I.—SEED SOWN BY THE WAYSIDE
Notable among my father’s papers was one bundle quite by itself which he had always looked upon with peculiar veneration. The manuscripts which composed it were written in crabbed handwriting on ancient paper, very much creased at the folds, and bearing the marks of diligent perusal in days past. My father could not read these, but had much reverence for them because of the great names which could be deciphered here and there, such as “Mr. D. Dickson,” “Mr. G. Gillespie,” and in especial “Mr. Samuel Rutherfurd.”
How these came into the possession of my father’s forbears, I have no information. They were always known in the family as “Peden’s Papers,” though so far as I can now make out, that celebrated Covenanter had nothing to do with them—or, at least, is never mentioned in them by name. On the other hand I find from the family Bible, written as a note over against the entry of my great-grandmother’s death, “Aprile the seventeene, 1731,” the words, “Cozin to Mr. Patrick Walker, chapman, of Bristo Port, Edinburgh.”
The letters and narratives are in many hands and vary considerably in date, some being as early as the high days of Presbytery, about 1638, whilst others in a plainer hand have manifestly been copied or rewritten in the first decade of last century.
Now after I came from college and before my marriage, I had sometimes long forenights with little to do. So having got some insight into ancient handwriting from my friend Mr. James Robb, of the College of Saint Mary, an expert in the same—a good golfer also, and a better fellow—I set me to work to decipher these manuscripts both for my own satisfaction and for the further pleasure of reading them to my father on Saturday nights, when I was in the habit of driving over to see my mother at Drumquhat on my way from visiting my patients in the Glen of Kells.
That which follows is from the first of these documents which I read to my father. He was so much taken by it that he begged me to publish it, as he said, “as a corrective to the sinful compliances and shameless defections of the times.” And though I am little sanguine of any good it may do from a high ecclesiastic point of view, the facts narrated are interesting enough in themselves. The manuscript is clearly written out in a tall copy-book of stout bluish paper, without ruled lines, and is bound in a kind of grey sheepskin. The name “Harry Wedderburn” is upon the cover here and there, and within is a definitive title in floreated capitals, very ornately inscribed:
Inscription
“The Story of the Turning of me, Harry Wedderburn, from Darkness to Light, by the means and instrument of Mr. Samuel Rutherfurd of Anwoth, Servant of God.”
Then the manuscript proceeds:—
“The Lord hath spared me, Harry Wedderburn, these many years, delaying the setting of my sun till once more the grass grows green where I saw the blood lie red, and I wait in patience to lay my old head beneath the sod of a quiet land.
“This is my story writ at the instance of good Mr. Patrick Walker, and to be ready at his next coming into our parts. The slack between hay and harvest of the Year of Deliverance, 1689, is the time of writing.
“I, Harry Wedderburn, of Black Craig of Dee, in the country of Galloway, acknowledging the mercies of God, and repenting of my sins, set these things down in my own hand of write. Sorrow and shame are in my heart that my sun was so high in the heavens before I turned me from evil to seek after good.
“We were a wild and froward set in those days in the backlands of the Kells. It was not long, indeed, since the coming of a law stronger than that of the Strong Hand. Our fathers had driven the cattle from the English border—yea, even out of the fat fields of Niddisdale, and over the flowe of Solway. And if a man were offended with another, he went his straightest way home and took gun and whinger to lie in wait for his enemy. Or he met him foot to foot with staff on the highway, if he were of ungentle heart and possessed neither pistol nor musketoon.
“I mind well that year 1636, more than fifty years bygone—I being then in the twenty-second year of my age, a runagate castaway loon, without God and without hope in the world. My father had been in his day a douce sober man, yet he could do little to restrain myself or my brother John, who was, they said, ‘ten waurs’ than I. For there was a wild set in the Glen of Kells in those days, Lidderdale of Slogarie and Roaring Raif Pringle of Kirkchrist being enough to poison a parish. We four used to forgather to drink the dark out and the light in, two or three times in the week at the change house of the Clachan. Elspeth Vogie keeped it, and no good name it got among those well-affected to religion—aye, or Elspeth herself either.
“But these are vain thoughts, and I have had of a long season no pleasure in them. Yet will I not deny that Elspeth Vogie, though in some things sore left to herself, was a heartsome quean and well-favoured of her person.
“So at Elspeth’s some half-dozen of us were drinking down the short dark hours of an August night. It was now the lull between the hay-winning and the corn-shearing. For hairst was late that year, and the weather mostly backward and dour. There had come, however, with the advent of the new month, a warm drowsy spell of windless days, the sun shining from morn to even through a kind of unwholesome mist, and the corn standing on the knowes with as little motion as the grey whinstane tourocks and granite cairns on the hilltaps. The farmers and cottiers looked at their scanty roods of ploughland, and prayed for a rousing wind from the Lord to winnow away the still dead easterly mist, and gar the corn reestle ear against ear so that it might fill and ripen for the ingathering.
“But we that were hand-fasted to sin and bonded to iniquity, young plants of wrath, ill-doers and forlorn of grace, cared as little for the backward year as we did for the sad state of Scotland and the strifes that were quickly coming upon that land. So long as our pint-stoup was filled, and plack rattled on plack in the pouch, sorrow the crack of the thumb we cared for harvest or sheep-shearing, king or bishop, Bible or incense-pot.
“To us sitting thus on the Sabbath morning (when it had better set us to have been sleeping in our naked beds) there came in one Rab Aitkin of Auchengask, likeminded with us. Rab was seeking his ‘morning’ or eye-opening draught of French brandy, and to us bleared and leaden-eyed roisterers, he seemed to come fresh as the dew on the white thorn in the front of May. For he had a clean sark upon him, a lace ruffle about his neck, and his hair was still wet with the good well water in which he had lately washen himself.
“‘Whither away, Rab?’ we cried; ‘is it to visit fair Meg o’ the Glen so early i’ the mornin’?’
“‘He is on his way to holy kirk!’ cried another, daffingly.
“‘If so—’tis to stand all day on the stool of repentance!’ declared another. Then in the precentors whining voice he added: ‘Robert Aitkin, deleted and discerned to compear at both diets of worship for the heinous crime of—and so forth!’ This was an excellent imitation of the official method of summoning a culprit to stand his rebuke. It was Patie Robb of Ironmannoch who said this. And this same Patie had had the best opportunities for perfecting himself in the exercise, having stood the session and received the open rebuke on three several occasions—two of them in one twelve-month, which is counted a shame even among shameless men.
“‘No, Patie,’ said Rab in answer, ‘I am indeed heading for the kirk, but on no siccan gowk’s errand as takes you there twice in the year, my man. I go to hear the Gospel preached. For there is to be a stranger frae the south shore at the Kirk of Kells this day, and they say he has a mighty power of words; and though ye scoff and make light o’ me, I care not. I am neither kirk-goer nor kirk-lover, ye say. True, but there is a whisper in my heart that sends me there this day. I thank ye, bonny mistress!’
“He took the pint-stoup, and with a bow of his head and an inclination of his body, he did his service to Mistress Elspeth. For that lady, looking fresh as himself, had just come forth from her chamber to relieve Jean McCalmont, who, poor thing, had been going to sleep on her feet for many weary hours.
“Then Roaring Raif Pringle cried out, ‘Lads, we will a’ gang. I had news yestreen of this ploy. The new Bishop, good luck to him, has outed another of the high-flying prating cushion-threshers. This man goes to Edinburgh to be tried before his betters. He is to preach in Kells this very morn on the bygoing, for the minister thereof is likeminded with himself. We will all gang, and if he gets a hearin’ for his rebel’s cant—why, lads, you are not the men I tak you for!’
“So they cried out, ‘Weel said, Roaring Raif!’ and got them ready to go as best they could. For some were red of face and some were ringed of eye, and all were touched with a kind of disgust for the roysterous spirit of the night. But a dabble in the chill water of the spring and a rub of the rough-spun towel brought us mostly to some decent presentableness. For youth easily recovers itself while it lasts, though in the latter end it pays for such things twice over.
