Produced by Al Haines.




[Illustration: Cover]




[Illustration: "HERE HE IS!  TAK’ HIM AND FINISH HIM"  Page 44]




                              The Starling

                            A Scottish Story


                                   BY
                             NORMAN MACLEOD



                               Author of
       "Reminiscences of a Highland Parish" "Character Sketches"
                "The Old Lieutenant and his Son" &c. &c.



                         BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
                           LONDON AND GLASGOW




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 17 Stanhope Street, Glasgow

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        Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow




                           BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

Norman Macleod was born, in 1812, at Campbeltown, in Argyllshire, where
his father was parish minister. Educated in Campbeltown and Campsie for
a time, he entered the University of Glasgow in 1827, and in 1837 became
a licensed minister of the Church of Scotland.  From 1838 to 1843 ne was
minister of Loudoun parish in Ayrshire, from 1843 to 1851 of Dalkeith
parish, and from 1851 till his death in 1872 of the Barony Parish,
Glasgow.  He was appointed chaplain to Queen Victoria in 1857, and next
year received the degree of D.D. from Glasgow University. He edited
_Good Words_ from its foundation in 1860 till his death, and he also
gained great literary success with the following books: _The Gold
Thread_ (1861), _The Old Lieutenant and his Son_ (1862), _Parish Papers_
(1862), _Wee Davie_ (1864), _Eastward_ (1866), _Reminiscences of a
Highland Parish_ (1867), _The Starling_ (1867), _Peeps at the Far East_
(1871), _The Temptation of Our Lord_ (1872), and _Character Sketches_
(1872).




                                Contents


CHAP.

      I. Antecedents
     II. The Elder and his Starling
    III. The Starling a Disturber of the Peace
     IV. The Rev. Daniel Porteous
      V. The Sergeant and his Starling in Trouble
     VI. The Starling on his Trial
    VII. The Sergeant on his Trial
   VIII. The Conference in the Manse
     IX. Charlie’s Cot once More Occupied
      X. The Sergeant Alone with the Starling
     XI. The Old Soldier and his Young Pupil on Sunday Evening
    XII. Adam Mercer, Sergeant, but not Elder
   XIII. Jock Hall, the Ne’er-do-Weel
    XIV. Jock Hall’s Conspiracy
     XV. Jock Hall’s Journey
    XVI. Fishers and Fishing
   XVII. The Keeper’s Home
  XVIII. The Keeper’s Letter
    XIX. Extremes Meet
     XX. Jock Hall’s Return
    XXI. The Quack
   XXII. Corporal Dick
  XXIII. Corporal Dick at the Manse
   XXIV. Dr. Scott and his Servant
    XXV. Mr. Smellie’s Diplomacy
   XXVI. The Starling Again in Danger
  XXVII. The Sergeant’s Sickness and his Sick-Nurse
 XXVIII. Mr. Porteous Visits the Sergeant
   XXIX. The Minister Pure and Peaceable
    XXX. "A Man’s a Man for a’ That"




                         List of Illustrations


"Here he is!  Tak’ him and finish him"  _Frontispiece_

"Are you aware, Mr. Mercer, of what has just happened?"

"I’ll keep Mary"

"I was but axin’ a ceevil question, Mr. Spence"




                              THE STARLING



                               CHAPTER I

                              ANTECEDENTS


"The man was aince a poacher!"  So said, or rather breathed with his
hard wheezing breath, Peter Smellie, shopkeeper and elder, into the ears
of Robert Menzies, a brother elder, who was possessed of a more humane
disposition.  They were conversing in great confidence about the
important "case" of Sergeant Adam Mercer.  What that case was, the
reader will learn by and by.  The only reply of Robert Menzies was,
"Is’t possible!" accompanied by a start and a steady gaze at his
well-informed brother.  "It’s a fac’ I tell ye," continued Smellie, "but
ye’ll keep it to yersel’--keep it to yersel’, for it doesna do to injure
a brither wi’oot cause; yet it’s richt ye should ken what a bad
beginning our freen’ has had.  Pit your thumb on’t, however, in the
_meantime_--keep it, as the minister says, _in retentis_, which I
suppose means, till needed."

Smellie went on his way to attend to some parochial duty, nodding and
smiling, and again admonishing his brother to "keep it to himsel’."  He
seemed unwilling to part with the copyright of such a spicy bit of
gossip.  Menzies inwardly repeated, "A poacher!  wha would have thocht
it?  At the same time, I see----"  But I will not record the harmonies,
real or imaginary, which Mr. Menzies so clearly perceived between the
early and latter habits of the Sergeant.

And yet the gossiping Smellie, whose nose had tracked out the history of
many people in the parish of Drumsylie, was in this, as in most cases,
accurately informed.  The Sergeant of whom he spoke had been a poacher
some thirty years before, in a district several miles off.  The wonder
was how Smellie had discovered the fact, or how, if true, it could
affect the present character or position of one of the best men in the
parish.  Yet true it was, and it is as well to confess it, not with the
view of excusing it, but only to account for Mercer’s having become a
soldier, and to show how one who became "meek as a sheathed sword" in
his later years, had once been possessed of a very keen and ardent
temperament, whose ruling passion was the love of excitement, in the
shape of battle with game and keepers.  I accidentally heard the whole
story, which, on account of other circumstances in the Sergeant’s later
history, interested me more than I fear it may my readers.

Mercer did not care for money, nor seek to make a trade of the unlawful
pleasure of shooting without a licence.  Nor in the district in which he
lived was the offence then looked upon in a light so very disreputable
as it is now; neither was it pursued by the same disreputable class.
The sport itself was what Mercer loved for its own sake, and it had
become to him quite a passion.  For two or three years he had frequently
transgressed, but he was at last caught on the early dawn of a summer’s
morning by John Spence, the gamekeeper of Lord Bennock.  John had often
received reports from the underkeeper and watchers, of some unknown and
mysterious poacher who had hitherto eluded every attempt to seize him.
Though rather too old for very active service, Spence resolved to
concentrate all his experience--for, like many a thoroughbred keeper, he
had himself been a poacher in his youth--to discover and secure the
transgressor; but how he did so it would take pages to tell.  Adam never
suspected John of troubling himself about such details as that of
watching poachers, and John never suspected that Adam was the poacher.
The keeper, we may add, was cousin-german to Mercer’s mother.  The
capture itself was not difficult; for John, having lain in wait,
suddenly confronted Adam, who, scorning the idea of flying, much more of
struggling with his old cousin, quietly accosted him with, "Weel, John,
ye hae catched me at last."

