Chapter V: Part 5

“Ye wud never misconduct yirsel like that, but some o' yir freends micht, an' a' wud like tae send them a bit message.... Lord's sake, dinna yowl like that, or the neeburs 'ill think a'm hurtin' ye.”

Two hours later the tramp was found behind a hedge anointing his sores with butter, and using language which Posty, as a religious man, would have heard with profound regret.

When this incident came to Doctor Davidson's ears, he took a strong view, and spoke with such frankness and with such a wealth of family illustration, that Posty was much edified and grew eloquent.

“Say awa, doctor, for it's a' true, an' ye 're daein' yir duty as a minister faithfu' an' weel. A'm greatly obleeged tae ye, an' a 'll no forget yir warnin'. Na, na, it 'ill sink.

“Ye'ill no be angry, though, or think me liteegious gin a' pint oot a difference atween me an' ma brither that ye was neeburin' wi' me in the maitter o' tastin'.

“A 'ill no deny that a' tak ma mornin', and maybe a forenoon, wi' a drap down at Pitscoourie after ma dinner, and juist a moothfu' at Luckie Macpherson's comin' thro' Netheraird, and a body needs something afore he gaes tae bed, but that's ma ordinar' leemit.

“Noo, Jock is juist in an' oot drammin' frae mornin' tae nicht, baith in Drumtochty an' Muirtown, and that's bad for the constitution, tae sae naethin' o' morals.

“Forbye that, doctor, if Jock crosses the line, he gets veecious ower politics or the catechism, an' he 'll fecht like a gude ane; but gin a'm juist a wee overcom'--a've never been intoxicat' like thae puir, regairdless, toon waufies--a' sit doon for half-an'-oor hummilled an' reflect on the dispensations o' Providence.”

Posty had, in fact, three moods: the positive, when he was a man of few words; the comparative, when he was cheerful and gave himself to the discussion of doctrine; and the superlative, when he had been tasting freely and retired for meditation.

As the years passed, and Posty established himself in all hearts, the philanthropy of the Glen came to a focus on his redemption, to Posty's inward delight, and with results still fondly remembered.

Cunningham, the Free Church scholar and shyest of men, gave his mind to Posty in the intervals of editing Sophocles, and after planning the campaign for four months, allured that worthy into his study, and began operations with much tact.

“Sit down, Posty, sit down, I'm very glad to see you, and... I wanted to thank you for your attention... every one in the Glen must be satisfied with... with your sense of official duty.”

“Thank ye, sir,” said Posty, in his dryest voice, anticipating exactly what Cunningham was after, and fixing that unhappy man with a stony stare that brought the perspiration to his forehead.

“There is one thing, however, that I wanted to say to you, and, Posty, you will understand that it is a... little difficult to... in fact to mention,” and Cunningham fumbled with some Greek proofs.

“What 's yir wull, sir?” inquired Posty, keeping Cunningham under his relentless eye.

“Well, it 's simply,” and then Cunningham detected a new flavour in the atmosphere, and concluded that Posty had been given into his hands, “that... there 's a very strong smell of spirits in the room.”

“A' noticed that masel', sir, the meenut a' cam in, but a' didna like to say onything aboot it,” and Posty regarded Cunningham with an expression of sympathetic toleration.

“You don't mean to say,” and Cunningham was much agitated, “that you think...”

“Dinna pit yirsel' aboot, sir,” said Posty, in a consoling voice, “or suppose a' wud say a word ootside this room. Na, na, there 's times a 'm the better o' a gless masel', an' it's no possible ye cud trachle through the Greek with-oot a bit tonic; but ye 're safe wi' me,” said Posty, departing at the right moment, and he kept his word. But Cunningham was so scandalised that he let out the conversation, and the Glen was happy for a month over it, for they loved both men, each in his own way.

When Jock MacKittrick died suddenly Cunningham expressed his sympathy with Posty, and produced an unexpected impression on that self-contained man.

“It was only last evening that I saw you and your brother part in the village; it must be a terrible blow to you.”

“Ye saw that?” broke in Posty; “then ye 're the only man in the Glen that kens what a sore heart a'm cairryin' the day. Juist ablow the public hoose, and he gaed up and a' gaed hame; it's a fact.

“The fouk are sayin' the day as a' cam alang the Glen, 'Ye 'ill miss Jock, Posty, he slippit aff afore his time.' An' a juist gie them an, 'Ou, aye, it maks a difference,' but they dinna ken ma secret; hooever did ye licht on it?

“There's nae use denyin' 't that he said tae me, 'Ye'ill tak yir evenin', Posty,' for Jock aye ca'd me that--he was prood o't bein' in the faimily--an' gin ye ask me what cam ower me that a' sud hae refused him a' canna tell.

“'Na, na, Jock,' a' said, 'a 've hed eneuch the day, an' a'm gaein' hame;' he lookit at me, but a' wes dour, an' noo it 's ower late; a'll never taste wi' Jock again.” And Posty's iron manner failed, and for once in his life he was profoundly affected.

The last philanthropist who tried his hand on Posty before he died was “the Colonel” as we called him--that fine hearty old warrior who stayed with the Carnegies at the Lodge, and had come to grief over Jamie Soutar at the evangelistic meeting. The Colonel was certain that he could manage Posty, for he was great at what he called “button-holing,” and so he had his second disaster, understanding neither Drumtochty nor Posty. Being full of the simplest guile he joined Posty on the road and spun the most delightful Indian yarns, which were all intended to show what splendid fellows his soldiers were, and how they ruined themselves with drink. Posty gave most patient attention and only, broke silence twice.

“Drinkin'--if ye are meanin' intoxication--is waur than a failin', it 's a sin an' no a licht ane. Ye ken whar the drunkards gang tae in the end, but dinna let me interrupt ye.”

Later he inquired anxiously where the Colonel's regiment had been recruited, and was much relieved by the answer.

