hes some ne'er-dae-weels, an' the doctors hae fewer than maist. Ye canna expect onything else frae thae orra craturs,” said Drumsheugh next Sabbath, “an' we 're better withoot them. It passes me hoo yon body stude it, for he wes aye tastin'.”

“He didna stand it,” broke in Hillocks with eagerness; “div ye ken hoo mony whups he 's hed? 'A've been saxty-fower times,' he says to me at Kildrummie; a' doot he wes exaggerating though.”

“Been what, Hillocks?” inquired Jamie with keen interest.

“Ye ken what a'm ettlin' aifter fine, Jamie, an' it's no a chancy word tae mention.”

“Wes't _locum tenens?_”

“That,” said Hillocks, “is the word, if ye maun hae it; a' wunner the body's no feared; it's an awfu' business,” and Hillocks dropped into morals, “when a man canna manage his drink.”

Jamie declared that he had never seen the kirkyard so overcome, and ever afterwards Hillocks's name suggested sudden and captivating strokes of humour, so that men's faces lit up at the sight of him.

It was in these circumstances that the Glen fell back on Kirsty Stewart for medical aid, with the Kildrummie doctor as a last resort, and Kirsty covered her name with glory for a generation. She had always had some reputation as a practitioner of ability and experience--being learned in herbs, and the last of her folk; but her admirers were themselves astonished at the insight she showed in the mysterious illness of Peter Macintosh, and her very detractors could only insinuate that her credit ended with diagnosis. His case had a certain distinction from the first day he complained, and we remembered afterwards that it was never described as a “whup.” During the first week even there was a vague impression in the Glen, conveyed by an accent, that Peter was the subject of a dispensation, and the kirk-yard was full of chastened curiosity.

“What's this that 's wrang wi' Peter Macintosh, Whinnie?” broke out Drumsheugh, with a certain magisterial authority. “Ye live near him, and sud hae the richts o't. As for the fouk doon bye, ye can get naethin' oot o' them; the smith juist shook his head twa nichts syne, as if he wes at a beerial.”

“Ye needna speir at me, Drumsheugh,” responded Whinnie, with solemnity, “for a' ken nae mair than ye dae yersel, though oor fields mairch and we 've aye been neeburly.”

“Losh keep 's, ye surely can tell us whar it 's catchit Peter; is 't in his head or his heels? is he gaein' aboot or hes he ta'en tae his bed? did ye no see him?” said Drumsheugh severely.

“Ou aye, a' saw him, gin that be onything; but ye canna get muckle oot o' Peter at the best, and he 's clean past speakin' noo.

“He wes sittin' in his chair afore the door; an' a' he said wes, 'This is an awfu' business, Whinnie,' and he wud dance in his seat for maybe twa meenuts. 'What 's ailin' ye, Peter?' a' askit. 'A red-het ploo iron on ma back,' says he, an' it gied me a grue tae hear him.”

“Mercy on 's, neeburs,” interrupted Hillocks, “this is no cannie.”

“It's no his briest,” pursued Whinnie, “for he hesna got a hoast; an' it's no a stroke, whatever it be, for he 's aye on the motion; an' it 's no his inside; but in or oot, Peter 's a waesome sicht,” and Whinnie's manner greatly impressed the fathers.

Leezbeth went up on Monday, as a commissioner from Drumsheugh, and that masterful woman made no doubt that she would unravel the mystery; but she was distinctly awed by Mrs. McIntosh s tone, which was a fine blend of anxiety and importance.

“Hoo are ye, Leezbeth, an' hoo's Drumsheugh? There's threatenin' tae be a scoorie, but it 'ill maybe haud up till the aifternoon. Wull ye come in tae the kitchen the day? The gude man's no hansel' the noo, and he's sittin' ben the hoose.”

“That's what a' cam' aboot,” said Leezbeth, rebelling against the solemnity of the atmosphere; “we heard doon bye that he wes sober (ill), an' the maister's aff tae Dunleith, and cudna get up tae speir for him. What's the natur' o' the tribble? Wes t sudden?”