"Adam Mercer!" exclaimed the keeper, with a look of horror.  "It canna
be you!  It’s no’ possible!"

"It’s just me, John, and no mistak’," said Adam, quietly throwing
himself down on the heather, and twisting a bit about his finger.  "For
better or waur, I’m in yer power; but had I been a ne’er-do-weel, like
Willy Steel, or Tam M’Grath, I’d hae blackened my face, and whammel’d ye
ower and pit yer head in a wallee afore ye could cheep as loud as a
stane-chucker; but when I saw wha ye war, I gied in."

"I wad raither than a five-pun-note I had never seen yer face!  Keep us!
what’s to be dune!  What wull yer mither say? and his Lordship?  Na,
what wull onybody say wi’ a spark o’ decency when they hear----"

"Dinna fash yer thoomb, John; tak’ me and send me to the jail."

"The jail!  What gude will that do to you or me, laddie?  I’m clean
donnered about the business.  Let me sit down aside ye; keep laigh, in
case the keepers see ye, and tell me by what misshanter ye ever took to
this wicked business, and under my nose, as if _I_ couldna fin’ ye oot!"

"Sport, sport!" was Mercer’s reply.  "Ye ken, John, I’m a shoemaker, and
it’s a dull trade, and squeezing the clams against the wame is ill for
digestion; and when that fails, ane’s speerits fail, and the warld gets
black and dowie; and whan things gang wrang wi’ me, I canna flee to
drink: but I think o’ the moors that I kent sae weel when my faither was
a keeper to Murray o’ Cultrain.  Ye mind my faither? was he no’ a han’
at a gun!"

"He was that--the verra best," said John.

"Aweel," continued Adam, "when doon in the mouth, I ponder ower the braw
days o’ health and life I had when carrying his bag, and getting a shot
noos and thans as a reward; and it’s a truth I tell ye, that the _whirr
kick-ic-ic_ o’ a covey o’ groose aye pits my bluid in a tingle.  It’s a
sort o’ madness that I canna accoont for; but I think I’m no responsible
for’t.  Paitricks are maist as bad, though turnips and stubble are no’
to be compared wi’ the heather, nor walkin’ amang them like the far-aff
braes, the win’y taps o’ the hills, or the lown glens.  Mony a time I
hae promised to drap the gun and stick to the last; but when I’m no’
weel, and wauken and see the sun glintin’, and think o’ the wide bleak
muirs, and the fresh caller air o’ the hill, wi’ the scent o’ the braes
an’ the bog myrtle, and thae whirrin’ craturs--man, I canna help it!  I
spring up and grasp the gun, and I’m aff!"

The reformed poacher and keeper listened with a poorly-concealed smile,
and said, "Nae doot, nae doot, Adam, it’s a’ natural--I’m no denyin’
that; it’s a glorious business; in fac’, it’s jist pairt o’ every man
that has a steady han’ and a guid e’e and a feeling heart.  Ay, ay.
But, Adam, were ye no’ frichtened?"

"For what?"

"For the keepers!"

"The keepers!  Eh, John, that’s half the sport! The thocht o’ dodgin’
keepers, jinkin’ them roon’ hills, and doon glens, and lyin’ amang the
muir-hags, and nickin’ a brace or twa, and then fleein’ like mad doon ae
brae and up anither; and keekin’ here, and creepin’ there, and cowerin’
alang a fail dyke, and scuddin’ thro’ the wood--that’s mair than half
the life o’t, John!  I’m no sure if I could shoot the birds if they were
a’ in my ain kailyard, and my ain property, and if I paid for them!"

"But war ye no’ feared for me that kent ye?" asked John.

"Na!" replied Adam, "I was mair feared for yer auld cousin, my mither,
gif she kent what I was aboot, for she’s unco’ prood o’ you.  But I
didna think ye ever luiked efter poachers yersel’? Noo I hae telt ye a’
aboot it."

"I’ faith," said John, taking a snuff and handing the box to Adam, "it’s
human natur’!  But ye ken, human natur’s wicked, desperately wicked! and
afore I was a keeper my natur’ was fully as wicked as yours,--fully,
Adam, if no waur.  But I hae repented--ever sin’ I was made keeper; and
I wadna like to hinder your repentance.  Na, na.  We mauna be ower
prood!  Sae I’ll----  Wait a bit, man, be canny till I see if ony o’ the
lads are in sicht;" and John peeped over a knoll, and cautiously looked
around in every direction until satisfied that he was alone.  "--I’ll
no’ mention this job," he continued, "if ye’ll promise me, Adam, never
to try this wark again; for it’s no’ respectable; and, warst o’ a’, it’s
no’ safe, and ye wad get me into a habble as weel as yersel’.  Sae
promise me, like a guid cousin, as I may ca’ ye,--and bluid is thicker
than water, ye ken,--and then just creep doon the burn, and alang the
plantin’, and ower the wa’, till ye get intil the peat road, and be aff
like stoor afore the win’; but I canna wi’ conscience let ye tak’ the
birds wi’ ye."

Adam thought a little, and said, "Ye’re a gude sowl, John, and I’ll no’
betray ye."  After a while he added, gravely, "But I maun kill
something. It’s no in my heart as wickedness; but my fingers maun draw a
trigger."  After a pause, he continued, "Gie’s yer hand, John; ye hae
been a frien’ to me, and I’ll be a man o’ honour to you.  I’ll never
poach mair, but I’ll ’list and be a sodger!  Till I send hame
money,--and it’ill no’ be lang,--be kind tae my mither, and I’ll never
forget it."

"A sodger!" exclaimed John.

But Adam, after seizing John by the hand and saying, "Fareweel for a
year and a day," suddenly started off down the glen, leaving two brace
of grouse, with his gun, at John’s feet; as much as to say, Tell my Lord
how you caught the wicked poacher, and how he fled the country.