“A' wes thinkin' they cudna be oor lads that lat the drink get the upper hand; they sud be able tae tak their drappie cannily an' no mak fuies o' themselves, but a 've heard that a gless or twa o' speerits 'ill turn their heads in the sooth.”

When the Colonel, considerably damped by these preliminaries, came to close grips, Posty took a stand.

“'Pledge' did ye say, Colonel; na, na, a' dauma hae onything tae dae wi' sic devices, they 're naething else than vows, an' vows are aboleeshed in this dispensation. The Catholics keep them up a'm informed, but a'm a Protestant, an' ma conscience wudna alloo me tae sign.

“But a'm terribly pleased wi' yir stories, sir, an' they gar the time pass fine, an' ye maunna be offended. Gin ye cud meet me the morn at the boonds o' the pairish, a'm willin' tae argie the maitter o' vows up the Glen juist tae shairp-en oor minds.

“As for the bit ribbon,” and Posty held it as if it carried infection, “gin ye hed belanged tae Drumtochty ye wud hae kent nae man cud wear sic a thing. Oor fouk hae an' awfu' sense o' humour; it 's sae deep they canna lauch, but they wud juist look at the man wi' a ribbon on, an' as sure's deith they wudna be weel for the rest o' the day.

“Besides, Colonel, a 'm suspeckin' that there's juist ae preceedent for the ribbon in the Bible, that wes the Pharisees, when they made broad their phylacteries, and a' ne 'er likit thae gentry.”

“Sall gin ilka man began tae pit his virtues on his coat, an' did it honest, it wud be a show at kirk and market. Milton wud hae naethin' but yir ribbon, an' Burnbrae, wha's the best man in the Glen, wudna hae room on his Sabbath coat for his decorations,” and Posty chuckled inwardly to the horror of the Colonel.

Three days afterwards the great tragedy happened, and no one needed again to trouble himself about Posty. It was summer time, with thunder in the air, and heavy black clouds above Glen Urtach. June was the month in which Mrs. Macfadyen scoured her blankets, and as her burn was nearly dry, she transferred her apparatus to the bank of the Tochty, where a pool below the mill gave her a sure supply of water. Elspeth lit a fire beneath the birches on the bank, and boiled the water. She plunged the blankets into a huge tub, and kilting up her coats danced therein powerfully, with many a direction to Elsie, her seven-year-old, to “see ye dinna fa' in, or ye 'll be carried intae the Kelpie's Hole ablow, an' it 'll no be yir mither can bring you oot.”

The sun was still shining brightly on the Glen, when the distant storm burst on Ben Hornish, whose steep sides drain into the Urtach, that ends in the Tochty. Down the Tochty came the first wave, three feet high, bringing on its foaming yeasty waters branches of trees, two young lambs, a stool from some cottage door, a shepherd's plaid, and all kinds of drift from eddies that had been swept clean. Elspeth heard the roar, and lifted her eyes to see Elsie, who had been playing too near the edge, swept away into the pool beneath, that in less than a minute was a seething cauldron of water that whirled round and round against the rocks before it rushed down the bed of the river.

“Ma bairn! ma bairn! God hae mercy upon her!” and Elspeth's cry ran through the bonnie birk wood and rose through the smiling sky to a God that seemed to give no heed.

“Whar is she?” was all Posty asked, tearing off his coat and waistcoat, for he had heard the cry as he was going to the mill, and took the lade at a leap to lose no time.

“Yonder, Posty, but ye...”

He was already in the depths, while the mother hung over the edge of the merciless flood. It seemed an hour--it was not actually a minute--before he appeared, with the blood pouring from a gash on his forehead, and hung for a few seconds on a rock for air.

“Come oot, Posty, ye hae a wife and bairns, an' ye 'll be drooned for Elspeth was a brave-hearted, unselfish woman.

“A'll hae Elsie first,” and down he went again, where the torrent raged against the rocks.

This time he came up at once, with Elsie, a poor little bundle, in his arms.

“Tak' her quick,” he gasped, clinging with one hand to a jagged point.

And Elspeth had no sooner gripped Elsie by her frock than Posty flung up his arms, and was whirled down the river, now running like a mill-race, and Elspeth fancied she saw him turning over and over, for he seemed to be insensible.

Within an hour they found his body down below the Lodge with many wounds on it, besides that gash, and they knew at once that he had been dashed to death against the stones.

They carried him to the Lodge--the Colonel insisted on being a bearer--and for two hours by the clock they did their best for Posty.

“It 's no a drop o' water 'ill droon Posty,” said Jamie Soutar, “and that his ain Tochty, an' as for a clout (blow) on the head, what's that tae a man like Posty! he 'll be on the road the mornin'.” But Jamie spoke with the fierce assurance of a man that fears the worst and is afraid of breaking down.

“The water hes been ower muckle for him aifter a',” our cynic said to Archie Moncur, who had long striven to make a teetotaller of Posty, as they went home together, “tho' he didna give in tae the end.”

“A' doot a' wes a wee hard on him, Jamie”--Archie had the tenderest heart in the Glen and was much loved--“but there wes nae man a' like't better.”

“Yer tongue wes naithin' tae mine, Airchie, when a' yoke't on him, but he bore nae ill will, did Posty, he had an awfu' respeck for ye an' aye spoke o' ye as his freend.”

“Sae a' wes--wha wudna be--he hed a true heart hed Posty, and nae jukery-packery (trickery) aboot him.”

“An' a graund heid tae,” went on Jamie; “there wes naebody in the Glen cud meet him in theology, except maybe Lachlan, and did ye ever hear him say an ill word aboot ony body?”

“Never, Jamie, an' there wes naebody he wesna interested in; the black-edged letters aye burned his fingers--he hated tae deliver them. He wes abody's freend wes Posty,” went on Archie, “an' naebody's enemy.”