Janet knew she was mistress of the situation for once, and had no fear that Leezbeth could bring her down from her high places in this rough fashion.

“It's rael freendly o' ye, an' a'm muckle ob-leeged; the fouk are awfu' ta'en up aboot Peter, an' there's juist ae word on a'body's mooth. A' ken what's comin' as sune as a' see a neebur crossin' the fields.

“Ye may be sure, Leezbeth, a' wud tell ye, gin a' kent masel,” and Janet wagged her head; “it's nae pleesure tae me that there sud be naethin' noo at kirk or market but Peter's tribble, and tae hae half the Glen deavin' me wi' questions.

“Wumman, a' tell ye, as sure as a'm stan-nin' here, a' wud raither hae Peter gaein' aboot at his wark instead o' a' this tiravee (commotion), and him girnin' frae mornin' tae nicht in his chair. Div ye hear him ragin' at Mary?”

“Gae awa oot o' there,” and Peter was evidently rejecting some office of attention; “gin ye come near me a 'll tak ma stick tae yir shoothers, ye little trimmie; ma word, a'm het eneuch withoot a plaid.”

“This is a terrible hoose the noo,” and Janet struggled vainly with a natural pride; “there's been naethin' like this wi' oor forbears sae far back as a' can mind, an' a' doot gin there's been the marra o't in the Glen.”

“Hoo's he affeckit?” for Leezbeth was much exasperated by Janet's airs, a woman who, in ordinary circumstances, could not have withstood her for an instant. “Ye can surely say that muckle. It 's no his chest; that 's in fine fettle; it 'ill be aither his legs or his head; maist likely his head frae the wy he's carryin' on.”

“Leezbeth, dinna mak licht o' sic a veesita-tion,” said Janet, with all the dignity of affliction; “ye dinna ken when it micht draw nearer hame. It wes hangin' ower Peter for months, but it cam oot sudden in the end, a' in a piece ae morning. Na, the tribble 'ill tak a rin up an' doon his legs, but it disna settle there, an' a' canna deny that he 's fractious at a time, but he never rammils (wanders); whatever it be, the tribble keeps tae its ain place.”

“Whar is that and what like is't?” for Leezbeth was now reduced to entreaty; “there maun be something tae see, an', Janet wum-man, a've hed deiths amang ma fouk, tae sae naethin' o' bringin' up Drumsheugh's calves for thirty year.”

“A' ken ye're skilly, Leezbeth,” said Janet, much mollified by Leezbeth's unwonted humility, “an' a'd be gled o' yir advice. Ye daurna ask Peter for a sicht, but a 'll gie ye an idea o't. It's juist for a' the warld,” and Leezbeth held her breath, “like a sklatch o' eukiness (itchiness) half roond his waist, naither mair nor less.”

“Is that a', Janet?” and Leezbeth began to take revenge for her humiliation; “ye needna hae made sic an ado aboot. Div ye no ken what's the maitter wi' yir man? gin ye hed ony gumption (sense) he micht hae been weel lang syne.

“Wumman, it 's a heat in the banes 'at he's gotten laist hairst, and the spring's drawin' it oot. Dinna send it in for ony sake, eke ye 'ill hae yir man in the kirkyaird.

“Ma advice,” continued Leezbeth, now rioting in triumph, “t'wud be tae rub him weel wi whisky; ye canna gang wrang wi' speerits, oot or in; an' dinna lat him sleep; if he took tae dronyin' (dozing) ye micht never get him waukened.” And so Drumsheugh's housekeeper departed, having dashed Janet at a stroke.

When Kirsty arrived in the afternoon to offer her services, Janet had no heart to enter into the case.

“Drumsheugh's Leezbeth gied us a cry afore dinner and settled the maitter; gin she lays doon the law there 's naebody need conter her; ye wud think she 'd been at the creation tae hear her speak; ye 've hed a lang traivel, Kirsty, an' ye 'ill be ready for yir tea.”