Spence told indeed how he had caught a poacher, who had escaped, but
never gave his name, nor ever hinted that Adam was the man.

It was thus Adam Mercer poached and enlisted.


One evening I was at the house of a magistrate with whom I was
acquainted, when a man named Andrew Dick called to get my friend’s
signature to his pension paper, in the absence of the parish minister.
Dick had been through the whole Peninsular campaign, and had retired as
a corporal.  I am fond of old soldiers, and never fail when an
opportunity offers to have a talk with them about "the wars".  On the
evening in question, my friend Findlay, the magistrate, happened to say
in a bluff kindly way, "Don’t spend your pension in drink."

Dick replied, saluting him, "It’s very hard, sir, that after fighting
the battles of our country, we should be looked upon as worthless by
gentlemen like you."

"No, no, Dick, I never said you were worthless," was the reply.

"Please your honour," said Dick, "ye did not say it, but I consider any
man who spends his money in drink is worthless; and, what is mair, a
fool; and, worse than all, is no Christian.  He has no recovery in him,
no supports to fall back on, but is in full retreat, as we would say,
from common decency."

"But you know," said my friend, looking kindly on Dick, "the bravest
soldiers, and none were braver than those who served in the Peninsula,
often exceeded fearfully--shamefully; and were a disgrace to humanity."

"Well," replied Dick, "it’s no easy to make evil good, and I won’t try
to do so; but yet ye forget our difficulties and temptations.  Consider
only, sir, that there we were, not in bed for months and months;
marching at all hours; ill-fed, ill-clothed, and uncertain of
life--which I assure your honour makes men indifferent to it; and we had
often to get our mess as we best could,--sometimes a tough steak out of
a dead horse or mule, for when the beast was skinned it was difficult to
make oot its kind; and after toiling and moiling, up and down, here and
there and everywhere, summer and winter, when at last we took a town
with blood and wounds, and when a cask of wine or spirits fell in the
way of the troops, I don’t believe that you, sir, or the justices of the
peace, or, with reverence be it spoken, the ministers themselves, would
have said ’No’, to a drop.  You’ll excuse me, sir; I’m perhaps too free
with you."

"I didn’t mean to lecture you, or to blame you, Dick, for I know the
army is not the place for Christians."

"Begging your honour’s pardon, sir," said Dick, "the best Christians I
ever knowed were in the army--men who would do their dooty to their
king, their country, and their God."

"You have known such?" I asked, breaking into the conversation, to turn
it aside from what threatened to be a dispute.

"I have, sir!  There’s ane Adam Mercer, in this very parish, an elder of
the Church--I’m a Dissenter mysel’, on principle, for I consider----"

"Go on, Dick, about Mercer; never mind your Church principles."

"Well, sir, as I was saying--though, mind you, I’m not ashamed of being
a Dissenter, and, I houp, a Christian too--Adam was our sergeant; and a
worthier man never shouldered a bayonet.  He was nae great speaker, and
was quiet as his gun when piled; but when he shot, he shot! that did he,
short and pithy, a crack, and right into the argument.  He was weel
respeckit, for he was just and mercifu’--never bothered the men, and
never picked oot fauts, but covered them; never preached, but could gie
an advice in two or three words that gripped firm aboot the heart, and
took the breath frae ye.  He was extraordinar’ brave!  If there was any
work to do by ordinar’, up to leading a forlorn hope, Adam was sure to
be on’t; and them that kent him even better than I did then, said that
he never got courage frae brandy, but, as they assured me, though ye’ll
maybe no’ believe it, his preparation was a prayer!  I canna tell hoo
they fan’ this oot, for Adam was unco quiet; but they say a drummer
catched him on his knees afore he mounted the ladder wi’ Cansh at the
siege o’ Badajoz, and that Adam telt him no’ to say a word aboot it, but
yet to tak’ his advice and aye to seek God’s help mair than man’s."

This narrative interested me much, so that I remembered its facts, and
connected them with what I afterwards heard about Adam Mercer many years
ago, when on a visit to Drumsylie.




                               CHAPTER II

                       THE ELDER AND HIS STARLING


When Adam Mercer returned from the wars, more than half a century ago,
he settled in the village of Drumsylie, situated in a county bordering
on the Highlands, and about twenty miles from the scene of his poaching
habits, of which he had long ago repented.  His hot young blood had been
cooled down by hard service, and his vehement temperament subdued by
military discipline; but there remained an admirable mixture in him of
deepest feeling, regulated by habitual self-restraint, and expressed in
a manner outwardly calm but not cold, undemonstrative but not unkind.
His whole bearing was that of a man accustomed at once to command and to
obey.  Corporal Dick had not formed a wrong estimate of his
Christianity.  The lessons taught by his mother, whom he fondly loved,
and whom he had in her widowhood supported to the utmost of his means
from pay and prize-money, and her example of a simple, cheerful, and
true life, had sunk deeper than he knew into his heart, and, taking
root, had sprung up amidst the stormy scenes of war, bringing forth the
fruits of stern self-denial and moral courage tempered by strong social
affections.

Adam had resumed his old trade of shoemaker. He occupied a small
cottage, which, with the aid of a poor old woman in the neighbourhood,
who for an hour morning and evening did the work of a servant, he kept
with singular neatness.  His little parlour was ornamented with several
memorials of the war--a sword or two picked up on memorable
battle-fields; a French cuirass from Waterloo, with a gaudy print of
Wellington, and one also of the meeting with Blücher at La Belle
Alliance.

The Sergeant attended the parish church as regularly as he used to do
parade.  Anyone could have set his watch by the regularity of his
movements on Sunday mornings.  At the same minute on each succeeding day
of holy rest and worship, the tall, erect figure, with well-braced
shoulders, might be seen stepping out of the cottage door--where he
stood erect for a moment to survey the weather--dressed in the same suit
of black trousers, brown surtout, buff waistcoat, black stock, white
cotton gloves, with a yellow cane under his arm--everything so neat and
clean, from the polished boots to the polished hat, from the
well-brushed grey whiskers to the well-arranged locks that met in a peak
over his high forehead and soldier-like face.  And once within the
church there was no more sedate or attentive listener.