“We partook of as mickle breakfast as we could manage, and that was no great thing after such a night. But we each drank down a stirrup-cup and with various good-speeds to Elspeth Vogie and Jean her maid, we wan to horseback and so down the strath to the Kirk of Kells. It sits on the summit of a little knowe with the whin golden about it at all times of the year, and the loch like a painted sheet spread below.
“We could see the folk come flocking from far and near, from their mailings and forty-shilling lands, their farm-towns and cot-houses in half-a-dozen parishes.
“‘We are in luck’s way, lads,’ cried Lidderdale, called Ten-tass Lidderdale because he could drink that number of stoups of brandy neat; ‘it is a great gathering of the godly. Lads, the shutting of this man’s mouth will make such a din as will be heard of through all Galloway!’
“And so to our shame and my sorrow we made it up. We were to go the rounds of the meeting, and gather together all the likely lads who would stand with us. There were sure to be plenty such who had no goodwill to preachings. And with these in one place we could easily shut the mouth of this fanatic railer against law and order. For so in our ignorance and folly we called him. Because all this sort (such as I myself was then) hated the very name of religion, and hoped to find things easier and better for them when the king should have his way, and when the bishops would present none to parishes but what we called ‘good fellows’—by which we meant men as careless of principle as ourselves—loose-livers and oath-swearers, such as in truth they mostly were themselves.
“But when we arrived that August morning at the Kirk of Kells, lo! there before us was outspread such a sight as my eyes never beheld. The Kirk Knowe was fairly black with folk. A little way off you could see them pouring inward in bands like the spokes of a wheel. Further off yet, black dots straggled down hill sides, or up through glens, disentangling themselves from clumps of birches and scurry thorns for all the world like the ants of the wise king gathering home from their travels.
“Then we were very well content and made it our business to go among the gay young blades who had come for the excitement, or, as it might be, because all the pretty lasses of the countryside were sure to be there in their best. And with them we arranged that we should keep silence till the fanatic minister was well under way with his treasonable paries. Then we would rush in with our swords drawn, carry him off down the steep and duck him for a traitorous loon in the loch beneath.
“To this we all assented and shook hands upon the pact. For we knew right sickerly what would be our fate, if in the battle which was coming on the land, the Covenant men won the day. Perforce we must subscribe to deeds and religious engagements, attend kirks twice a day, lay aside gay colours, forswear all pleasant daffing with such as Elspeth Vogie and Jean her maid (not that there was anything wrong in my own practice with such—I speak only of others). The merry clatter of dice would be heard no more. The cartes themselves, the knowledge of which then made the gentleman, would be looked upon as the ‘deil’s picture-books.’ A good broad oath would mean a fine as broad. Instead of chanting loose catches we should have to listen to sermons five hours long, and be whipt for all the little pleasing transgressions that made life worth living.
“So ‘Hush,’ we said—’we will salt this preacher’s kail for him. We will drill him, wand-hand and working-hand, so that he cannot stir. We will make him drink his fill of Kells Loch this day!’
“All this while we knew not so much as the name of the preacher—nor, indeed, cared. He came from the south, so much we knew, and he had a great repute for godliness and what the broad-bonnets called ‘faithfulness,’ which, being interpreted, signified that he condemned the king and the bishops, and held to the old dull figments about doctrine, free grace, and the authority of Holy Kirk.
“The man had not arrived when we reached the Kirk of Kells. Indeed, it was not long before the hour of service when up the lochside we saw a cavalcade approach. Then we were angry. For, as we said, ‘This spoils our sport. These are doubtless soldiers of the king who have been sent to put a stop to the meeting. We shall have no chance this day. Our coin is spun and fallen edgewise between the stones. Let us go home!’
“But I said: ‘There may be some spirity work for all that, lads. Better bide and see!’
“So they abode according to my word.
“But when they came near we could see that these were no soldiers of the king, nor, indeed, any soldiers at all, though the men were armed with whingers and pistolets, and rode upon strong slow-footed horses like farmers going to market. There was a gentleman at the head of them, very tall and stout, whom Roaring Raif, in an undertone, pointed out as Gordon of Earlstoun, and in the midst, the centre of the company, rode a little fair man, shilpit and delicate, whom all deferred to, clad in black like a minister. He rode a long-tailed sheltie like one well accustomed to the exercise and bore about with him the die-stamp of a gentleman.
“This was the preacher, and these other riders were mostly his parishioners, come to convoy him through the dangerous and ill-affected districts to the great Popish and Prelatic city of Aberdeen, where for the time being he was to be interned.
“Then Roaring Raif whispered amongst us that we had better have our swords easy in the sheath and our pistols primed, for that these men in the hodden grey would certainly fight briskly for their minister.
“‘Gordon of Cardoness is there also,’ he said, ‘a stout angry carle. Him in the drab is Muckle Ninian Mure of Cassencarry. Beyond is Ugly Peter of Rusco, and that’s Bailie Fullerton o’ Kirkcudbright, the man wi’ the wame swaggin’ and the bell-mouthed musket across his saddle-bow. There will be a rare tulzie, lads. This is indeed worth leavin’ Elspeth’s fireside for. We will let oot some true blue Covenant bluid this holy day!’
“And when the Little Fair Man dismounted there was a rush of the folk and some deray. But we of the other faction kept in the back part and bided our time.
“Then the Little Fair Man went up into the pulpit, which was a box on great broad, creaking, ungreased wheels, which they had brought out from the burial tool-house as soon as they saw that the mighty concourse could in no wise be contained in the kirk—no, not so much as a tenth part of them!
“After that there was a great hush which lasted at least a minute as the minister kneeled down with his head in his hands. Then at last he rose up and gave out the psalm to be sung. It was the one about the Israelites hanging their harps on the trees of Babylon. And I mind that he prefaced it with several pithy sayings which I remembered long afterwards, though I paid little heed to them at the time. ‘This tree of Babylon is a strange plant,’ he said; ‘it grows only in those backsides of deserts where Moses found it, or by Babel streams where men walk in sorrow and exile. It is an ever-burning bush, yet no man hath seen the ashes of it.’
“Then the people sang with a great voice, far-swelling, triumphant, and the Little Fair Man led them in a kind of ecstasy. I do not mind much about his prayer. I was no judge of prayers in those days. All I cared about them was that they should not be too long and so keep me standing in one position. But I can recall of him that he inclined his face all the time he was speaking towards the sky, as if Someone Up There had been looking down upon him. At that I looked also, following the direction of his eyes. And so did several others, but could see nothing. But I think it was not so with the Little Fair Man.
“Now it was not till the sermon was well begun that we were to break in and ‘skail’ the conventicle with our swords in our hands. I could hear Lidderdale behind me murmuring, ‘How much longer are we to listen to this treason-monger?’
“‘Let us give him five minutes by the watch lads!’ I said, ‘the same as a man that is to be hanged hath before the topsman turns him off. And after that I am with you.’
“Then Roaring Raif said in my ear, ‘We have them in the hollow of our hand. This will be a great day in the Kells. We will put the broad bonnets to rout, so that no one of them after this shall be able to show face upon the causeway of Dumfries. There are at least fifty staunch lads, good honest swearing blades, in and about the kirkyard of Kells this day!’
“For even so we delighted to call ourselves in our ignorance and headstrong folly—as the Buik sayeth, glorying in our shame.
“And according to my word we waited five minutes on the minister. He had that day a text that I will always mind, ‘God is our refuge and our strength,’ from the 46th Psalm—one that was ever afterwards a great favourite with me. And when at first he began, I thought not muckle about what he said, but only of the great ploy and bloody fray that was before me. For we rejoiced in suchlike, and called it among ourselves a ‘bloodletting of the whey-faced knaves!’
“Then the Little Fair Man began to warm to his work, and just when the five minutes drew on to their end, he was telling of a certain Friend that he had, One that loved him, and had been constantly with him for years—so that his married wife was not so near and dear. This Friend had delivered him, he said, from perils of great waters, and from the edge of the sword. He had also put up with all the evil things he had done to Him. Ofttimes he had cast this Friend off and buffeted Him, but even then He would not go away from him or leave him desolate.