“Ou ay,” replied Janet bitterly, “she gied it a name; it's naething but a bit heat--a bairn's rash, a'm jidgin', though a'never saw ane like it a' ma days; but Leezbeth kens better, wi' a' her experience, an' of coorse it's a sateesfaction tae ken that the Glen needna fash (trouble) themselves aboot Peter.”

“Leezbeth wesna blate,” Kirsty burst out, unable to contain herself at the thought of this intrusion into her recognised sphere, “an' it 's a mercy we hae the like o' her in the Glen noo that Doctor Maclure is deid an' gane. Did ye say her experience?” and Kirsty began to warm to the occasion; “a' wunner whether it's wi' beasts or fouk? Gin it be wi' Drumsheugh's young cattle, a' hae naethin' tae say; but gin it be Christians, a' wud juist ask ae question--hoo mony o' her fouk hes she beeried?”

“Naethin' tae speak o' aside you, Kirsty,” said Janet, in propitiation; “a'body kens what preevileges ye 've hed.”

“Ae brither an' twa half sisters, that 's a',” continued Kirsty, “for a' hed it frae her own lips; it's no worth mentionin'; gin a' hed seen nae mair tribble than that a' wud be ashamed tae show ma face in a sick hoose; lat's hear aboot yir man, Janet,” and Kirsty settled down to details.

“Did ye say half roond, Janet?” and she leaned forward with concern on every feature.

“That 's hoo it is; the ither side is as white as a bairn's skin; an' though he be ma man, a 'll say this for him, that he's aye hed clean blude an' nae marks; but what are ye glowerin' at? hae ye ony licht? speak, wumman.”

“This is a mair serious business, Janet, than onybody suspectit,” and Kirsty sighed heavily.

“Preserve's, Kirsty, what div ye think is the matter wi' Peter? tell's the warst at aince,” for Kirsty's face suggested an apocalypse of woe.

“A heat,” she said, still lingering over Leez-beth's shallow, amateur suggestion, “gotten at the hairst... rub it wi' whisky... ay, ay, it 's plain whar she gets her skill, 'at disna ken the differ atween the tribble o' a man an' a beast.

“Isn't maist michty,” and now Kirsty grew indignant, “'at a wumman o' Leezbeth's age cudna tell an eruption frae a jidgment?”

“Kirsty Stewart, hoo div ye ken that?” cried Janet, much lifted; “a' wes jalousin' that it passed ordinary, but what gars ye think o' jidgment?”

“A'm no the wumman tae meddle wi' sic a word lichtly. Na, na, a' micht hae gaed awa' an' said naethin' gin Leezbeth hedna been sae ready wi' her heats.

“A'm no wantin' tae frichten ye, Janet,” and Kirsty's face assumed an awful significance, “an' a'm no wantin' tae flatter ye, but ye may lippen tae't Peter's hed a special dispensation. Did ye say aboot twa hands'-breadths?”

As Janet could only nod, Kirsty continued: “He's been gruppit by a muckle hand, an' it's left the sign. Leezbeth wes maybe no sae far wrang aboot the heat, but it came frae the oot-side, a'm dootin'.”

“Div ye mean,” and Janet's voice had sunk to a whisper, “is't auld--”

“Dinna say the word, wumman; he micht be hearin', and there's nae use temptin' him. It's juist a warnin', ye see, an' it's a mercy he gied nae farther. Hed he ta'en baith hands, it micht hae been the end o' yir man.”

“This is no lichtsome,” and Janet began to wail, although not quite insensible to the distinction Peter had achieved; “a' kent frae the beginnin' this wesna a common tribble, an' we 've behadden tae ye for settlin' the maitter. Whatever lies Peter dune tae bringisic a jidgment on himsel? He 's a cautious man as ye 'ill get in the Glen, an' pays his rent tae the day; he may taste at a time, but he never fechts; it beats me tae pit ma hand on the meanin' o't.”