There were few week-days and no Sunday evenings on which the Sergeant
did not pay a visit to some neighbour confined to bed from sickness, or
suffering from distress of some kind.  He manifested rare tact--made up
of common sense and genuine benevolence--on such occasions.  His strong
sympathies put him instantly _en rapport_ with those whom he visited,
enabling him at once to meet them on some common ground.  Yet in
whatever way the Sergeant began his intercourse, whether by listening
patiently--and what a comfort such listening silence is!--to the history
of the sickness or the sorrow which had induced him to enter the house,
or by telling some of his own adventures, or by reading aloud the
newspaper--he in the end managed with perfect naturalness to convey
truths of weightiest import, and fraught with enduring good and
comfort--all backed up by a humanity, an unselfishness, and a
gentleman-like respect for others, which made him a most welcome guest.
The humble were made glad, and the proud were subdued--they knew not
how, nor probably did the Sergeant himself, for he but felt aright and
acted as he felt, rather than endeavoured to devise a plan as to _how_
he should speak or act in order to produce a definite result.  He
numbered many true friends; but it was not possible for him to avoid
being secretly disliked by those with whom, from their character, he
would not associate, or whom he tacitly rebuked by his own orderly life
and good manners.

Two events, in no way connected, but both of some consequence to the
Sergeant, turned the current of his life after he had resided a few
years in Drumsylie.  One was, that by the unanimous choice of the
congregation, to whom the power was committed by the minister and his
Kirk Session, Mercer was elected to the office of elder in the
parish.[#]  This was a most unexpected compliment, and one which the
Sergeant for a time declined; indeed, he accepted it only after many
arguments addressed to his sense of duty, and enforced by pressing
personal reasons brought to bear on his kind heart by his minister, Mr.
Porteous.


[#] Every congregation in the Church of Scotland is governed by a court,
recognized by civil law, composed of the minister, who acts as
"Moderator", and has only a casting vote, and elders ordained to the
office, which is for life. This court determines, subject to appeal to
higher courts, who are to receive the Sacrament, and all cases of Church
discipline. No lawyer is allowed to plead in it.  Its freedom from civil
consequences is secured by law.  In many cases it also takes charge of
the poor. The eldership has been an unspeakable blessing to Scotland.


The other event, of equal--may we not safely say of greater importance
to him?--was his marriage! We need not tell the reader how this came
about; or unfold all the subtle magic ways by which a woman worthy to be
loved loosed the cords that had hitherto tied up the Sergeant’s heart;
or how she tapped the deep well of his affections into which the purest
drops had for years been falling, until it gushed out with a freshness,
fulness, and strength, which are, perhaps, oftenest to be found in an
old heart, when it is touched by one whom it dares to love, as that old
heart of Adam Mercer’s must do if it loved at all.

Katie Mitchell was out of her teens when Adam, in a happy moment of his
life, met her in the house of her widowed mother, who had been confined
to a bed of feebleness and pain for years, and whom she had tended with
a patience, cheerfulness, and unwearied goodness which makes many a
humble and unknown home a very Eden of beauty and peace. Her father had
been a leading member of a very strict Presbyterian body, called the
"Old Light", in which he shone with a brightness which no Church on
earth could of itself either kindle or extinguish, and which, when it
passed out of the earthly dwelling, left a subdued glory behind it which
never passed away.  "Faither" was always an authority with Katie and her
mother, his ways a constant teaching, and his words were to them as
echoes from the Rock of Ages.

The marriage took place after the death of Kate’s mother, and soon after
Adam had been ordained to the eldership.

A boy was born to the worthy couple, and named Charles, after the
Sergeant’s father.

It was a sight to banish bachelorship from the world, to watch the joy
of the Sergeant with Charlie from the day he experienced the new and
indescribable feelings of being a father, until the flaxen-haired
blue-eyed boy was able to _toddle_ to his waiting arms, and then be
mounted on his shoulders, while he stepped round the room to the tune of
the old familiar regimental march, performed by him with half-whistle
half-trumpet tones, which vainly expressed the roll of the band that
crashed harmoniously in memory’s ear. Katie "didna let on" her motherly
pride and delight at the spectacle, which never became stale or
common-place.

Adam had a weakness for pets.  Dare we call such tastes a weakness, and
not rather a minor part of his religion, which included within its wide
embrace a love of domestic animals, in which he saw, in their willing
dependence on himself, a reflection of more than they could know, or
himself even fully understand? At the time we write a starling was his
special friend.  It had been caught and tamed for his boy Charlie.  Adam
had taught the creature with greatest care to speak with precision.  Its
first and most important lesson, was, "I’m Charlie’s bairn".  And one
can picture the delight with which the child heard this innocent
confession, as the bird put his head askance, looked at him with his
round full eye, and in clear accents acknowledged his parentage: "I’m
Charlie’s bairn!"  The boy fully appreciated his feathered confidant,
and soon began to look upon him as essential to his daily enjoyment.
The Sergeant had also taught the starling to repeat the words, "A man’s
a man for a’ that", and to whistle a bar or two of the ditty, "Wha’ll be
king but Charlie!"

Katie had more than once confessed that she "wasna unco’ fond o’ this
kind o’ diversion".  She pronounced it to be "neither natural nor
canny", and had often remonstrated with the Sergeant for what she called
his "idle, foolish, and even profane" painstaking in teaching the bird.
But one night, when the Sergeant announced that the education of the
starling was complete, she became more vehement than usual on this
assumed perversion of the will of Providence.

"Nothing," said the Sergeant, "can be more beautiful than his ’A man’s a
man for a’ that’."

"The mair’s the pity, Adam!" said Katie.  "It’s wrang--clean wrang--I
tell ye; and ye’ll live tae rue’t. What right has _he_ to speak? cock
him up wi’ his impudence!  There’s mony a bairn aulder than him canna
speak sae weel.  It’s no’ a safe business, I can tell you, Adam."