“So, as I had never heard of such strange friendship, I was in a great sweat to find out who this Friend might be, so different from the comrades I knew, who drew their swords at a word and gave buffet for buffet as quick as drawing a breath.
“So I whispered again, ‘Give him another five minutes!’
“And I could hear them growl behind me, Tam Morra of the Shields, called Partan-face Tam, Glaikit Gib Morrison, and the others—’What for are ye waitin’? Let the grey-breeks hae it noo!’
“But since I was by much the strongest there, and in a manner the leader, they did not dare to counter me, fearing that I might give them ‘strength-o’-airm’ as I did once in the vennel of Dumfries to Mathew Aird when he withstood me in the matter of Bonny Betty Coupland—a rencontre which was little to my credit from any point of view.
“And then the Little Fair Man threw himself into a rapture like a man going out of the body, and his voice sounded somehow uncanny and of the other world. For there was a ‘scraich’ in it like the snow-wind among the naked trees of the wood at midnight. Yet for all it was not unpleasant, but only eery and very affecting to the heart.
“He told us how that he had shamed and grieved his Friend, how he had oftentimes wounded Him sore, and once even crucified Him——
“Then when he said that I knew what the man was driving at, and if I had been left to myself I would have fallen away and thought no more of the matter. But at that moment, with a sudden calm, there fell a hush over the people. They seemed to be waiting for something. Then the Little Fair Man leaned out of the pulpit and stretched his arm toward me, where I stood like Saul, taller by a head than any about me.
“‘There is a great strong young man there,’ he said, ‘standing by the pillar, that hitherto has used his strength for the service of the devil, but from this forward he shall use it for the Lord. Even now he is plotting mischief. He, too, hath wounded my Friend, even Jesus Christ, and smitten Him on the cheekbone. But to-day he shall stand in the breach and fight for Him. Young man, I bid you come forward!’
“And with that he continued, pointing at me with his finger a little crooked. At first I was angry, and could have made his chafts ring with my neive had I been near enough. But presently something uprose in my heart—great, and terrible, and melting all at once. I took a step forward. But my companions held me back. I could feel Lidderdale and Roaring Raif with each a hand on a coat tail.
“‘Harry,’ they said, ‘do not mind him—cry the word and we will fall on and pull the wizard down by the heels!’
“‘Come hither!’ said the Little Fair Man again, in a stronger voice of command. ‘Come up hither, friend. Thou didst come to this place to do evil; but the Spirit hath thee now by the head, though well do I see that a pair of black deils have thee yet by the tail. Come hither, friend, resist not the Spirit!’
“Then there arose a mighty flame in my heart, the like of which I never felt before. It was a very gale of the Spirit—a breaking down of dams that imprisoned waters might flow free. And before I knew what I did I took my hand and dealt a buffet right and left, so that Roaring Raif roared amain. And as for Jock Lidderdale, I know not what became of him, for they carried him over the heads of the crowd and laid him under a tree to come to himself again.
“‘Thou shalt know a Friend to-day, young man,’ the minister said, when, being thus enlarged, I came near. ‘Thou shall be the firstfruits to the Lord in the Kells this day. There is to be a great ingathering of sheaves here, though some of them shall yet have bloody shocks. But thou, young sir, shalt be the first of all and shalt stand the longest!’
“Then on the outskirts of the crowd there arose a mighty turmoil. For all those that had been of my party made a rush forward, that they might rescue me from what they thought was rank witchcraft.
“‘Overturn! Overturn!’ they cried, ‘ding doon the wizard! He hath bewitched “Harry Strength-o’-Airm”! Fight, Harry—for thine own hand, and we will rescue thee!’
“And so ardent was their onset that they had well-nigh opened a way to where the Little Fair Man stood, as unmoved and smiling as if he had been sitting in his own manse. So great became the crowd that the very preaching-box rocked. The men of the cavalcade drew their swords and met the assailants hand to hand. In another minute there had been bloodshed.
“But by some strange providence there came into my hand the pole of a burying bier, whereon men bear coffins to the kirkyard. I know not how it came there, unless, peradventure, they had used it to roll out the preaching-box. But, in any case, it made a goodly and a gruesome weapon.
“Then the Spirit of the Lord came upon me, and I shouted aloud: ‘I am on the Little Fair Man’s side—and on the side of his Friend! Peace! Peace!’
“And with that I laid about me as the Lord gave me strength, and I heard more than one sword snap, and more than one head crack.
“Then, again, I cried louder than before: ‘Let there be peace—and God help ye if ye come in Harry Wedderburn’s road this day—all ye that are set on mischief!’
“And lo! by means of the bier-pole, a way was opened, a large and an effectual, before me; and, like Samson, I smote and smote, and stayed not, till I was weary. For none could stand against me, and such as could, ran out to their horses. But the most part of them, I, with my grave-pole, caused to remain—that they, too, might be turned to the Lord by the Word of the preacher.
“So they came back, and I bade the Little Fair Man preach to them, while I kept guard. And at that he smiled and said: ‘Did I not say that thou also shouldst be a soldier of God? Thine arm this day hath been indeed an arm of flesh. But thou shalt yet wield in thy time the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God!’ And of a truth, there was a great work and an effectual that day in the Kells. For they say that more than four score turned them from their evil way, and many of these blessed me thereafter for the breaking of their heads—yes, even upon their dying beds.
“Now I have myself backslidden since that, but have not altogether fallen away or shamed my first love. And when the cavalcade rode away up the muir road, I heard them tell that the Little Fair Man, who had called me out of my heady folly, was no other than the famous Mr. Samuel Rutherfurd, minister of Anwoth, on his way to his place of exile in Aberdeen, for conscience sake.
“That these things are verity I vouch for with my soul. The truth is thus, neither less nor more. Which is the testimony of me, Harry Wedderburn, written in this year of Grace and a freed Israel, 1689.”
THE LITTLE FAIR MAN
II.—THE HUMBLING OF STRENGTH-O’-AIRM
The continuation of the Adventure of Mr. Harry Wedderburn, called “Strength-o’-Airm” written by himself, and transcribed by Alexander McQuhirr, M.D.
“All this fell out exceeding well, and the fact was much bruited abroad throughout all the southland of Galloway, how that with the tram of a bier I convertit thirty-three men, in and about the kirkyaird of Kells, in one day. But (what was not so good) the first man that I brak the head of was Roaring Raif Pringle of Kirkchrist—and, I was engaged in the bands of affection with his sister Rachel, expecting indeed to wed her with the first falling of the leaf.
“Now Roaring Raif was so worshipfully smitten on the pate, that before he could sit up to hearken to the voice of the Little Fair Man, Mr. Rutherfurd had ridden northwards on his way and all his folk with him. Now when at last Raif sat up and drew his hand across his brow he asked who had done this, and when they told him that it was his friend Harry Wedderburn of the Black Craig who had broke his own familiar head with the tram of the dead bier, who but Raif Pringle was a wild man, and swore in his unhallowed wrath to shoot me if ever I came anigh the house of Kirkchrist, either to see his sister or for any other purpose!
“Now I was not anxious about Rachel herself. I knew that when it came to the point, she cared not a doit either for Roaring Raif or for Slee Todd Pringle, her cunning father. She was a fell clever lass, and had always been a great toast among us—though continually urging me to forswear sitting drinking at the wine with wild runagates in public places and change houses, if I hoped to stand well in her favour. But once, having been with her and Roaring Raif at Dumfries, it was my good fortune to carry her across the ford at Holywood when Nith Water was rising fast, and since that day somehow she had always thought better than well of me. For we left the Roaring One on the Dumfries shore.
“‘I will go over and bring him hither on my back,’ said I. And would have plunged in again to do it. For I thought nothing of perils of waters, being tall and a good swimmer to boot. But this Rachel would in no wise permit. She caught me by the arm and would not let me go back.
“”Deed will you do somewhat less, Harry Wedderburn; if Raif thinks so little of his sister as to convoy her home disguised in liquor, e’en let him stand there on the shore, or else take his way home by the Brig of Dumfries!’