“There wes some clash (gossip) aboot him contradickin' the minister,” said Kirsty, looking into the remote distance.

“Div ye mean the colie-shangie (disturbance) ower the new stove, when Peter and the doctor hed sic a cast oot? Ye 're an awfu' wumman,” and Janet regarded Kirsty with admiration; “a' never wud hae thocht o' conneckin' the twa things. But a' daurna say ye 've no richt, for a' hed ma ain fears aboot the wy Peter wes cairryin' on.

“'A 'll no gie up ma pew whar oor fouk hae sat Gude kens hoo lang, for the doctor or ony ither man; they can pit the stove on the ither side, an' gin it disna draw there, the doctor can set it up in the kirkyaird.' Thae were his verra words, Kirsty, an' a' tell 't him, they wud dae him nae gude.

“If a' didna beg o' him ootside that door no tae gang against the minister. 'Dinna be the first in the Glen tae anger the doctor,' a' said; but Peter's that thrawn when his birse is up that ye micht as weel speak tae a wall.

“He's made a bonnie like endin' wi' his dourness; but, Kirsty, he 's sair humbled, an' a' wudna say but he micht come roond gin he wes hannelled cautious. What wud ye advise, Kirsty?”

“The doctor's comin' hame this week, a'm hearing an' he 'ill be up tae see Peter afore Sabbath. Noo ma opinion is,” and Kirsty spoke with great deliberation, “that ye micht juist bring roond the conversation till ye titched on the stove, an' Peter cud gie the doctor tae understand that there wud be nae mair argiment aboot his seat.

“Whinnie cud get a bottle fraethe Muirtown doctor on Friday--it wud be a help--but it's no medeecine, no, nor whisky,' 'at 'ill dae the wark. Gin ye settle with the minister, yir man 'ill be in the kirk afore the month be oot,” and Kirsty was invested with such mystery that Janet hardly dared an allusion to Milton's third marriage.

Peter made his first appearance in the kirk-yard the very day the stove was installed, and received the congratulations of the fathers with an admirable modesty.

“A' wes feared he micht be lifted,” Hillocks remarked, after Peter had gone in to take possession of his new seat, “an' ye cudna hae wonnered gin he hed, for he's gaen through mair than most, but he held oot his hand for the box wi' as little pride as if it hed been rheumatiks.

“He's fell hearty an' cheery, but Peter's hed a shak, an' when he saw the smoke oot the stove there wes a look cam ower his face. Sall,” concluded Hillocks, with emphasis, “he 'ill no meddle with the minister again, a 'll warrant.”

“Wha wud hae thocht the doctor wes sae veecious, or are ye considerin' that there wes anither hand in't, Hillocks?” inquired Jamie Soutar, with great smoothness of speech.

“Naebody said the minister did it, Jamie, and a' never said onybody did it, but we may hae oor ain thochts, and Peter 'ill no forget this stramash (accident) as lang as he lives.”

“Na, na, a minister's an ill craw tae shoot at, Jamie,” and Hillocks went into kirk as one who had rebuked a mocking scepticism; but Jamie stood alone under the beech-tree till they had raised the psalm, and then he followed his neighbors, with a face of funereal solemnity.

DRUMSHEUGH'S LOVE STORY

DRUMSHEUGH had arrested Dr. Maclure on the high road the winter before he died, and compelled him to shelter for a while, since it was a rough December night not far from Christmas, and every one knew the doctor had begun to fail.

“Is that you, Weelum?” for the moon was not yet up, and an east wind was driving the snow in clouds; “a' wes oot seein' the sheep werena smoored in the drift, an' a'm wrastlin' hame.

“Come back tae the hoose an' rest; gin there's tae be ony mune she 'ill be oot by nine, and the wind 'ill maybe settle; ye 're baith o' ye sair forfoochen” (exhausted), and Drumsheugh seized Jess's bridle.