"Gi’ ower, gi’ ower, woman," said the Sergeant; "the cratur’ has its ain
gifts, as we hae oors, and I’m thankfu’ for them.  It does me mair gude
than ye ken whan I tak’ the boy on my lap, and see hoo his e’e blinks,
and his bit feet gang, and hoo he laughs when he hears the bird say,
’I’m Charlie’s bairn’.  And whan I’m cuttin’, and stitchin’, and
hammerin’, at the window, and dreamin’ o’ auld langsyne, and fechtin’ my
battles ower again, and when I think o’ that awfu’ time that I hae seen
wi’ brave comrades noo lying in some neuk in Spain; and when I hear the
roar o’ the big guns, and the splutterin’ crackle o’ the wee anes, and
see the crood o’ red coats, and the flashin’ o’ bagnets, and the awfu’
hell--excuse me--o’ the fecht, I tell you it’s like a sermon to me when
the cratur’ says ’A man’s a man for a’ that!’"  The Sergeant would say
this, standing up, and erect, with one foot forward as if at the first
step of the scaling ladder. "Mind ye, Katie, that it’s no’ every man
that’s ’a man for a’ that’; but mair than ye wad believe are a set o’
fushionless, water-gruel, useless cloots, cauld sooans, when it comes to
the real bit--the grip atween life and death!  O ye wad wunner, woman,
hoo mony men when on parade, or when singin’ sangs aboot the war, are
gran’ hands, but wha lie flat as scones on the grass when they see the
cauld iron!  Gie me the man that does his duty, whether he meets man or
deevil--that’s the man for me in war or peace; and that’s the reason I
teached the bird thae words.  It’s a testimony for auld freends that I
focht wi’, and that I’ll never forget--no, never!  Dinna be sair,
gudewife, on the puir bird."--"Eh, Katie," he added, one night, when the
bird had retired to roost, "just look at the cratur’! Is’na he
beautifu’?  There he sits on his bawk as roon’ as a clew, wi’ his bit
head under his wing, dreamin’ aboot the wuds maybe--or aboot wee
Charlie--or aiblins aboot naething.  But he is God’s ain bird, wonderfu’
and fearfully made."

Still Katie, feeling that "a principle"--as she, _à la mode_, called her
opinion--was involved in the bird’s linguistic habits, would still
maintain her cause with the same arguments, put in a variety of forms.
"Na, na, Adam!" she would persistingly affirm, "I _will_ say that for a
sensible man an’ an elder o’ the kirk, ye’re ower muckle ta’en up wi’
that cratur’.  I’ll stick to’t, that it’s no’ fair, no’ richt, but a
mockery o’ man.  I’m sure faither wadna hae pitten up wi’t!"

"Dinna be flyting on the wee thing wi’ its speckled breast and bonnie
e’e.  Charlie’s bairn, ye ken--mind that!"

"I’m no flyting on him, for it’s you, no’ him, that’s wrang.  Mony a
time when I spak’ to you mysel’, ye were as deaf as a door nail to _me_,
and can hear naething in the house but that wee neb o’ his fechting awa’
wi’ its lesson.  Na, ye needna glower at me, and look sae astonished,
for I’m perfect serious."

"Ye’re speaking perfect nonsense, gudewife, let me assure you; and I
_am_ astonished at ye," replied Adam, resuming his work on the bench.

"I’m no sic’ a thing, Adam, as spakin’ nonsense," retorted his wife,
sitting down with her seam beside him.  "I ken mair aboot they jabbering
birds maybe than yersel’.  For I’ll never forget an awfu’ job wi’ ane o’
them that made a stramash atween Mr. Carruthers, our Auld Licht
minister, and Willy Jamieson the Customer Weaver.  The minister happened
to be veesitin’ in Willy’s house, and exhortin’ him and some neebours
that had gaithered to hear.  Weel, what hae ye o’t, but ane o’ thae
parrots, or Kickcuckkoo birds--or whatever ye ca’ them--had been brocht
hame by Willy’s brither’s son--him that was in the Indies--and didna
this cratur’ cry oot ’Stap yer blethers!’ just ahint the minister, wha
gied sic a loup, and thocht it a cunning device o’ Satan!"

"Gudewife, gudewife!" struck in the Sergeant, as he turned to her with a
laugh, "O dinna blether yoursel’, for ye never did it afore.  They micht
hae hung the birdcage oot while the minister was in.  But what had the
puir bird to do wi’ Satan or religion? Wae’s me for the religion that
could be hurt by a bird’s cracks!  The cratur’ didna ken what it was
saying."

"Didna ken what it was saying!" exclaimed Katie, with evident amazement.
"I tell ye, I’ve see’d it mony a time, and heard it, too; and it was a
hantle sensibler than maist bairns ten times its size.  I was watchin’
it that day when it disturbed Mr. Carruthers, and I see’d it lookin’
roon’, and winkin’ its een, and scartin’ its head lang afore it spak’;
and it tried its tongue--and black it was, as ye micht expek, and dry as
ben leather--three or four times afore it got a soond out; and tho’ a’
the forenoon it had never spak a word, yet when the minister began, its
tongue was lowsed, and it yoked on him wi’ its gowk’s sang, ’Stap yer
blethers, stap yer blethers!’  It was maist awfu’ tae hear’t!  I maun
alloo, hooever, that it cam’ frae a heathen land, an wasna therefore sae
muckle to be blamed.  But I couldna mak’ the same excuse for _your_
bird, Adam!"

A loud laugh from Adam proved at once to Katie that she had neither
offended nor convinced him by her arguments.

But all real or imaginary differences between the Sergeant and his wife
about the starling, ended with the death of their boy.  What that was to
them both, parents only who have lost a child--an only child--can tell.
It "cut up", as they say, the Sergeant terribly.  Katie seemed suddenly
to become old.  She kept all her boy’s clothes in a press, and it was
her wont for a time to open it as if for worship, every night, and to
"get her greet out".  The Sergeant never looked into it.  Once, when his
wife awoke at night and found him weeping bitterly, he told his first
and only fib; for he said that he had an excruciating headache.  A
headache!  He would no more have wept for a headache of his own than he
would for one endured by his old foe, Napoleon.