“He deed like a man,” concluded Jamie; “there 's juist anither consolation--the lassie 's comin' roond fine.”

When the new Free Kirk minister was settled in Drumtochty, Jamie told him the story on the road one day and put him to the test.

“What think ye, sir, becam' o' Posty on the ither side?” and Jamie fixed his eyes on Carmichael.

The minister's face grew still whiter.

“Did ye ever read what shall be done to any man that hurts one of God's bairns?”

“Fine,” answered Jamie, with relish, “a millstane aboot his neck, an' intae the depths o' the sea.”

“Then, it seems to me that it must be well with Posty, who went into the depths and brought a bairn up at the cost of his life,” and Carmichael added softly, “whose angel doth continually behold the face of the Father.”

“Yir hand, sir,” said Jamie, and when the great heresy trial began at Muirtown, Jamie prophesied Carmichael's triumphant acquittal, declaring him a theologian of the first order.

GOOD NEWS FROM A FAR COUNTRY

NARROW circumstances and high spirit drove forth some half-dozen young men and women from the Glen every year, to earn their living in the cities of the South. They carried with them, as a working capital, sound education, unflagging industry, absolute integrity, and an undying attachment to Drumtochty. Their one necessary luxury was a weekly copy of the _Muirtown Advertiser_, which four servant lasses would share between them and circulate at church doors, carefully wrapt in a page of some common daily, and their one hour of unmixed enjoyment its careful perusal, column by column, from the first word to the last. It would have been foolishness to omit the advertisements, for you might have missed the name of Drumsheugh in connection with a sale of stirks; and although at home no Drumtochty person allowed himself to take an interest in the affairs of Kildrummie or Netheraird, yet the very names of neighbouring parishes sounded kindly at the distance of Glasgow. One paragraph was kept for the last, and read from six to twelve times, because it was headed Drumtochty, and gave an account of the annual ploughing match, or the school examination, or the flower show, or a winter lecture, when Jamie Soutar had proposed the vote of thanks. Poor little news and names hard of pronunciation-; but the girl sitting alone by the kitchen fire--her fellow servants gone to bed--or the settler in the far Northwest--for he also got his _Advertiser_ after long delays--felt the caller air blowing down the Glen, and saw the sun shining on the Tochty below the mill, and went up between the pinks and moss-roses to the dear old door--ah me! the click of the garden gate--and heard again the sound of the Hundredth Psalm in the parish kirk.

If one wished to take a complete census of our people in Glasgow, he had only to attend when Doctor Davidson preached on the fast day, and make his way afterwards to the vestry door.

“There's a gude puckle fouk waitin' tae see ye, sir,” the city beadle would say to the doctor, with much ceremony; “a'm judgin' they 're frae yir ain pairish. Is it yir wull they be admitted?”

Then in they came, craftsmen in stone and iron, clerks in offices and students from the University, housemaids and working men's wives, without distinction of persons, having spent the last ten minutes in exchanging news and magnifying the sermon. The doctor gave a Christian name to each, and some personal message from the Glen, while they, in turn, did their best to reduce his hand to pulp, and declared aloud that preaching like his could not be got outside Drumtochty, to the huge delight of Bigheart, minister of the church, who was also a Chaplain to the Queen and all Scotland.

The Dispersion endured any sacrifice to visit the old Glen, and made their appearance from various places, at regular intervals, like Jews coming up to Jerusalem. An exile was careful to arrive at Muirtown Station on a Friday afternoon, so that he might join the Drumtochty contingent on their way home from market. It is not to be supposed, however, that there was any demonstration when he showed himself on the familiar platform where Drumtochty men compared notes with other parishes at the doors of the Dunleith train.

“Is that you, Robert? ye 'ill be gaein' wast the nicht,” was the only indication Hillocks would give before the general public that he had recognised young Netherton after three years' absence, and then he would complete his judgment on the potato crop as if nothing had happened.

“Ye're there, aifter a', man; a' wes feared the sooth train micht be late,” was all the length even Netherton's paternal feelings would carry him for the time; “did ye see that yir box wes pit in the van?” and the father and son might travel in different compartments to the Junction. Drumtochty retained still some reticence, and did not conduct its emotions in public, but it had a heart. When the van of the Dunleith train had cleared the Junction and Drumtochty was left to itself--for Kildrummie did not really count--it was as when winter melts into spring.

“Hoo are ye, Robert, hoo are ye? gied tae see ye,” Drumsheugh would say, examining the transformed figure from head to foot; “man, a' wud hardly hae kent ye. Come awa an' gie 's yir news,” and the head of the commonwealth led the way to our third with Robert, Drumtochty closing in behind.

Preliminaries were disposed of in the run to Kildrummie, and as the little company made their way through the pine woods, and down one side of the Glen, and over the Tochty bridge, and up the other slope to the parting of the ways, Robert was straitly questioned about the magnitude of the work he did in Glasgow, and the customs of the people, and the wellbeing of every single Drumtochty person in that city, and chiefly as to the sermons he had heard, their texts and treatment. On Sabbath the group at the kirk door would open up at Robert's approach, but he would only nod in a shamefaced way to his friends and pass on; for it was our etiquette that instead of remaining to gossip, a son should on such occasions go in with his mother and sit beside her in the pew, who on her part would mistake the psalm that he might find it for her, and pay such elaborate attention to the sermon that every one knew she was thinking only of her son.

If a Drumtochty man distinguished himself in the great world, then the Glen invested his people with vicarious honour, and gathered greedily every scrap of news. Piggie Walker himself, although only an associate of the parish by marriage and many transactions, would not have visited David Ross in the Upper Glen, with a view to potatoes, without inquiring for David's son the Professor; and after the sale was effected that astute man would settle down with genuine delight to hear the last letter, dated from a Colonial University and containing an account of the Professor's new discovery.