For eight miles the wind had been on Mac-lure's back, and he was cased in snow from the crown of the felt hat, that was bent to meet his jacket collar, down to the line of his saddle. The snow made a little bank on the edge of the saddle that was hardly kept, in check by the heat of Jess's body; it was broken into patches on his legs by the motion of riding, but clung in hard lumps to the stirrup irons. The fine drift whirling round powdered him in front, and melting under his breath, was again frozen into icicles on his beard, and had made Jess's mane still whiter. When Drumsheugh's housekeeper opened the kitchen door and the light fell on the horse and her master--a very ghostly sight--Leezabeth was only able to say, “Preserve 's a' body and soul,” which was the full form of a prayer in use on all occasions of surprise.

Three times the doctor essayed to come down, and could not for stiffness, and he would have fallen on the doorstep had it not been for Drumsheugh.

“This 'ill be a lesson tae ye, Weelum,” helping him in to the kitchen; “ye 're doonricht numbed; get aff the doctor's boots, Leezabeth, an' bring a coat for him.”

“Awa wi' ye; div ye think a'm a bairn?... A 'll be masel in a meenut... it wes the cauld... they're stiff tae pull, Leezabeth... let me dae't... weel, weel, if ye wull... but a' dinna like tae see a wumman servin' a man like this.”

He gave in after a slight show of resistance, and Leezabeth, looking up, saw her master watching Maclure wistfully, as one regards a man smitten unto death. Drumsheugh realised in one moment that this was the doctor's last winter; he had never seen him so easily managed all his life.

Leezabeth had kept house for Drumsheugh for many years, and was understood to know him in all his ways. It used to be a point of interesting debate which was the harder, but all agreed that they led the Glen in ingenious economy and unfailing detection of irresponsible generosity. The Kildrummie butcher in his irregular visits to the Glen got no support at Drumsheugh, and the new lass that favoured the ploughmen with flowing measure was superseded next milking time.

“That's yir pint, Jeems, naither mair nor less,” Leezabeth would say to the “second man.” “Mary's hand shaks when there's lads aboot,” and Drumsheugh heard the story with much appreciation in the evening.

She used to boast that there was “nae saft bit aboot the maister,” and of all things Drumsheugh was supposed to be above sentiment. But Leezabeth was amazed that evening at a curious gentleness of manner that softened his very voice as he hung round the doctor.

“Drink it aff, Weelum,” holding the glass to his lips; “it 'ill start the hert again; try an' rise, an' we 'ill gang ben the hoose noo... that's it, ye're on yir legs again... that door's aye in the road... it's a dark passage; gie's yir airm... it's awfu' hoo stiff a body gets sittin'.”

Leezabeth was ordered to bring such dainties as could be found, and she heard Drumsheugh pressing things upon the doctor with solicitude.

“It's no richt tae gang that lang withoot meat, an' the nicht's sae cauld; ye 'ill be fund on the road some mornin'. Try some o' thae black currants; they're graund for a hoast. Ye're no surely dune already.

“Draw in yir chair tae the fire, Weelum; tak this ane; it wes ma mither's, an' it's easier; ye need it aifter that ride. Are ye warm noo?”

“A'm rael comfortable an' content, Drumsheugh; it's a wee lonesome wast yonder when a man comes in weet an' tired o' a nicht; juist tae sit aside a freend, although nane o's say mickle, is a rest.”

“A' wush ye wud come aftener, Weelum,” said Drumsheugh hastily; “we 're no as young as we were, an' we micht draw thegither mair. It's no speakin' maks freends.... Hoo auld are ye noo?”

“Seeventy-three this month, an' a 'll no see anither birthday; ye 're aulder, Drum”--Maclure only was so privileged--“but ye 're a hale man an' gude for twal year yet.”

“Ye micht hae been the same yersel if ye hadna been a senseless fule an' sae thrawn (obstinate) ye wudna be guided by onybody; but if ye gang cautious ye 'ill live us a' oot yet; ye 're no like the same man noo 'at cam in tae the kitchen. Leezabeth wes fleggit at the sicht o' ye,” and Drumsheugh affected mirth.