This great bereavement made the starling a painful but almost a holy
remembrancer of the child.  "I’m Charlie’s bairn!" was a death-knell in
the house. When repeated, no comment was made.  It was generally heard
in silence; but one day, Adam and his wife were sitting at the fireside
taking their meal in a sad mood, and the starling, perhaps under the
influence of hunger, or--who knows?--from an uneasy instinctive sense of
the absence of the child, began to repeat rapidly the sentence, "I’m
Charlie’s bairn!"  The Sergeant rose and went to its cage with some
food, and said, with as much earnestness as if the bird had understood
him, "Ay, ye’re jist _his_ bairn, and ye’ll be _my_ bairn tae as lang as
ye live!"

"A man’s a man for a’ that!" quoth the bird.

"Sometimes no’," murmured the Sergeant.




                              CHAPTER III

                 THE STARLING A DISTURBER OF THE PEACE


It was a beautiful Sunday morning in spring.  The dew was glittering on
every blade of grass; the trees were bursting into buds for coming
leaves, or into flower for coming fruit; the birds were "busy in the
wood" building their nests, and singing jubilate; the streams were
flashing to the sea; the clouds, moisture laden, were moving across the
blue heavens, guided by the winds; and signs of life, activity, and joy
filled the earth and sky.

The Sergeant hung out Charlie in his cage to enjoy the air and sunlight.
He had not of late been so lively as usual; his confession as to his
parentage was more hesitating; and when giving his testimony as to a man
being a man, or as to the exclusive right of Charlie to be king, he
often paused as if in doubt.  All his utterances were accompanied by a
spasmodic chirp and jerk, evidencing a great indifference to humanity.
A glimpse of nature might possibly recover him.  And so it did; for he
had not been long outside before he began to spread his wings and tail
feathers to the warm sun, and to pour out more confessions and
testimonies than had been heard for weeks.

Charlie soon gathered round him a crowd of young children with rosy
faces and tattered garments who had clattered down from lanes and
garrets to listen to his performances.  Every face in the group became a
picture of wonder and delight, as intelligible sounds were heard coming
from a hard bill; and any one of the crowd would have sold all he had on
earth--not a great sacrifice after all, perhaps a penny--to possess such
a bird.  "D’ye hear it, Archy?" a boy would say, lifting up his little
brother on his shoulder, to be near the cage.  Another would repeat the
words uttered by the distinguished speaker, and direct attention to
them.  Then, when all were hushed into silent and eager expectancy
awaiting the next oracular statement, and the starling repeated "I’m
Charlie’s bairn!" and whistled "Wha’ll be king but Charlie!" a shout of
joyous merriment followed, with sundry imitations of the bird’s peculiar
guttural and rather rude pronunciation. "It’s a witch, I’ll wager!" one
boy exclaimed. "Dinna say that," replied another, "for wee Charlie’s
dead."  Yet it would be difficult to trace any logical contradiction
between the supposed and the real fact.

This audience about the cage was disturbed by the sudden and unexpected
appearance from round the corner, of a rather portly man, dressed in
black clothes; his head erect; his face intensely grave; an umbrella,
handle foremost, under his right arm; his left arm swinging like a
pendulum; a pair of black spats covering broad flat feet, that advanced
with the regular beat of slow music, and seemed to impress the pavement
with their weight.  This was the Rev. Daniel Porteous, the parish
minister.

No sooner did he see the crowd of children at the elder’s door than he
paused for a moment, as if he had unexpectedly come across the execution
of a criminal; and no sooner did the children see him, than with a
terrified shout of "There’s the minister!" they ran off as if they had
seen a wild beast, leaving one or two of the younger ones sprawling and
bawling on the road, their natural protectors being far too intent on
saving their own lives, to think of those of their nearest relatives.

The sudden dispersion of these lambs by the shepherd soon attracted the
attention of their parents; and accordingly several half-clad,
slatternly women rushed from their respective "closes".  Flying to the
rescue of their children, they carried some and dragged others to their
several corners within the dark caves.  But while rescuing their wicked
cubs, they religiously beat them, and manifested their zeal by many
stripes and not a few admonitions:--"Tak’ that--and that--and that--ye
bad--bad--wicked wean!  Hoo daur ye!  I’ll gie ye yer pay! I’ll mak’ ye!
I’se warrant ye!" &c. &c.  These were some of the motherly teachings to
the terrified babes; while cries of "Archie!" "Peter!" "Jamie!" with
threatening shakes of the fist, and commands to come home "immeditly",
were addressed to the elder ones, who had run off to a safe distance.
One tall woman, whose brown hair escaped from beneath a cap black enough
to give one the impression that she had been humbling herself in
sackcloth and ashes, proved the strength of her convictions by
complaining very vehemently to Mr. Porteous of the Sergeant for having
thrown such a temptation as the starling in the way of her children,
whom she loved so tenderly and wished to bring up so piously.  All the
time she held a child firmly by the hand, who attempted to hide its face
and tears from the minister.  Her zeal we must assume was very real,
since her boy had clattered off from the cage on shoes made by the
Sergeant, which his mother had never paid for, nor was likely to do now,
for conscience’ sake, on account of this bad conduct of the shoemaker.
We do not affirm that Mrs. Dalrymple never _liquidated_ her debts, but
she did so after her own fashion.

It was edifying to hear other mothers declare their belief that their
children had been at the morning Sabbath School, and express their
wonder and anger at discovering for the first time their absence from
it; more especially as this--the only day, of course, on which it had
occurred--should be the day that the minister accidentally passed to
church along their street!

The minister listened to the story of their good intentions, and of the
ill doings of his elder with an uneasy look, but promised speedy
redress.