It was Piggie that asked for the letter; David would not have offered to read it for a year's rent. Drumtochty parents with promising sons lived in terror lest secret pride should give them away and they be accused behind their backs of “blawing,” which in a weaker speech is translated boasting.

David considered, with justice, that they ought to take special care, and tried to guide his wife with discretion.

“We maun be cannie wi' John's title, wum-man, for ye ken Professor is a by-ordinar' word; a' coont it equal tae Earl at the verra least; an' it wudna dae tae be aye usin' 't.

“Ye micht say't aince in a conversation, juist lettin' it slip oot by accident this wy, the Professor wes sayin' in his laist letter--a' mean, oor son in Australy'--but a' wud ca' him John at ither times. Pride's an awfu' mischief, Meg.”

“Ye 're as prood as a'm masel, David, and there's nae use ye scoldin' at me for giein' oor laddie the honour he won wi' his brain an' wark,” and the mother flared up. “A'm no feared what the neeburs say. Professor he is, an' Professor a 'll ca' him; ye 'ill maybe be sayin' Jock next, tae show ye 're humble.”

“Dinna tak me up sae shairp, gude wife, or think a' wud mak little o' John; but the Al-michty hesna gien ilka faimily a Professor, an' a'm no wantin' tae hurt oor neeburs, an' them sae ta'en up wi' him themsels. Ye micht read his laist letter again, wumman; there's a bit a've near forgotten.”

Meg went to the drawers where she kept the clothes he wore as a boy, and the silk dress he gave her when he received his great appointment, and the copies of his books bound in morocco, which he sent home with this inscription:

“To my Father and Mother.

“From the Author;” and every scrap of paper about him and from him she had ever received.

The letter is taken from an old stocking, and, as she pretends to some difficulty in finding the place, Meg is obliged to read it for the forty-ninth time throughout from the name of the University at the head to the signature:

“Heart's love to you both from

“Your ever affectionate son,

“John Ross.”

David makes as though he had missed a word now and again in order to prolong the pleasure.

It was not hard to tell that he had such a letter in his pocket on the 'Sabbath, for the kirkyard was very cunning in its sympathy.

“Hoo's the Professor keepin' when ye heard laist, Bogleigh?” Drumsheugh would say, skilfully leading up to the one subject, and careful to give David his territorial designation, although it was a very small farm indeed, “he 'ill send a scrape o' the pen at a time, a 'm ex-peckin', gin he hes a meenut tae spare.”

“Busy or no busy,” answers Bogleigh, “he maks time tae write hame. His mither hes hed a letter frae John aince a week withoot fail sin he left Bogleigh a laddie o' saxteen for Edinburgh.

“They 're no juist twa or three lines, aither, but sax an' aught sheets,” continued David, warming. “An' the names, they cowe a'thing for length an' leamin'. Wud ye believe it, the Professor tells his mither every article he writes, and a' the wark he dis.

“He wes tellin's laist letter aboot some graund discovery he's feenished, an' they 're threatenin' tae gie him a new title for't. A'm no juist sure what it means, but it disna maitter, gin the laddie dis his duty and keep his health,” and David affected to close the subject. “It's fell warm the day.”

“Ye 'll no hae that letter on ye, Bogie?” inquired Jamie Soutar anxiously. “Gin ye cud pit yir hand on't, the neeburs wud like tae hear whatna honour the Professor's gotten.”

“Na, na, Jamie, it disna dae for a body tae be deavin' (deafening) the countryside wi' clavers aboot his bairns; if it hedna been Drumsheugh speirin' for John a' wudna hae said a word, but a'm muckle obleeged, and sae is the laddie, for a' mind hoo he wrote, 'My respects to the neighbours on Sabbath.'”

“That wes rael handsome,” began Whinnie, much impressed by “respects,” “but a' mind the Professor was aye a douce--”

“Div ye think, Bogleigh, that the Professor belongs tae yersel noo an' the gude wife,” broke in Jamie, “juist as if he were some ordinar' man? Na, na; gin a laddie gaes up frae the Glen tae the University, an' comes oot at the tap o' his classes, bringin' hame three medals ilka spring, an' opens secret things in nature that naebody kent afore, an' is selected by Government tae foond places o' learnin' ayont the sea, that laddie belangs tae Drumtochty.

“Div ye mind the day his life wes in the London _Times_, and Drumsheugh read it at the Junction? 'This eminent man of science was born at Drumtochty in Perthshire, and received his early education at the parish school.'”

“Ye hae't tae a word, Jamie,” said Drumsheugh, and passed his box, in name of the Glen, as it were, to Domsie.

“Oor standin' measure,” concluded Jamie, “leavin' oot Airchie Moncur and masel, will rin tae aboot sax feet, but a' coontit that we gaed up the hill that nicht wi' fower inches a man tae spare. Whar 's that letter, Bogleigh?”

After a feint of seeking it in his trousers, where he was as likely to carry it as the family Bible, David produced it from an inner breast pocket, wrapped in newspaper, and handed it to Domsie without a word.

“Div ye want me tae read it?”--as if this had not been the schoolmaster's due. “Weel, weel, a 'll dae ma best,” and then Domsie laid himself out to do justice to the Professor's letter, while Drumtochty wagged its head in admiration.

“Fellow of the Royal Society,” and Domsie became solemn to the height of reverence; “this cowes a'thing. A'm credibly informed that this is the highest honour given tae leam-in' in oor land; a 'ill be boond the 'll no be anither F.R.S. in sax coonties; may be no mair than twa or three in braid Scotland.”

“It's the graundest thing the Glen's dune yet,” and Jamie took up the strain; “he 's M.A. already, an' some ither letters; ye cudna rin them ower?”