“Wes she, though?” said Maclure, with some relish. “A've often thocht it wud tak a chairge o' gunpooder tae pit Leezabeth aff her jundy (ordinary course). Hoo lang hes she been wi' ye? A' mind her comin'; it wes aifter yir mither deed; that 's a gude while past noo.”

“Five and thirty year last Martinmas; she 's a Kildrummie wumman, but a' her fouk are dead. Leezabeth's been a faithfu' housekeeper, an' she's an able wumman; a' ve nae-thing tae say against Leezabeth.

“She 's a graund manager,” continued Drumsheugh meditatively, “an' there's no been mickle lost here since she cam; a 'll say that for her; she dis her wark accordin' tae her licht, but it's aye scrapin' wi' her, and the best o' hoosekeepers maks a cauld hame.

“Weelum--” and then he stopped, and roused the fire into a blaze.

“Ay, ay,” said Maclure, and he looked kindly at his friend, whose face was averted.

“Wes ye gaein' tae say onything?” and Maclure waited, for a great confidence was rare in Drumtochty.

“There wes something happened in ma life lang syne nae man kens, an' a' want tae tell ye, but no the nicht, for ye 're tired an' cast doon. Ye'ill come in sune again, Weelum.”

“The mornin's nicht, gin it be possible,” and then both men were silent for a space.

The wind came in gusts, roaring in the chimney, and dying away with a long moan across the fields, while the snow-drift beat against the window. Drumsheugh's dog, worn out with following his master through the drifts, lay stretched before the fire sound asleep, but moved an ear at the rattling of a door upstairs, or a sudden spark from the grate.

Drumsheugh gazed long into the red caverns and saw former things, till at last he smiled and spake.

“Hoo langis't since ye guddled for troot, Weelum?”

“Saxty year or sae; div ye mind yon hole in the Sheuchie burn, whar it comes doon frae the muir? They used to lie and feed in the rin o' the water.

“A' wes passin' that wy lairst hairst, an' a' took a thocht and gied ower tae the bank. The oak looks juist the same, an' a' keekit through, an' if there wesna a troot ablow the big stane. If a' hedna been sae stiff a' wud hae gien doon and tried ma luck again.”

“A' ken the hole fine, Weelum,” burst out Drumsheugh; “div ye mind where a' catchit yon twa-punder in the dry simmer? it wes the biggest ever taen oot o' the Sheuchie; a' telt ye a' next day at schule.”

“Ye did that, an' ye blew aboot that troot for the haie winter, but nane o' us ever saw't, an' it wes juist a bare half pund tae begin wi'; it 's been growin', a' doot; it 'ill be five afore ye 're dune wi't, Drum.”

“Nane o' yir impidence, Weelum. A' weighed it in Luckie Simpson's shop as a' gied hame, an' it made twa pund as sure as a'm sitting here; but there micht be a wecht left in the scale wi't.”

“Fishers are the biggest leears a' ever cam across, and ye've dune yir best the nicht, Drum; but eh, man, guddlin' wes a graund ploy,” and the doctor got excited.

“A' think a'm at it aince mair, wi' ma sleeves up tae the oxters, lying on ma face, wi' naethin' but the een ower the edge o' the stane, an' slippin' ma hands intae the caller water, an' the rush o' the troot, and grippin' the soople slidderin' body o't an' throwin't ower yir head, wi' the red spots glistening on its whlfe belly; it wes michty.”

“Ay, Weelum, an' even missin't wes worth while; tae feel it shoot atween yir hands an' see it dash doon the burn, maltin' a white track in the shallow water, an' ower a bit fall and oot o' sicht again in anither hole.”

They rested for a minute to revel in the past, and in the fire the two boys saw water running over gravel, and deep, cool holes beneath overhanging rocks, and little waterfalls, and birch boughs dipping into the pools, and speckled trout gleaming on the grass.

Maclure's face kindled into mirth, and he turned in his chair.