“And this I was very content to do, delivering Rachel into the hands of her uncle, Lancelot Pringle of Quarrelwood, in due time—but a longer time mayhap than in ordinary circumstances it takes to traverse the distance between the fords of Holywood over against Netherholm and the mansion house of Quarrelwood. For the pleasure that I had in carrying of Rachel Pringle through the water had gone to my head some little, and I was perhaps not so clear about my way as I might have been.
“So, minding me on that heartsome and memorable night, together with other things more recent, I was not perhaps very anxious about the affection of Rachel Pringle. For I thought that it would take more than the word of Roaring Raif to change the heart of that little Rachel whom I had carried in my arms over the swellings of Nith Water. I minded me how tight she had held to me, and how, when we got over, she whispered in my ear, before I set her down, ‘Harry, I like strong men!’ Which saying somewhat delayed my putting of her down, for the ground grew exceedingly boggy and unstable just at that spot.
“So, on the evening of the day after I had forsaken my ill courses at the bidding of the Little Fair Man, I set out from the onsteading of Black Craig of Dee, leaving all there in the keeping of my brother John, a stark upstanding lad, and in those of Gilbert Grier, my chief hired herd. I told them not where I was going, but I think they knew well enough. For John brought me my father’s broadsword, which he had sharpened instead of my own smaller whinger, and Gib the herd took the pistols out of my belt and saw to their priming anew. They were always very loyal and sib to my heart, these two, and sped me on my love adventures without a word.
“Now the turn or twist that I gat at the outdoor service before the Kirk of Kells was strange enough. It may seem that the conduct of a man can only be turned by the application of reason or argument. But it was not so with me. The Little Fair Man crooked his finger and said: ‘Come!’ and I came. So also was it with the others who were convertit that day, aided maybe somewhat by my black quarter-staff. But I have since read in the Book that even so did Mr. Rutherfurd’s Friend, when on the shores of the sea He called to Him his disciples. ‘Come!’ He said to the fishermen, and forthwith they left all and followed Him.
“Now my call did not cause me to follow the Little Fair Man. It was not of such a sort. He did not bid me to that of it. But those who have been my neighbours will bear me witness that I never was the same man again, but through many shortcomings and much warring of the flesh against the spirit, have ever sought after better things, during all the fifty-and-one years since that day.
“So out I set on my road to Kirkchrist with a rose in my coat, the covenanted work of reformation in my heart—and my pistols primed. I knew it would need all three to win bonny Rachel Pringle out of the hand of the Slee Tod and his son Raif, the Roaring One.
“Now Kirkchrist is one of the farm-towns of Galloway, many of which in the old days have been set like fortilices high on every defenced hill. Indeed, the ancient tower still stands at one angle of the square of houses, where it is used for a peat-shed. But by an outside stair it is possible to get on the roof and view the country for miles round. On one side the Cooran burn runs down a deep ravine full of hazel copses feathering to the meadow-edges, where big bumble bees have their bykes, and where I first courted Rachel, sitting behind a cole of hay on the great day of the meadow ingathering. On the other three sides the approach to Kirkchrist is as bare as the palm of my hand, all short springy turf, with not so much as a daisy on it, grazed over by Slee Tod’s sheep, and cast up in places by conies, whose white tails are for ever to be seen bunting about here and there among the warreny braes.
“Now somehow it never struck me that Roaring Raif would bear malice. What mattered a broken head that he should take offence at his ancient friend? Had I not had my own sconce broke a score of times, and ever loved the breaker better, practising away with John and Gib till I could break his for him in return? Why not thus Raif Pringle? It was true that he had gotten an uncouth clour from the bier-tram of Kells, but I was willing to give him his revenge any day in the week—and, for my part, bore no malice.
“So in this frame of mind I strolled up towards Kirkchrist, when the reek of the peat fires was just beginning to go up into a still heaven from the cot-house in the dell, and the good cottier wives were putting on their pots to make their Four-Hours. I was at peace with all the world, for since the Kirk of Kells there had been a marvellous lightening of my spirit.
“Rachel is yonder, I thought within me, as I went up the hillside towards the low four-square homestead of Kirkchrist. Her hand will be laying the peat and blowing up the kindling. She will be looking out for me somewhere, most likely at yonder window in the gable end.
“Yes, so she was. For as I came in view of the yard gate I saw a white thing waved vehemently, and then suddenly withdrawn.
“‘Dear lass,’ I thought, ‘she is watching; and thinks thus to bid me welcome. She has doubtless made my peace with the Roaring One.’
“And I smiled within myself, like a vain fool, well-content and secure.
“Also I quickened my steps a little, so that I might arrive in time for the meal, being hunger-sharpened with my travel, and having out of expectance and forgetfulness taken but little nooning provender with me from the Black Craig of Dee.
“I watched the window eagerly, as I came nearer, for another glint of the kerchief. But not the beck of a head or the flutter of a little hand intimated that one of the bonniest lasses in Galloway was waiting within. Yet it struck me as strange that there were no clamorous dogs about, or indeed any sound of life whatever. And ever and anon I seemed to hear my name called, but yet, when I stopped and listened, all was still again on the moment.
“Now the entrance into the courtyard or inner square of Kirkchrist was by a ‘yett’ or strong gate, closed when any raiders or doubtful characters were in the neighbourhood, as well as in the night season. But now this ‘yett’ stood wide open, and I could see the yellow straw in the yard all freshly spread, the stray ears yet upon it—which last, together with the empty look of the crofts, told me that the oats had been gathered in that day. Where, then, were the men who had done the work? It was a thing unheard of that they should depart without making merry in the house-place, and drinking of the home-brewed ale, laced with a tass of brandy to each tankard.
“The sun was low behind my back, and I was looking towards the onstead of Kirkchrist, when suddenly I saw something glisten in one of the little three-cornered wicket-windows of the barn. It was bright, and shone like polished metal—a steel pistol stock belike. But, nevertheless, I went on in the same dead, uncanny silence.
“Suddenly ‘Blaff! Blaff! Blaff!‘ Three or four shots went off in front of me and to the right. I heard the smooth hissing sound of lead bullets and the whistle of slugs. Something struck me on the muscle of the forearm, stunning me like a blow, then I felt a kind of ragged tear or searing of the flesh as with a hot iron. I cannot describe it better—not very painful at first, but rather angering, and inclining me, but for my recent conversion, to stamp and swear like a king’s trooper.
“This, however, I had small time to do, even if I had wished it; for, after one glance at the barn, through the three-cornered wicks of which, as through the portholes of a ship in action, white wreaths of the smoke of gunpowder were curling, my right arm fell to my side, and I turned to run. Even as I did so, a little cloud of men—perhaps half-a-dozen—came rushing out of the mickle ‘yett’ with a loud shout, and made for me across the level sward. Foremost of them was Roaring Raif. Then I was advertised indeed that he had not forgiven the clour on the head he had gotten. I knew him by his height and by the white clout that was bound like a mutch about his brows.
“‘Harry,’ said I to myself, when I saw them thus take after me, ‘the Black Craig will never see you more. Ye are as a dead man. You cannot run far with that arm draining the life from you, and there is no shelter within miles.’
“Then I heard the brainge of breaking glass behind me, and a voice: ‘The linn—the linn, Harry Wedderburn; flee to the linn! It is your only chance. They are mad to kill you, Harry!’
“And even then I was glad to hear the voice of my lass, for to know that her heart and her prayers were with me. So I turned at the word, and ran redwud for the Linn of Kirkchrist—a wild steep place, all cliffs and screes and slithery spouts of broken slate. I felt my strength fast leaving me as I ran, and ever the enemy shouted nearer to my back.
“‘Kill him! Shoot him! Put a bullet into him!’
“Wondrous stimulating I found such remarks as these, made a hundred or two yards to leeward, with an occasional pistol bullet whistling by to mark the sense, as in a printed book. This made me run as I think I never ran before. For, though I was a changed man, I did not want to die and go straight to that Abraham’s bosom, of which the Little Fair Man had spoken as one that had lain there of a long season. I did not surmise that the accommodation would suit me so well. No, not yet awhile, with Rachel Pringle praying for my life half-a-mile behind. So I ran and better ran, till the sweat of my brow ran into my eyes and well nigh blinded me. Now in those days I was very young and limber. And I am none so stiff yet for my age.