Then Domsie gave John Ross's degrees one by one. “That comes tae five, makin' nae mention o' ither honours; there's thirty-one degrees in the Glen the noo, and John heads the list, if a' micht call a Professor by a laddie's name.”

“Wha hes a better richt?” said the father, with much spirit; “ye laid the foondation o't a', an' he often said that himsel.”

Opinion differed whether David or Domsie looked prouder in kirk that day, but Jamie inclined to Domsie, whom he had detected counting the degrees over again during the chapter.

Four Sundays after David appeared in the kirkyard with such woe upon his face that Drumsheugh could only imagine one reason, and omitted preliminaries.

“Naethin' wrang wi' the Professor, Bogleigh?” and Domsie held his pinch in mid air.

“John wes deein' when this letter left, an' noo he 'ill maybe... be dead an' buried... his mither an' me were ower prood o' him, but ye ken hoo... gude,” and the old man broke down utterly.

They looked helplessly at one another, averting their gaze from the Professors father, and then Drumsheugh took hold of the situation.

“This is no lichtsome, Dauvid, an' the neeburs share yir tribble, but dinna gie up houp and then Drumsheugh read the letter from Australia, while Hillocks and Whinnie, turning their backs on David, sheltered his grief from public view.

“Dear Mr. Ross,--You will have noticed that the last letter from my friend Dr. Ross was written in a feeble hand. He was laid down about three weeks ago with what has turned out to be typhoid fever, and ought not to have seen paper. But we considered the case a mild one, and he was determined to send his usual letter home. Now the disease has taken a bad turn, and he is quite delirious, mentioning his mother and his old schoolmaster by turns, and thinking that he is again in Drumtochty. His colleagues in medicine are consulting twice a day about him, and everything will be done for one we all admire and love. But he is very low, and I think it right to prepare you for what may be bad news.--Believe me, with much respect, yours faithfully,

“Frederick St. Clair.”

“A 've seen a mair cheerfu' letter,” and Drumsheugh looked at the fathers from above his spectacles; “but it micht be waur. A 'll guarantee the Professor 's no as far through wi 't as Saunders, an' yonder he is alive and livin' like,” nodding in the direction where that brawny man propped up the gable of the kirk with his shoulders and maintained a massive silence with Tammas Mitchell.

“Nae doot, nae doot,” said Hillocks, deriving just encouragement from the study of Saunders's figure; “aifter the wy Weelum Maclure brocht Saunders through a' wud houp for the best gin a' wes Bogleigh.”

“Sae a' wud, neeburs,” and David came forth again, “gin we hed oor laddie at hame an' oor ain man tae guide him. But there's nae Weelum Maclure oot yonder--naebody but strangers.”

“We micht ask the doctor tae pit up a prayer,” suggested Hillocks; “it cudna dae ony mischief, an' it's aye a comfort.”

“He daurna dae't,” cried David, whose mind was quickened by grief; “it 'ill be a' ower lang syne, an' it 's no lawfu' tae pray for... the dead.”

“Dinna be feared, Bogie,” said Jamie; “the doctor'ill tak the responsibeelity himsel, and ye may be sure he 'ill get some road oot o' the wood. It wud be a puir kirk the day gin we cudna plead wi' the Almichty for oor Professor.”

“Ye hae the word, Jamie,” said Drumsheugh, “an' a 'll gang in an' tell the doctor masel;” but Whinnie confessed afterwards that he thought this prayer beyond even the doctor.

It followed the petition for the harvest, and this was how it ran--the Free Kirk people had it word for word by Monday--

“Remember, we beseech Thee, most merciful Father, a father and mother who wait with anxious hearts for tidings of their only son, and grant that, before this week be over, Thy servant who is charged with many messages to this parish may bring to them good news from a far country.”

“Didna a' tell ye?” triumphed Jamie, going down to the gate, while Posty, who had required the whole length of the sermon to recognise himself, departed, much lifted, declaring aloud:

“The 'll be nae black edge in the bag next Friday, or a'm no postman o' Drumtochty.”

Letters for Bogleigh were left about two o'clock in a box on the main road two miles distant, and brought up by the scholars in the evening; but it was agreed early in the week that David and his wife should go down and receive the letter from Posty's own hands on Friday. In order not to be late, Meg rose at four that morning--but indeed she need not have gone to bed--and by eight o'clock was afraid they might be late. Three times she took out and rearranged her treasures, and three times broke down utterly, because she would never see her laddie again. They followed Posty from his start outwards, and were comforted about eleven with the thought that he was on the return journey.

“He's fairly aff for hame noo, wumman,” David would say, “an' wheepin' through Neth-eraird; he's no mair than ten mile awa, a'll warrant, an' he's a terrible walker.”

“He 'ill surely no be tastin' at the Netheraird public-hoose, Dauvid, an' loiterin'; a've kent him no be at the box till half three.”

“Na, na, there's nae fear o' Posty the day; a'll be boond he's savin' every meenut; ye mind hoo prood he wes tae bring the letter wi' the Professor's appintment.”

“Isn't it michty tae think we 're pittin' aff the time here,” and Meg began to get ready, “when he's maybe in the pairish already?”

It was exactly a quarter past twelve when the two old people sat down in the shadow of the firs above the box to wait for the first sight of Posty.

“A' daurna meet him, Dauvid, aifter a',” she said; “we 'ill juist watch him pit the letter in, and slip doon when he's gane, an'... oh! but a' ken what it 'ill be.”

“A'm expeckin tae hear John's on the mend masel,” said David manfully, and he set himself to fortify his wife with Saunders's case and the doctor's prayer, till she lifted her head again and watched.

A summer wind passed over the pines, the wood-pigeons cooed above their heads, rabbits ran out and in beside them, the burn below made a pleasant sound, a sense of the Divine Love descended on their hearts.

“The Aimichty,” whispered Meg, “'ill surely no tak awa oor only bairn... an' him dune sae weel... an' sae gude a son... A' wes coontin' on him comin' hame next year... an' seein' him aince mair... afore a' deed.”