                               CHAPTER IV

                        THE REV. DANIEL PORTEOUS


Mr. Porteous had been minister of the parish for upwards of thirty
years.  Previously he had been tutor in the family of a small laird who
had political interest in those old times, and through whose influence
with the patron of the parish he had obtained the living of Drumsylie.
He was a man of unimpeachable character.  No one could charge him with
any act throughout his whole life inconsistent with the "walk and
conversation" becoming his profession.  He performed all the duties of
his office with the regularity of a well-adjusted, well-oiled machine.
He visited the sick, and spoke the right words to the afflicted, the
widow, and the orphan, very much in the same calm, regular, and orderly
manner in which he addressed the Presbytery or wrote out a minute of
Kirk Session.  Never did a man possess a larger or better-assorted
collection of what he called "principles" in the carefully-locked
cabinet of his brain, applicable at any moment to any given
ecclesiastical or theological question which was likely to come before
him.  He made no distinction between "principles" and his own mere
opinions.  The _dixit_ of truth and the _dixit_ of Porteous were looked
upon by him as one. He had never been accused of error on any point,
however trivial, except on one occasion when, in the Presbytery, a
learned clerk of great authority interrupted a speech of his by
suggesting that their respected friend was speaking heresy.  Mr.
Porteous exclaimed, to the satisfaction of all, "I was not aware of it,
Moderator! but if such is the opinion of the Presbytery, I have no
hesitation in instantly withdrawing my unfortunate and unintentional
assertion".  His mind ever after was a round, compact ball of logically
spun theological worsted, wound up, and "made up".  The glacier, clear,
cold, and stern, descends into the valley full of human habitations,
corn-fields, and vineyards, with flowers and fruit-trees on every side;
and though its surface melts occasionally, it remains the glacier still.
So it had hitherto been with him.  He preached the truth--truth which is
the world’s life and which stirs the angels--but too often as a
telegraphic wire transmits the most momentous intelligence: and he
grasped it as a sparrow grasps the wire by which the message is
conveyed.  The parish looked up to him, obeyed him, feared him, and so
respected him that they were hardly conscious of not quite loving him.
Nor was he conscious of this blank in their feelings; for feelings and
tender affections were in his estimation generally dangerous and always
weak commodities,--a species of womanly sentimentalism, and apt
sometimes to be rebellious against his "principles", as the stream will
sometimes overflow the rocky sides that hem it in and direct its course.
It would be wrong to deny that he possessed his own "fair humanities".
He had friends who sympathised with him; and followers who thankfully
accepted him as a safe light to guide them, as one stronger than
themselves to lean on, and as one whose word was law to them. To all
such he could be bland and courteous; and in their society he would even
relax, and indulge in such anecdotes and laughter as bordered on genuine
hilarity.  As to what was deepest and truest in the man we know not, but
we believe there was real good beneath the wood, hay, and stubble of
formalism and pedantry.  There was doubtless a kernel within the hard
shell, if only the shell could be cracked.  Might not this be done?  We
shall see.

It was this worthy man who, after visiting a sick parishioner, suddenly
came round the corner of the street in which the Sergeant lived.  He
was, as we said, on his way to church, and the bell had not yet begun to
ring for morning worship.  Before entering the Sergeant’s house (to do
which, after the scene he had witnessed, was recognized by him to be an
important duty), he went up to the cage to make himself acquainted with
all the facts of the case, so as to proceed with it regularly.  He
accordingly put on his spectacles and looked at the bird, and the bird,
without any spectacles, returned the inquiring gaze with most wonderful
composure. Walking sideways along his perch, until near the minister, he
peered at him full in the face, and confessed that he was Charlie’s
bairn.  Then, after a preliminary _kic_ and _kirr_, as if clearing his
throat, he whistled two bars of the air, "Wha’ll be king but Charlie!"
and, concluding with his aphorism, "A man’s a man for a’ that!" he
whetted his beak and retired to feed in the presence of the Church
dignitary.

"I could not have believed it!" exclaimed the minister, as he walked
into the Sergeant’s house, with a countenance by no means indicating the
sway of amiable feelings.




                               CHAPTER V

                THE SERGEANT AND HIS STARLING IN TROUBLE


The Sergeant and his wife, after having joined, as was their wont, in
private morning worship, had retired, to prepare for church, to their
bedroom in the back part of the cottage, and the door was shut. Not
until a loud knock was twice repeated on the kitchen-table, did the
Sergeant emerge in his shirt-sleeves to reply to the summons.  His
surprise was great as he exclaimed, "Mr. Porteous! can it be you?  Beg
pardon, sir, if I have kept you waiting; please be seated.  No bad news,
I hope?"

Mr. Porteous, with a cold nod, and remaining where he stood, pointed
with his umbrella to the cage hanging outside the window, and asked the
Sergeant if that was his bird.

"It is, sir," replied the Sergeant, more puzzled than ever; "it is a
favourite starling of mine, and I hung it out this morning to enjoy the
air, because----"

"You need not proceed, Mr. Mercer," interrupted the minister; "it is
enough for me to know from yourself that you acknowledge that bird as
yours, and that _you_ hung it there."

"There is no doubt about that, sir; and what then?  I really am puzzled
to know why you ask," said the Sergeant.

"I won’t leave you long in doubt upon that point," continued the
minister, more stern and calm if possible than before, "nor on some
others which it involves."

Katie, at this crisis of the conversation, joined them in her black silk
gown.  She entered the kitchen wuth a familiar smile and respectful
curtsey, and approached the minister, who, barely noticing her, resumed
his subject.  Katie, somewhat bewildered, sat down in the large chair
beside the fire, watching the scene with curious perplexity.

"Are you aware, Mr. Mercer, of what has just happened?" inquired the
minister.

[Illustration: "ARE YOU AWARE, MR. MERCER, OF WHAT HAS JUST HAPPENED?"
Page 34]

"I do not take you up, sir," replied the Sergeant.

"Well, then, as I approached your house a crowd of children were
gathered round that cage, laughing and singing, with evident enjoyment,
and disturbing the neighbourhood by their riotous proceedings, thus
giving pain and grief to their parents, who have complained loudly to me
of the injury done to their most sacred feelings and associations by
_you_----please, please, don’t interrupt me, Mr. Mercer; I have a duty
to perform, and shall finish presently."

The Sergeant bowed, folded his arms, and stood erect.  Katie covered her
face with her hands, and exclaimed "Tuts, tuts, I’m real sorry--tuts."

"I went up to the cage," said Mr. Porteous, continuing his narrative,
"and narrowly inspected the bird.  To my--what shall I call it?
astonishment? or shame and confusion?--I heard it utter such distinct
and articulate sounds as convinced me beyond all possibility of
doubt--yet you smile, sir, at my statement!--that----"

"Tuts, Adam, it’s dreadfu’!" ejaculated Katie.