“At all events, when I came to the taking off of the linn I saw that there was nothing for it but my callant’s monkey trick of letting myself down like a wheel. I had often practised it on the heathery slopes of the Black Craig of Dee, so I caught myself behind the knees, and, with my head bent like a hoop, flung myself over the edge. Presently I felt myself tearing through the copses and plunging into little darksome dells. I rebounded from tree trunks and bruised myself against rocks. Stones I had started span whizzing about my ears, and I heard the risp and rattle of shot fired after me from the margin of the linn. My wounded arm seemed as if drawn from its socket. Then I felt the cool plash of water, and I knew no more.
“I might very well have been drowned in Kirkchrist Linn that day, but it had not been to be. For it so chanced that I fell into the deepest pool for miles, and was carried downwards by the strongest current into the place that is now called the ‘Harry’s Jaws.’ This is a darksome spot, half-cavern, half-bridge, under the gloomy arch of which the brown peat-water foams white as fresh-poured ale, and the noise of its thundering deafens the ear. When I came to myself I was lying half out of the water and half in, on the verge of a great fall where the burn takes a leap thirty or forty feet into a black pool. I looked over, and there beneath me, with one of my own pistols in his hand, was Roaring Raif, a terrifying sight, with his bloody clout all awry about his head. He was looking at the pistol, dripping wet as it had gone over the fall when I came down like a runaway cart wheel into the Linn of Kirkchrist.
“‘He’s farther doon the water, boys,’ I heard him cry, and the sound was sweet to my ear. ‘Here’s the pistol he has left behint him! Scatter, boys, and a braw sheltie to the man that first puts an ounce o’ lead into him!’
“A pleasant forgiving nature had this same Roaring One. And I resolved that, though a converted man, I would deal with him accordingly when I gat him into my clutches.
“The place where I found me was not uncommodious. To make the most of it I crawled backwards till I came to the end of the rocks. Here was a little strip of sand, and over that a dry recess almost large enough for a cave. Some light filtered in from unseen crevices above, so that I think it was not roofed with solid rock overhead. Rather it was some falling in of the sides of the linn which had made the hiding-place. Here I was safe enough so long as the burn did not rise suddenly, for I knew well from the ‘glet’ on the stones and the bits of stick and dried rushes that the waters of the linn filled all the interior in time of flood.
“Then I made what shift I could to bind up my arm. I was already faint from loss of blood, but I bound a band tight about my upper arm, twisting it with a stick till I almost cried out with the greatness of the pain. Then I tied a rag, torn from my shirt, about the wound itself, which turned out to be in the fleshy part, very red and angry. However, it had bled freely, which, though it made me faint at the time, together with the washing in the water of the linn, was probably the saving of me. There was a soft fanning air as the night drew on, and, in my wet clothes, I shivered, now hot, now cold. My head was throbbing and over-full; and I began to see strange lights about me as the cave alternately grew wide and high as the firmament, and anon contracted to the size of a hazel-nut. That was the little touch of fever which always comes after a gunshot wound.
“So after a while fell the darkness, or, rather, if there had not been a full moon, the darkness would have fallen. But, being thirsty with my wound, I crawled down to the water’s edge and bent my head to drink, with the drumming of the fall loud in my ears. And, lo! in the pool I saw the round of the moon reflected. I was at the mouth of the little cave, and there, to the north, the Plough hung as from a nail in the August sky, while a little higher I saw one prong of silvery Cassiopeia’s broken-legged ‘W.’
“The stars looked so remote and lonesome, so safe and careless up there. They minded so little that I was wounded and helpless, that if I had not been a changed man, I declare I could have cursed them in my heart.
“But suddenly from above came a sound that made all my heart beat and quiver. It was a woman’s cry. All you who have never heard how soft a woman can make her speech when she fears for her true man’s life, take this word. There is no sound so sweet, so low, so far-searching in the world.
“‘Harry! Harry Wedderburn!’ it said. And I knew that in the midnight Rachel Pringle was searching and calling for me. Though there might be danger, I could not bear that she should pass away from me.
“‘I am here,’ I answered as softly as I could. But the noise of the waterfall drowned my voice, though my ears, grown accustomed to the roar, had caught hers easily enough.
“So, steadying me on the crutch of a tree that grew perilously over the fall, I went out and stood in the full light of the moon, taking my life in my hand if it had so chanced that any of my enemies were in ambush round about.
“Rachel saw me instantly, and I could see her clasp her hands over her heart as she stood on the margin of the cleuch, black against the indigo sky of night.
“‘Harry—Harry Wedderburn!’
“‘Here—dear love—here! By the waterfall.’
“In an instant she was flying down the slope, having lifted her skirt, and, as we say, ‘kilted’ it, so that she might go the lighter. She wore a white gown, and I could see her flit like a moth through the covert of birk and hazel to the water-edge. In another moment, without stopping either for direction or to draw breath, she was coming towards me, her face to the precipice, swiftly, fearlessly, clinging to the little ragged rock-rifts, from which scarce a wind-wafted seed would grow or a tuft of gilly-flower protrude about which to clasp her fingers. But Rachel Pringle came as lightly and easily as if she had been ascending the steps of her father’s ha’.
“‘Go back,’ she whispered, ‘go back, dear love! They may see you. I am coming—I know the way!’
“And with that I stepped back out of the moonlight, obedient to her word. Yet I stood near enough to the wall of the cliff to reach my arm over for her to take, so that she might have something to hold by during the last and most difficult steps of the goats’ path, the roaring linn being above, the pool deep and black below.
“Now, either by chance or because it was the one which could reach farthest, I tendered Rachel my wounded arm, and as soon as she clasped my hand so rude a stound ran up my wrist that it seemed as though I had been pierced through and through with a hot iron. So when at last Rachel leaped lightly upon the wet rock, I was ready to droop like a blown windlestrae in a December gale into her arms—yes, I, that was the strong man, called Strength-o’-Airm, laid my head on her shoulder, and she drew me within the shelter of the cave’s mouth, crooning over me as wood doves do to their mates, and whispering soft words to me as a mother doth to a bairn that hath fallen down and hurt itself.
“But in a little the stound of pain passed away, what with the happiness of her coming, the plash of the nearer waters, and the coolness of the night winds which blew to and fro in our refuge place as through a tunnel.
“Then Rachel told me that she had run from the house while they were all searching for me everywhere. Roaring Raif and his brother Peter, together with Gib Maxwell of Slagnaw, Paul Riddick of the Glen, and Black-Browed Macclellane of Gregorie, Will of Overlaw, and Lancelot Lindesay, the tutor of Rascarrel—as bloodthirsty a crew as ever raked the brimstony by-roads of hell.
“Very well I knew that if they lighted on us together there was no hope for me. But Rachel allayed my fear a little by telling me that she did not believe that any in the house knew of the cave beneath the tumble of rocks save only herself. It had long been her custom to seek it for quiet, when the Roaring One brought his crew about the house of Kirkchrist, and none had ever tracked her thither.
“So she examined my wound in the light of the moon, which shone in at one end as we sat on the inmost crutch of the tree. Now Rachel had much skill in wounds, for, indeed, her house was never free of them, her brothers, Peter and the Roaring One, never both being skin-whole at the same time. And so, with a handsbreadth torn from her white underskirt, she bathed and bandaged the wound, telling me for my comfort that the shot appeared to have gone through the fleshy part without lodging, so that most likely the wound would come together sweetly and heal by the first intention.
“Then, after this was done, we arrived at our first difference. For Rachel vowed that she would in no wise go back to the onstead of Kirkchrist, but would stop and nurse me here in the linn; which thing, indeed, would have been mightily pleasant to the natural man. But, being mindful of that which the Little Fair Man had said, and also of the censorious clatter of the countryside, I judged this to be impossible, and told Rachel so; who, in her turn, received it by no means with meekness, but rose and stamped her little foot, and said that she would go and never return—that she was sorry to her heart she had ever come where she was so little thought of, with many other speeches of that kind, such as spirity maids use when they are affronted and in danger of not getting their own sweet way with the men of their hearts.