A bread cart from Kildrummie lumbered along the road. Maclure passed on Jess at a sharp trot. A company of tourists returning from Glen Urtach sang “Will ye no come back again?” Donald Menzies also sang as he brought a horse from the smiddy, but it was a psalm--

“I to the hills will lift my eyes,
From whence doth come mine aid.”

“Can ye no see him yet, Dauvid? a' doot he 's hed an accident; it maun be lang past the 'oor noo. Yonder he is.”

But it was only a tramp, who hesitated at the foot of the upland road, and then continued his way to the village, careless who lived or died, so that he had meat and drink.

Round the distant corner Posty came at last, half an hour before his time and half a mile the hour above his common speed.

“Wull ye gang doon, Meg?”

“A' canna; bring't up tae me when he's past,” and she sat down again and covered her face; “tell me gin it 's come.”

Posty halted and swung round his bag; he took out the packet of road-side letters and dropped four into the box without attention; then he kept a fifth in his hands and hesitated; he held it up against the light as if he would have read its contents.

“He's got it, an', Meg, wumman, a' dinna see... ony black on 't.”

Posty looked at his watch, and said aloud:

“A 'll risk the time; it 'ill no tak mair than an 'oor,” and he leaped the dyke.

“Lord's sake, Bogleigh, is that you? A' wes thinkin' o' whuppin' round yir wy the day for a change; in fac,” and Posty's effort at in difference collapsed, “word's come frae Australy.”

“Wull ye... open't for's? ma hand's... no verra steady, an' the gude wife... hesna her glesses.”

“Mr. David Ross,

“Farmer,

“Bogleigh,

“Drumtochty,

“Scotland.”

read Posty, with official importance; “that's a' richt, at ony rate.”

“He aye sent it tae his mither himsel; juist read the beginning Posty... that 'ill be eneuch.” And David fixed his eyes on the letter, while Meg dared not breathe.

“It affords me unspeakable satisfaction,” began Posty, in a low voice, and then he suddenly lifted it up in victory, “to send good news. The very day I wrote the worst symptoms disappeared, and your son is now on the way to recovery.”

“There 's fower pages, an' a' can read, 'no cause now for alarm, but ye canna better the affset. A' kent what it wud be; the doctor said gude news in his prayer, and that's the verra word.

“Here, Mistress Ross, is the letter, for Bog-leigh's no fit tae tak chairge o 't.... Me? A 've dune naethin' but cairry it.

“A 'll no deny, though, a' wud hae liket fine tae hev seen the inside o't doon bye; sall, as sune as a' passed the boondary o' the pairish the fouk set on me, but a' cud say naethin' mair than this, 'There's an Australy letter, and it's no black-edged.'

“A'm aff noo,” buckling his bag, for Mrs. Ross had risen and was threatening to seize his hand; “an' it 's worth gaein' up the Glen the day wi' sic news. A 'll warrant Domsie's on the road lang syne. Ye 'ill hae the Professor wi' ye in the Kirk again, gude wife, an' the neeburs 'ill be prood tae see ye baith gang in the-gither,” and Posty leapt into the road like a four-year-old.

Beginning at the manse, and continuing unto Drumsheugh, there was not a house along the road where Posty did not give a cry that day, and it was affirmed on credible evidence in the kirkyard next Sabbath that he stood upon a dyke and made Hillocks understand at the distance of two fields' breadth that Drumtochty had still a Professor.

JAMIE

I.--A NIPPY TONGUE

Each community has its own etiquette, and in an advanced state of civilisation such beautiful words as “Mister” and “Missus” are on every one's tongue, some lonely Northerner perhaps saying “Mistress,” to the amusement of footmen and other persons of refinement. While Drumtochty was in its natural state, and the influence of Southern culture had scarcely begun to play on its simplicity, we had other forms of speech. It was good manners to call a farmer by his place, and had any one addressed Hillocks as Mr. Stirton, that worthy man would have been much startled. Except on envelopes, full-length names were reserved for the heading of roups and the death column in newspapers, and so had acquired a flavour of ceremonious solemnity. Ploughmen were distinguished by their Christian names in some easy vernacular form, and the sudden introduction of the surname could only be justified by a furrow that suggested the segment of a circle or a return from Kildrummie fair minus a cart and two horses. His lordship might notice Drumsheugh's foreman as he passed with a “Busy as usual, Baxter,” and not be suspected of offence, but other men had said “Fine fillin' day, Saunders,” to which Saunders would have most likely deigned no answer save a motion of the right shoulder. Dignitaries had their titles by prescriptive right, the parish minister being “Doctor” and the schoolmaster “Dominie,” but only one man in the Glen had the distinction of a diminutive, and it was a standing evidence of his place in our hearts.

It was mentioned with relish that a Muirtown merchant raiding for honey, having inquired of Whinnie Knowe where Mr. James Soutar lived, had been gravely informed that no person of that name lived in the parish, and would have departed to search for him in Kildrummie had he not chanced on Drumsheugh.

“Div ye mean Jamie?” and when Hillocks met him two miles further on he was still feasting on the incident.

“He said 'Mister James Soutar' as sure as ye're lookin' me in the face, Hillocks,” and both tasted the humour of the situation, which owed nothing to artifice, but sprang from the irony of circumstances.

“Jamie,” ejaculated Drumsheugh, and a flood of recollections--scenes, stories, incidents--swept across his face. Had he been a Kil-drummie man, he would have laughed at the things he heard and saw.

“Sal,” wound up Hillocks, who had been tasting the same passed in silence, “he's an awfu' body, Jamie; ye'ill no get the marra (equal) of him in six pairishes.”