“Ye 're sayin' naethin' o' the day when the burn wes settlin' aifter a spate, and ye cam tae me an' Sandy Baxter an' Netherton's brither Squinty, an' temptit us tae play the truant, threepin' ye hed seen the troot juist swarmin' in the holes.”

“A' tried John Baxter tae,” interrupted Drumsheugh, anxious for accuracy since they had begun the story, “though he didna come. But he wudna tell on's for a' that. Hillocks lat it oot at the sight o' the tawse. 'They 're up the Sheuchie aifter the troot,' he roared, an' the verra lassies cried 'clype' (tell tale) at him gaein' hame.”

“What a day it wes, Drum; a' can see Sandie's heels in the air when he coupit intae the black hole abune Gormack, an' you pullin' him oot by the seat o' his breeks, an' his Latin Reader, 'at hed fa'en oot o' his pocket, sailin' doon the water, an' 'Squinty' aifter it, scram-mellin' ower the stanes;” and the doctor laughed aloud.

“Ye 've forgot hoo ye sent me in tae beg for a piece frae the gude wife at Gormack, an' she saw the lave o' ye coorin' ahint the dyke, an' gied us a flytin' for playin' truant.”

“Fient a bit o't,” and Maclure took up the running again; “an' then she got a sicht o' Sandie like a drooned rat, and made him come in tae dry himsel, and gied us pork an' oat cake. My plate hed a burn on it like the Sheuchie--a' cud draw the pattern on a sheet o' paper till this day--that wes Gormack's mither's; it's no sae lang since she deed; a' wes wi' her the laist nicht.”

“An' the tawse next day frae the auld Dominie, him 'at wes afore Domsie; he hed a fine swing. A' think a' feel the nip still,” and Drumsheugh shuffled in his chair; “an' then we got anither lickin' frae oor faithers; but, man,” slapping his knee, “it wes worth it a'; we 've never hed as gude a day again.”

“It s juist like yesterday, Drum, but it cam tae an end; and div ye mind hoo we were feared tae gae hame, and didna start till the sun wes weel doon ahint Ben Urtach?

“Four o's,” resumed Maclure; “an' Sandie got a Russian bayonet through his breist fech-tin' ae snawy nicht in the trenches, an' puir Squinty deed oot in Ameriky wearyin' for the Glen an' wishin' he cud be buried in Drumtochty kirkyaird. Fine laddies baith, an' that's twa o' the fower truants that hae gane hame.

“You an' me, Drum, hed the farthest road tae traivel that nicht, an' we 're the laist again; the sun's settin' for us tae; we 've hed a gude lang day, and ye 'ill hae a whilie aifter me, but we maun follow the ither twa.”

“Ye're richt, Weelum, aboot the end o't, whichever gangs first,” said Drumsheugh.

Another silence fell on the two men, and both looked steadfastly into the fire, till the dog rose and laid his head on Drumsheugh's hand. He was also getting old, and now had no other desire than to be with his master.

Drumsheugh moved his chair into the shadow, and sighed.

“It's no the same though, Weelum, it's no the same ava.... We did what we sudna, an' wes feared tae meet oor faithers, nae doot, but we kent it wud be waur oot on the cauld hill, an' there wes a house tae shelter 's at ony rate.”

Maclure would not help, and Drumsheugh went on again as if every word were drawn from him in agony.

“We dinna ken onything aboot...”--and he hesitated--“aboot... the ither side. A 've thocht o't often in the gloamin' o' a simmer nicht, or sittin' here alane by the fire in winter time; a man may seem naething but an auld miserly fairmer, an' yet he may hae his ain thochts.

“When a' wes a laddie, the doctor's father wes in the poopit, an' Dominie Cameron wes in the schule, an' yir father rode up an' doon the Glen, an' they 're a' gane. A' can see at a time in kirk the face that used tae be at the end of ilka seat, an' the bairns in the middle, an' the gude wife at the top: there's no ane a' canna bring up when the doctor's at the sermon.