“Now it went sore against the grain thus to deal with Rachel. And yet I could think of no way of appeasing her, but to feign a dwalm of faintness and pain from my wound. So when I staggered and appeared to hold myself up by the rock with difficulty, she stayed in the full flood of her reproaches, and faltered, ‘What is the matter, Harry?’
“Then, because I made no answer, she kneeled down beside me, and, taking my head in both of her hands, she kissed my brow.
“‘I did not mean it—indeed, I did not, Harry,’ she said, with that delicious contrition which at all times sat so well on her—even after we were married, which is a strange thing and very uncommon.
“So I touched her cheek with my fingers and forgave her, as a man who has been in the wrong forgives a loving woman who has not. (There is ever a touch of superiority in a man’s forgiving—in a woman’s there is only love and the desire for peace).
“‘Then I may stay with you?’ she said.
“And I will not deny but she tempted me sore.
“But swift as the sunbeam that strikes from cloud to hilltop, a thought came to me.
“‘Listen to me, Rachel,’ I said. ‘At the break of day or thereby all will be quiet. The Roaring One and his crew will be snoring in bed——’
“‘Or on the floor,’ said Rachel, with a quick and dainty sniff of distaste.
“‘Either will suffice,’ I said. ‘Then will we go down and call up the minister. We will cause him to marry us, and then we will fear neither traitor nor slanderer.’
“‘But he will not!’ she cried. ‘Donald Bain is a bishop’s hireling, and, besides, our Raif’s boon companion.’
“Then I drew my dirk and held it aloft, so that the moonlight ran like molten silver down the blade.
“‘See,’ said I, ‘dear Rachel, if this does not gar the curate of Kirkchrist marry us to a galloping tune, Harry Wedderburn kens not the breed, that is all.’
“‘Content!’ said she. ‘I will do what you say, Harry; only I will not go back to Kirkchrist nor will I part from you now when I have gotten you.’
“Which thing I was most glad to hear from her fair and loving lips. And I thought, smilingly, that Rachel’s manner of speaking these words became her very well.
“So there in the din of the water-cavern and under the wheeling shafts of silver light as the moon swung overhead, we two abode well content, waiting for the dawn.
“And so, in this manner, and for all my brave words, the witch got her way.”
But how—we shall see.
THE LITTLE FAIR MAN
III.—THE CURATE OF KIRKCHRIST
“The manse of Kirkchrist parish was less than a mile down the glen. It had only a week or two before been taken possession of by one Donald Bain, an ignorant fellow, so they said, intruded upon us by the new bishop. For Mr. Gilbert, our old and tried minister and servant of God, had been removed, even as Mr. Rutherfurd had been put out of Anwoth, and at about the same time.
“Thither, then, we took our way, my dear betrothed and I, with my wounded arm carried across me, the sleeve being pinned to my coat front so that I could not move my hand.
“We kept entirely to the thickets by the waterside, Rachel leading the way. For she had played all her life at the game which had now become earnest and deadly. But we need not have troubled. For as we went, from far away, light as a waft of wind blown athwart a meadow, we heard the chorus of the roisterers in the house of Kirkchrist, and emergent from the servile ruck, the voice of her brother, the Roaring One, urging good fellows all to ‘come drink with him.’ Somewhat superfluously, indeed, to all appearance, for the good fellows all had apparently been ‘come-drink-ing’ all night to the best of their ability and opportunities.
“After this Rae and I went a little more openly and swiftly. This chiefly for my sake, because the uneven ground and the little branches of the hazel bushes caught and whipped my wounded arm, making me more than once to wince with the pain.
“And Rachel kept a little beneath me on the brae, and bade me lean my well hand on her shoulder, saying that I could not press over-hard, and that the more I did so, the more would she know that I loved her. In this not unpleasing fashion we came to the house of the curate that had so lately been intruded upon the manse of godly Mr. Gilbert.
“The place was all dark, and the shutters put over the windows for fear of shots from without. Then with my sword hilt I began to knock, and the noise of the blows resounded through the house hollow and loud. For the Highlandman had as yet put little furniture into it, save as they said a sheave or two of rushes for a bed for himself, and another for the wench that keeped house to him—his sister, as he averred.
“In no long space of time his reverence set a shock head out of the window to ask what was the din. The which he did in a bold manner, as though he were the lord and master of the neighbourhood. But I tamed him, for I bade him do his curate’s coat upon him, and bring his service book, for that he was to marry two people there and then.
“‘Who be you that seek to be married so untimeous?’ he asked. ‘Cannot ye be content till the morning?’
“‘That is just why we cannot be content,’ I answered; ‘we must be far away by then!’
“So in a little he rose up grumbling and came down.
“‘Have you not also a maid in the house?’ I asked of him.
“‘Aye,’ said he, very dried like, ‘my sister Jean!’
“‘Bid her rise. We have need of a witness!’ I bade him.
“‘And I, of someone to hold the candle!’ he added.
“It was about four of the clock, and the east little more than greying, as we four stood in front of the manse of Kirkchrist. Had any been abroad to see us we had seemed a curious company. The curate in his white gown and black bands, his shambling nightgear peeping out above and under—a red peaked nightcap on his head, the tassel of which nodded continually over his right eye in a most ludicrous manner (only that none thought of mirth that night). Beside him, a dripping candle in her hand, stood his sister, a buxom quean, blowsed with health and ruddy as the cherry.
“Before these two I stood, ‘a black towering hulk with one arm in a sling’ (Rachel’s words), and beside me, my sweet bride, dainty and light as a butterfly at poise on a flower’s lip.
“Overhead among the trees the wind began to move, blowing thin and chill before the dawn. And even as the curate thumbed and mumbled beneath the flicker of the candle, I saw the light break behind the Black Craig of Dee, and wondered if ever Rae and I should dwell in peace and content in the lee of it.
“And because neither Rachel nor I knew that form of words, Jean Bain kept us right, prompting us how to kneel here, and what to answer there, here to say our names over, and there promise to love each other—the last not necessary, for if we had not done that already, we had hardly been at the manse of Kirkchrist at four of the August morning in order to be wed by an alien and uncovenanted priest.
“But scarcely had the blessing of Donald Bain made us man and wife, when we heard the roysterers’ chorus again abroad on the hills, and Jean Bain came rushing upon us wild with alarm. She guessed well enough who we were. For the searchers had been at the manse the night before swearing to have my life.
“‘Flee,’ she said; ‘take to the heather for your lives. They have sworn to kill your husband!’
“This I knew well enough; but the perversity of fate which at that time clung to me, made me ready to faint.
“‘I cannot go—I am dizzy with my wound!’ I said, and would have fallen but that Rachel and the young Highland woman held me up in their arms.
“All this time the shouting and hallooing like the crying of hunters on the hills came nearer, and the day was breaking fast.
“Rachel and I were, indeed, in a strait place. I bethought me on the Little Fair Man, and almost repented that his counsels had brought me to this. But even then, and in the house of the Philistine, help came.
“‘Come in with you both,’ said Jean Bain in a fierce voice, as if daring contradiction. ‘Donald, aff wi’ your surplice and on wi’ your coat. You must meet them, and hold them in parley. It shall not be said that a bridegroom was slaughtered like an ox upon our doorstep within an hour of his wedding.’
“With that she bustled us upstairs to her own room. Truly enough, there was but one broad pallet of heather covered with rushes spread on the floor, and no other furniture whatever.
“Near the bed-head there was the low door of a little closet or deep cupboard. Into this she bade us enter, and told us that she would hang her clothing over it upon the wooden pegs which were there for the purpose. Since no better might be we entered, for my head was running round with my loss of blood and the pain in my wounded arm. I was glad to lie down anywhere.
“Then through the buzzing bees’ byke in my skull I could hear Jean Bain giving her last orders to the curate.