Drumtochty did not ground its admiration of Jamie on his personal appearance, which lent itself to criticism and suggested a fine carelessness on the part of nature. His head was too large for his body, and rested on his chest. One shoulder had a twist forward which invested Jamie with an air of aggression. His legs were constructed on the principle that one knee said to the other, If you let me pass this time, I 'll let you pass next time.

“Gin ye were juist tae luke at Jamie, ye micht ca' him a shachlin' (shambling) cratur,” Drumsheugh once remarked, leaving it to be inferred that the understanding mind could alone appreciate him, and that in this matter Drumtochty walked by faith and not by sight. His rate of progression was over four miles an hour, but this method was sideways, and was so wonderful, not to say impressive, that even a phlegmatic character like Drumsheugh's Saunders had been known to follow Jamie's back view till it disappeared, and then to say “michty,” with deliberation. Young animals that developed any marked individuality in gait were named after Jamie without offence, and were understood to have given pledges of intelligence, since it was believed that nature worked on the principle of compensation.

“There's been an oversicht aboot Jamie's legs, but there's naethin' wrang wi' his tongue,” and it was the general judgment that it did not “shachle.”

Jamie's gift of speech was much aided by eyes that were enough to redeem many defects in the under building. They were blue--not the soft azure of the South, but the steely colour of a Scottish loch in sunshine, with a north-east wind blowing--a keen, merciless, penetrating blue. It gave a shock to find them fastened on one when he did not know Jamie was paying any attention and they sobered him in an instant. Fallacies, cant, false sentiment, and every form of unreality shrivelled up before that gaze, and there were times one dared not emerge from the shelter of the multiplication table. He had a way of watching an eloquent stranger till the man's sentences fell to pieces and died away in murmurs before he said “Ay, ay,” that was very effective; and when he repeated this deliverance, after a pause of thirty seconds, even Whinnie understood that the kirkyard had been listening to nonsense.

It seems yesterday that Milton--who had come into the Glen a month before from Muirtown, and visited the two churches to detect errors for two months--was explaining the signs of true religion to the silent kirkyard, when he caught Jamie's eye and fell away into the weather, and the minister of Kildrummie's son, who was preaching for the doctor, and winding up his sermon with an incredible anecdote, came under the spell at the distance of the pulpit, and only saved himself by giving out a psalm. The man who passed Jamie's eye was true to the backbone, and might open his mouth in any place.

Every man requires room for the play of his genius, and it was generally agreed that Jamie, who had pricked many wind bags, came to his height in dealing with Milton.

“Milton wes faithfu' wi' ye in the third comin' up frae the Junction on Friday nicht, a'm hearin', Drumsheugh; the fouk say ye were that affeckit ye cud hardly gie yir ticket tae Peter.”

“He's the maist barefaced (impudent) wratch that's ever been seen in this Glen,” and Drumsheugh went at large; “he 'ill ask ye questions nae man hes ony richt tae pit tae neebur. An' a wakely cratur as weel, greetin' an' whinin' like a bairn.”

“A 'm astonished at ye,” said Jamie in grave rebuke, “an' you an elder. Ye sud be thankfu' sic a gude man hes come tae the pairish. There's naethin' but dry banes, he says, but he's ex-peckin' tae roose us afore he's dune.

“He's no feared, a 'll admit,” continued Jamie, “but a'm no sae sure that he 's wakely; ye didna hear o' him an' his pairtner in the cloth shop at Muirtown.”

The kirkyard thirsted for the news.

“Weel, ye see, the pairtner pit in five hun-dert, an' Milton pit in five, and they cairried on business for sax year thegither. They separated laist spring, an' Milton cam oot wi' a thoo sand an' the pairtner wi' naethin'.

“Milton hed been sairly tried wi' the ither man's warldliness, walkin' on Sabbath an' sic-like, an' he wes sayin' in the train that he felt like Jacob wi' Esau all the time. It's grand tae hae the poor o' Bible illustration. A thoo-sand wud juist stock Milton fine, an' leave a note or twa in the bank.

“What a'm feared for is that some misguided Drumtochty man micht try tae tak advantage o' Milton in a bargain an' get a jidgment. Providence, ye ken, watches ower thae simple-minded craturs, an' it's juist wunnerfu' hoo they come aff in the end. But a'm dootin' that he's no strong; he hes tae tak care o' himsel.”

As the fathers waited patiently for more, Jamie continued in his most casual tone:

“He cairried a box in his hand Friday a week, an' pit it ablow the seat in the kerridge; it wes aboot auchteen inches square and nine deep, an' markit 'Hoggs' Patent Soap;' thae new soaps are brittle; a' dinna wunner he wes carefu'.

“Ye sud hae heard him on the drinkin' at Muirtown market an' the duty of total abstinence; he wantit Hillocks tae tak the pledge at the Junction, but Drumtochty fouk's dour an' ill tae manage.

“Milton wes that agitat when he got tae Kildrummie that he lat his box fa' on the platform; a' wes juist wunnerin' whether they sell soap in bottles noo, when he said, 'It 's ma medee-cine, for the circulation o' the blood; a 'm a frail vessel.'

“A' thocht that we micht hae been kinder tae Milton, an' him sic a sufferer; twelve quart bottles is a sair allowance o' medeecine for ae puir man,” and a far-away look came into Jamie's face.

Jamie's interest in Milton deepened every week, till he seemed to charge himself with the vindication of Milton's character against all aspersions, and its interpretation to a critical public. When it passed round Kildrummie fair that that guileless man had landed a cow on Mary Robertson at a high price, which was fair to look upon, but had a fixed objection to giving milk, Jamie declared it was an invention of the enemy, and assured Milton of his unshaken confidence in the presence of seven solemnised neighbours.

“Some ill-set wratches,” he apologised to Milton, “canna bear the sicht o' a raelly gude man, an' are aye gettin' up stories aboot him. Tae think ye wud cheat a puir wumman aboot a coo.”

“We maun juist bear reproach,” began Milton, with his best accent.

“Na, na, a' said tae them,” and Jamie refused to listen, “ye needna tell me ony sic stories. Milton is no an ordinary professor, an' he kens his Bible. Div ye think he's forgotten the passage aboot robbin' the widow?”

“Ye're makin' a mistak--”

“Ma verra words, Milton, 'It's been a mistak,' a' said, 'an' the meenut he finds it oot, Milton 'ill gie back the money. What richt hae ye tae consider him little better than a twa-faced heepocrite?'”

“There's no a man in the Glen wud hae got Mary's notes back frae Milton but yersel, Jamie,” said Drumsheugh, celebrating the achievement in the kirkyard next Sabbath. “There's a michty poor in a nippy tongue.”

Milton lost his second wife shortly after he came to the Glen, and it fell to Jamie to explain the widower's feelings to the fathers.

“'It 's a sair dispensation,' he said tae me, 'an' comes heavy when the calves are young; but we maunna complain. There's aye mercy mingled wi' judgment. She micht hae been taken afore she hed got the hoose in order.

“'A 'm houpin' for the best, an' a' think the root o' the maitter wes in her; there wes times a' wud hae liked tae hear a clearer testimony, but we hevna a' the same gifts, an' there's nae doot she wes savin' wi' the gear.

“'She expressed hersel as thankfu' for oor merridge, an' considered it a priveelege; but ma first wes mair experienced in doctrine, and hed a gift o' prayer, though fractious in temper at a time. Ye canna get a'thing, ye ken.'

“He hes a photograph o' the laist ane abune the fireplace in a frame wi' an inscription, an' he wipit his eyes an' says, 'We maun look up, ma freend, an' be resigned; it's an awfu' job tae ideelize the creature.'

“'Ye'ill no dae weel withoot a wife here, Milton,' says I; 'hoosekeepers are dear, an' ye 'ill never get the wark o' yir wife oot of ane; it wes maybe a peety ye lat her trachle (fatigue) hersel when she wesna strong, but gin a man be busy wi' speeritual affairs he disna notice,' an' a' askit him if he wes thinkin' o' a third.”

“Did ye dae that, Jamie?” said Hillocks, “an' her no gane a month. Milton 'ill think us a gey hard-hearted set in Drumtochty,” and the fathers looked as if Jamie had gone too far.

“He 's no hed ony time tae think o 't yet,” continued Jamie, quietly, “an' is tae leave himsel in the hands o' Providence. 'I 'll be guidit, nae doot, an' a' maun juist wait.' His langidge wes beautiful tae hear. 'Half the rent o' Milton 'ill need tae come oot the dairy, but we maun mairry in the Lord.' He wes sair affeckit a' left, and speakin' aboot 'Mama.' A' gie him sax months masel.”

“Yir tongue got the better o' ye that day, a' doot, Jamie,” and Hillocks, who had married twice with fair pecuniary success, was distinctly nettled. “What 's a man tae dae with-oot a wife tae haud things in aboot an' see tae the hens? Forbye, bein' company,” throwing in a sentimental consideration.

“Gin a man wants a woman tae gither eggs an' sew buttons on his sark (shirt), he micht mairry twal times rinnin', an' naebody need say a word. But what richt hes sic a man tae speak o' wife or... luve? He's juist a po-leegamist.”

“Lord's sake,” ejaculated Hillocks, and the kirkyaird felt that this was very wild talk indeed, and even personal.

“Naethin' else,” and Jamie's voice vibrated with a new note. “Gin a man gaes afore his family tae America tae mak a hame for them, an' leaves his wife here for a whilie, is he no mairrit? Wud he mairry another wife oot there tae keep his hoose, an' say he hed juist ae wife because the sea wes rollin' atween the twa women?”

“He daurna,” replied Whinnie, who never saw six inches ahead; “the polis----” But Drumsheugh waved him to silence.

“Weel, gin the woman leaves the man an' passes intae the ither warld, is she deid, think ye, neeburs, an' is she no' his wife? An' mair nor that, are the twa no' nearer than ever, an'... dearer?

“Ye 'ill be sayin' in yir hearts, it 's no for Jamie Soutar tae be speakin' like this, him at 's been alane a' his days; but a've ma ain thochts, an' the deepest thing, ay, and the bonniest, in the warld is a man an' a wumman ane in luve for ever.”

Jamie turned round and went into the kirk hurriedly, but Drumsheugh lingered behind for a minute with Dr. Maclure, who was making his quarterly attendance.

“What think ye o' that, Weelum? It bore a wee hard on Hillocks, but it wes michty speakin' an' gared (made) the blood rin. Jamie's a hard wratch ootside, but he's gude stuff inside.”

“Did ye ever notice, Drum, that Jamie hes hed a black band on his Sabbath hat as far back as a' can mind? A' his freends are deid mair than thirty year syne. Wha 's it for, think ye? A 'm thinkin' naebody 'ill get tae the boddom o' Jamie till he fins oot the meanin' o'that band.”

“Ye may be richt, Weelum, an' a've wunnered tae, but Jamie 'ill never tell; he hes his ain secret, an' he 'ill keep it.” The two men followed their neighbours, and Drumsheugh said to himself, “Puir Jamie; the auld story.”

The kirkyard kept Jamie in exercise, but it was on one of our rare public occasions that he made history, and two of his exploits are still subject of grateful recollection, and a bond between Drumtochty men in foreign parts. One was the vote of thanks to the temperance lecturer who had come, with the best intentions, to reform the Glen, and who, with the confidence of a youthful Southern and a variable hold of the letter aitch, used great freedom of speech. He instructed us all, from Doctor Davidson in the chair down to the smith, whom he described as “an intelligent hartisan,” and concluded with a pointed appeal to Domsie to mend his ways and start a Band of Hope in the school.