“‘Hear ye, Donald, lee to them weel. Ye hae seen nocht—ken nocht; and if they offer to bide, tell them that it is the hour when ye engage in family worship. That will flit them if nocht else will!’
“And though I could hear the raucous voice of that gomeril brother-in-law of mine at the bottom of the stairs, I could not help laying my head on Rachel’s shoulder, and whispering in her ear the words, ‘Little wife!’ To which she responded with no more than ‘Hush!’ So there we abode, crouching and cowering in that dark cupboard while a score of raging demons turned the curate’s house upside down, crying for jugs of brandy and tasses of aquavity, while Jean Bain shrilly declared that no brandy could they expect in such a poverty-stricken land, but good home-brewed ale—and even that they should not have unless they behaved themselves more seemly.
“But ever as I lay the darkness seemed to stretch far above me, the walls to mount and then swiftly come together again; now I was upheaved on delicious billows of caller air, and anon I fell earthward again through the illimitable vault of heaven. Yet every now and then I would awake for a moment to find my head on a sweeter than Abraham’s bosom, and so fall to contemning my folly. But ere I had time to realise my happiness I was off again ranging the universe, or at converse with hundreds and hundreds of mocking spirits that mopped and mowed about my path. For I was just falling into a fever, and my dear lass had to put her skirt about my mouth to keep the man-hunters from hearing me moan and struggle in my phantasy.
“By nine of the clock they had drunken all that was in the curate’s house, and poor Donald Bain had gone to convoy them on their way. They were going (so they swore) to the Black Craig o’ Dee to rout me out of my den. And this made Rachel very sore afraid, for she knew well that if we were to go back to the damp cave in the linn I would never rise from my bed alive. And now, as she thought, the way was shut to our only port of refuge. Also she feared for John, my brother—not being acquaint with John, and conceiving tnat they might do him a mischief, together with the innocent plough lads and herds in the house. But this need not have troubled her, for indeed no one about the Black Craig o’ Dee desired anything better than that Roaring Raif and his crew should come near at hand to receive the welcome prepared for him.
“But in the very hour of the storm-breaking there appeared a bieldy dyke-back to shelter two poor lost wandering lambs. For no sooner was Donald Bain out of the house with all the ungodly crew than Jean, his sister, flew upstairs to us, with her gown all pulled awry as she had escaped from the hands of the roysterers.
“‘Come your ways out, you puir young things,’ she cried; ‘they are gane, and the foul fiend ride ahint them. May they never come this road again, that kenned neither how to behave themselves seemly in a manse nor how to conduct them before a decent lass. Faith, they little jalloused how near they were to gettin’ a durk between the ribs!’
“But by the time Rachel and Jean Bain got me out of that darksome closet I was fairly beside myself. The fever ran high, and I raved about rivers of waters and the sound of great floods, and threeped with them that I saw the Little Fair Man coming on the wings of seraphims and cherubims and lifting me up out of the mire.
“And as soon as Jean Bain heard the yammer and yatter of my foolish running on, she went to the closet for some simple herbs, and put them in a pot over the fire to steam. Then she bade Rachel help me down to the minister’s chamber, and between them they undressed me, cutting the sleeve from my coat so as to save the poor wounded arm. They got me finally between the blankets, and made me drink of this herb-tea and that, willy-nilly. For which, as I heard afterwards, I called them ‘witch-wives,’ ‘black crows of a foul nest,’ with many other names. But Jean Bain held me by the arm that was whole, while Rachel fleeched with me through her streaming tears; and so in time they gat me to take down the naughty-tasting brew. Nevertheless, in a little it soothed me as a mother’s lullaby doth a fractious wean, and in time I fell on a refreshing sleep.
“Yet Rachel would not be comforted, but mourned for me greatly, till Jean Bain told her of the yet sorer case in which she and Donald had but lately been. To which my lass rejoined, proud of her exceedingly recent wifehood! ‘Ah, but he is your brother—not your man! I would not care what became of Raif, not if they hanged him on the Gallows hill, and the craws pyked his banes!’
“For she was angry with her brother.
“Then all suddenly Jean Bain set her head between her hands, and began to greet as if her poor heart were near the breaking.
“‘He is my man—he is my man!’ she cried. “And I wish we were back again in bonny Banff, him a herd-laddie an’ me a herd-lassie, and that we could hear again the waves break amang the rocks at Tarlair!
“‘Wedded—aye, that are we, firm and staunch,—but Donald daurna let on, or Bishop Sydserf wad turn him awa’. He will hae nae wedded priests amang them that he sets ower his parochins. But, as he says, men kinless and cumberless that are neither feared to stand and fight or mount and ride. It came aboot this gate. When Donald was comin’ awa’ to get his lear, I was fair broken-hearted. For we had herded lang thegether on the gowden braes, and lain mony a simmer day amang the broom wi’ our een on the sheep, but our hearts verra close the yin to the ither. The bishop was o’ our clan and country-side, and he made Donald graund offers—siccan fat parishes as there were in the Lawlands—stipend—house and gear—guid faith, he dazzled a’ the weel-doin’ laddies there-aboot. And Donald gied his word to be a curate, for he was weel-learned, and had been to the schule as mony as four winters, me gangin wi’ him, and carryin’ his books when I could win clear o’ my mither.
“‘So since I couldna bide frae him, Donald brocht me here to this cauld, ill, ootland place, where we bide amang fremit and unco folk that hate us. But we were married first and foremost by the minister o’ Deer, that was a third cousin o’ Donald’s aunt’s—and a solid man that can keep his tongue safe and siccar ahint his teeth.’
“‘But oh—this place that we thocht to be a garden o’ a delichts and an orchard o’ gowden fruit is hard and unkindly and bare. The gear and plenishin’ of this manse are nocht but the heather beds that our ain fingers pu’, and the blankets we brocht wi’ us. And for meat we hae the fish o’ the stream an’ the birds that Donald whiles shoots wi’ his gun—paitricks and wild ducks on the ponds. For no a penny’s worth o’ steepend will they pay. And the bishop’s warrandice runs nae farther than the range o’ the guns o’ his bodyguard.’
“So, after this explanation, the two women mourned together as they tended me, and presently the poor curate, Donald Bain, came back to find them thus, and me raving at large, and trying to tear off the bandages from my arm.
“So here in this house, ill-furnished and cheerless, this kindly couple kept us safely hid till the blast had overblown and the bitterest of the shower slacked. Five weeks we abode there before I could be moved, and even then I was still as weak as water. But for the last fortnight we lived in more comfort. For the curate went over on a sheltie which, as he said, he ‘had fand in a field,’ to the Black Craig of Dee, and there held a long parley with my brother in the gate, while John had all his work to keep Gib Grier and his herd-laddies from shooting the curate for a black hoodie craw o’ Prelacy, as they named him.
“And John came back with his visitor to the manse of Kirkchrist on a beast with store of provend upon it, together with good French wines and other comforts, for the upbuilding of the sick.
“‘I declare I will never speak against a curate again,’ said John, when he heard that which we had to tell him. And he kissed his new sister Rachel with great and gracious goodwill, for John was ever fond of a bonnie lass. Besides, we had had no woman body about the Black Craig ever since our mother died, when we were but wild laddies herding the craws off the corn in the long summer days, and hiding lest we should be made to go with the funeral that wimpled over the moor to the Kirkyaird of Kells.
“Likewise also he saluted Jean Bain, or she him—I am not sure which. For Jean was in no wise backward in affection, but of a liberal, willing, softish nature; fond of a talk with a lad over a ‘yett,’ and fond, too, of a kiss at parting. Which last she gave to John with hearty goodwill, and that, too, in the presence of the curate.
“And as we went slowly back over the heather, John walked on one side of the horse which carried me, and Rachel rode on the sheltie on the other. John was silent for a long while, and then he all at once said: ‘Dod, but I think I could fancy that Heelant lass mysel’!’
“So Rachel began to tell him how it was with Donald Bain the curate and Jean his wife. For with a woman’s love for a fair field and no favour in matters of love, she did not wish John to spend himself on that which could never be his. Then was John very doleful for a space.
“But in time he, too, changed his mind, and was most kind to poor Donald Bain and his wife when in the year 1638 he was outed from his parish in the same month that Sydserf, his master, was set aside by the parliament and the people of Scotland. Then great evil might have befallen him but that, being long fully recovered from my wound, Gib Grier and I set out for the manse of Kirkchrist, and brought them both, Donald and Jean, to the Black Craig of Dee, where in the midst of our great moors and black moss-hags they were safe even as I had been in their house. And in our spare chamber, too, was born to them a babe, a thing which, had it been kenned, would have caused great scandal all over the land for the wickedness of the curates. But none knew (save John and Gib, who were sworn to secrecy) till we gat them convoyed away to the north again, where they did very well, and Donald became chaplain to my Lord of Sutherland. And every year for long and long the Edinburgh carrier brought us a couple of haunches of venison well smoked, which served us till Yule or Pasch, and very toothsome and sweet it was. This was a memorial from Donald Bain and Jean his wife.
“Douce and sober we lived, Rachel and I, we who had been so strangely joined. For the Slee Tod of Kirkchrist was glad enough to have his daughter wed to one who asked neither dower nor wedding-gift, tocher nor house linen; and as for Roaring Raif, he broke his neck-bone over the linn coming home one night from the rood-fair of Dumfries. But I kept my mind steadfastly set to make my new life atone for the faults of the old—which may be bad theology, but is good sound fact. And Rachel, like a valiant housewife, aided me in that as in all things. So that I became in time a man of mark, and was chosen an elder by the Session of the parish. But nevertheless the old Adam was not dead within me, but only kept close behind bars waiting to be quits with me. For as the years went by I was greatly taken up with my own righteousness, and so in excellent case to backslide.
“Now it chanced that, being one day in the change house of the clachan, I heard one speak lightly of our daughter Anne, that was now of marriageable age, and of a most innocent and merry heart. So anger took hold of me, and, unmindful of my great strength, I dealt the young man such a buffet on the side of his head that he was carried out for dead, and indeed lay long at his father’s house between life and death.
“Now this was a mighty sorrow to me and to Rachel my wife. And though little was said because of the provocation I had (which all had heard), I thought it my duty to resign my office of the eldership, confessing my hastiness and sin to my brethren, and offering public contrition. But for all that I gat no ease, but was under a great cloud of doubt, feeling myself once again without God and without hope in the world.
“Then it came to me that if I could but see the Little Fair Man again he would tell me what I should do. I knew that he had been of a long season regent of a college in the town of Sanct Anders. So I gave myself no rest day nor night till my good wife, after vainly trying to settle me by her loving words, made all preparation of provend in saddle-bags, and guineas in pouch, and set me on a good beast at the louping-on stone by our door. It was the first year of the restored King Charles, the Second of that name, and the darkness was just thickening upon the land, a darkness greater than the first, when I set out to see Mr. Rutherfurd.
“For the early part of my travel all went well, but when I was passing through the town of Hamilton, certain soldiers set upon me, asking for my pass, and calling me ‘Westland Whig’ and ‘canting rebel.’ They would have taken from me all that I had, having already turned my saddle-bags outside in, and one of them even came near to thrust his hand into my pocket, when a coach drove up with six horses and outriders mired to the shoulders. Then a pair of grand servants sprang down from behind, and cried: ‘Room for my Lord Bishop!’ And at this the soldiers desisted from plundering me to do their obeisance.
“Then there came forth first a rosy buxom woman, breathing heavily, and holding out a plump hand to the man-servant.
“But when she saw me with a soldier at either side, she took one long look, and then cried out in a hearty voice: ‘What’s this—what’s this—my friend Harry Wedderburn in the gled’s claws? Let be, scullions! Donald, here’s our host frae the Black Craig o’ Dee!’
“And forthwith, the soldiers falling back abashed, the bishop’s lady, she that had been poor Jean Bain, came at me in her old reckless way, and flung her arms about my neck, kissing me soundly and heartily—as I had not been kissed of a long season by any save Rachel, me being no more a young man.
“And the bishop was no other than Donald himself, the same who had been curate of Kirkchrist—and a right reverend prelate he looked.
“Then nothing would do Jean and Donald but I must get into the carriage with them, and have one of their men-servants ride my beast into Edinburgh. Neither excuse nor nay-say would my lady bishop take. So in this manner we travelled very comfortably, I sitting beside her, and at Edinburgh we parted, I to Sanct Anders, they to a lodging near my Lord of Sutherland’s house, to whose influence with the king they owed their advancement. For they were hand and glove with him. And the morning I was to ride away came their carriage to the door, and lo! my lady again—this time with a safe-conduct and letter of certification from the Privy Council setting forth that I was a person notably well-affected and staunch; that none were to hinder or molest me or mine in body or estate under penalty of the King’s displeasure. Which thing in the troublous times to come more than once or twice stood me in great stead.
“But when I came to Sanct Anders, the first thing I heard was that Mr. Rutherfurd lay a-dying in his college of St. Mary’s. I betook me thither, and lo! a guard of soldiers was about the doors, and would in no wise permit me pass. They were burning a pile of books, and I heard say that it was done by order of the parliament, and that thereafter Mr. Rutherfurd was to be carried out, alive or dead, and his bed set in the open street. Lex Rex was the name of the book I saw them turning this way and that with sticks, so as to make the leaves burn faster. I know not why it was so dour to catch, for out of curiosity I got me a copy afterwards, and the Lord knows it was dry enough—at least to my taste.
“But after a while, showing the officer my Privy Council letter, I prevailed on him that I had a mandate from government to see Mr. Rutherfurd, and that I had come directly and of purpose from Edinburgh to oversee the affair, and report on those who were diligent. So at long and last they let me go up the stair.
“And at the top I found many doors closed, but one open, and the sound of a voice I knew well speaking within.
“And still it was telling the praises of the Friend—yes, after a lifetime of struggle and suffering. Nor do I think that, save for taking rest in sleep, the voice had ever been silent on that theme.
“So though none knew me, I passed straight through the little company to the deathbed of the man who spoke. He was the Little Fair Man no longer. But his scant white hair lay soft as silk on the pillow. His face was pale as ivory, his cheeks fallen in, only his eyes glowed like live coals deep-sunken in his head.
“‘So, friend—you have come to see an old man die,’ he said, when his eyes lighted on me; ‘what, a bairn of mine, sayst thou—not after the flesh but after the spirit. Aye, I do mind that day at Kells. A gale from the Lord blew about us that day. So you are Harry of the Rude Hand, and you have fallen into sin. Ah, you must not come to me—you must to the Master! You had better have gone to your closet, and worn the whinstone a little with the knees of your breeks. And yet I ken not. None hath been a greater sinner or known greater mercy than Samuel Rutherfurd. I am summoned by the Star Chamber—I go to the chamber of Stars. I will see the King. I will carry Him your message, Harry. Fear not, the young man you smote will recover. He will yet bless you for laying a hand on him, even as this day you acknowledge the unworthy servant who on the green sward of Kells called you out of darkness into His marvellous light.
“‘Sir, fare you well. Go home to your wife, nothing doubting. This night shall close the door. At five of the morning I will fasten my anchor within the veil.’
“And even as he said so it was. He passed away, and, as for me, secure that he would carry my message to the Alone Forgiver of Sins I returned home to find the youth recovered and penitent. He afterwards became a noted professor and field preacher, and died sealing his testimony with his blood on the victorious field of Loudon Hill.
“This is the testimony of me, Harry Wedderburn, sometime called Strength-o’-Airm, who now in the valley of peace and a restored Israel wait the consummation of all things. Being very lonely, I write these things out to pass the time till I, too, cast mine anchor within the veil. And I cheer myself with thinking that two shall meet me there, one on either side of the gate—Rachel, my heart’s dear partner, and the Little Fair Man, who will take by either hand and lead into the presence of the Friend, poor unworthy Harry Wedderburn, sometime bond-slave of sin, but now servant most unprofitable of the Lord.”
(Note by Mr. John Wedderburn.—”My father departed this life on the morning after finishing this paper, sleeping quietly away about five of the clock.“)