"That the bird," continued the minister, "_must_ have been either taught
by you, or with your approval: and having so instructed this creature,
you hang it out on this, the Sabbath morning, to whistle and to speak,
in order to insult--yes, sir, I use the word advisedly----"

"Never, sir!" said the Sergeant, with a calm and firm voice; "never,
sir, did I intentionally insult mortal man."

"I have nothing to do with your intentions, but with _facts_; and the
fact is, you did insult, sir, every feeling the most sacred, besides
injuring the religious habits of the young.  _You_ did this, an
elder--_my_ elder, this day, to the great scandal of religion."

The Sergeant never moved, but stood before his minister as he would have
done before his general, calm, in the habit of respectful obedience to
those having authority.  Poor Katie acted as a sort of _chorus_ at the
fireside.

"I never thocht it would come to this," she exclaimed, twisting her
fingers.  "Oh! it’s a pity! Sirs a day!  Waes me!  Sic a day as I have
lived to see!  Speak, Adam!" at length she said, as if to relieve her
misery.

The silence of Adam so far helped the minister as to give him time to
breathe, and to think.  He believed that he had made an impression on
the Sergeant, and that it was possible things might not be so bad as
they had looked.  He hoped and wished to put them right, and desired to
avoid any serious quarrel with Mercer, whom he really respected as one
of his best elders, and as one who had never given him any trouble or
uneasiness, far less opposition.  Adam, on the other hand, had been so
suddenly and unexpectedly attacked, that he hardly knew for a moment
what to say or do. Once or twice the old ardent temperament made him
feel something at his throat, such as used to be there when the order to
charge was given, or the command to form square and prepare to receive
cavalry.  But the habits of "drill" and the power of passive endurance
came to his aid, along with a higher principle.  He remained silent.

When the steam had roared off, and the ecclesiastical boiler of Mr.
Porteous was relieved from extreme pressure, he began to simmer, and to
be more quiet about the safety valve.  Sitting down, and so giving
evidence of his being at once fatigued and mollified, he resumed his
discourse.  "Sergeant"--he had hitherto addressed him as Mr.
Mercer--"Sergeant, you know my respect for you.  I will say that a
better man, a more attentive hearer, a more decided and consistent
Churchman, and a more faithful elder, I have not in my parish----"

Adam bowed.

"Be also seated," said the minister.

"Thank you, sir," said Adam, "I would rather stand."

"I will after all give you credit for not intending to do this evil
which I complain of; I withdraw the appearance even of making any such
charge," said Mr. Porteous, as if asking a question.

After a brief silence, the Sergeant said, "You have given me great pain,
Mr. Porteous."

"How so, Adam?"--still more softened.

"It is great pain, sir, to have one’s character doubted," said Adam.

"But have I not cause?" inquired the minister.

"You are of course the best judge, Mr. Porteous; but I frankly own to
you that the possibility of there being any harm in teaching a bird
never occurred to me."

"Oh, Adam!" exclaimed Katie, "I ken it was aye _your_ mind that, but it
wasna mine, although at last----"

"Let me alone, Katie, just now," quietly remarked Adam.

"What of the scandal? what of the scandal?" struck in the minister.  "I
have no time to discuss details this morning; the bells have commenced."

"Well, then," said the Sergeant, "I was not aware of the disturbance in
the street which you have described; I never, certainly, could have
intended _that_.  I was, at the time, in the bedroom, and never knew of
it.  Believe me when I say’t, that no man lives who would feel mair pain
than I would in being the occasion of ever leading anyone to break the
Lord’s day by word or deed, more especially the young; and the young
aboot our doors are amang the warst.  And as to my showing disrespect to
you, sir!--that never could be my intention."

"I believe you, Adam, I believe you; but----"

"Ay, weel ye may," chimed in Katie, now weeping as she saw some hope of
peace; "for he’s awfu’ taen up wi’ guid, is Adam, though I say it."

"Oh, Katie; dinna, woman, fash yersel’ wi’ me," interpolated Adam.

"Though I say’t that shouldna say’t," continued Katie, "I’m sure he has
the greatest respec’ for you, sir.  He’ll do onything to please you
that’s possible, and to mak’ amends for this great misfortun’."

"Of that I have no doubt--no doubt whatever, Mrs. Mercer," said Mr.
Porteous, kindly; "and I wished, in order that he should do so, to be
faithful to him, as he well knows I never will sacrifice my principles
to any man, be he who he may--never!

"There is no difficulty, I am happy to say," the minister resumed, after
a moment’s pause, "in settling the whole of this most unpleasant
business. Indeed I promised to the neighbours, who were very naturally
offended, that it should never occur again; and as you acted, Adam, from
ignorance--and we must not blame an old soldier _too_ much," the
minister added with a patronising smile,--"all parties will be satisfied
by a very small sacrifice indeed--almost too small, considering the
scandal. Just let the bird be forthwith destroyed--that is all."

Adam started.

"In any case," the minister went on to say, without noticing the
Sergeant’s look, "this should be done, because being an elder, and, as
such, a man with grave and solemn responsibilities, you will I am sure
see the propriety of at once acquiescing in my proposal, so as to avoid
the temptation of your being occupied by trifles and
frivolities--contemptible trifles, not to give a harsher name to all
that the bird’s habits indicate.  But when, in addition to this
consideration, these habits, Adam, have, as a fact, occasioned serious
scandal, no doubt can remain in any well-constituted mind as to the
_necessity_ of the course I have suggested."

"Destroy Charlie--I mean, the starling?" enquired the Sergeant, stroking
his chin, and looking down at the minister with a smile in which there
was more of sorrow and doubt than of any other emotion. "Do you mean,
Mr. Porteous, that I should kill him?"

"I don’t mean that, necessarily, _you_ should do it, though _you_ ought
to do it as the offender.  But I certainly mean that it should be
destroyed in any way, or by any person you please, as, if not the best
possible, yet the easiest amends which can be made for what has caused
such injury to morals and religion, and for what has annoyed myself more
than I can tell.  Remember, also, that the credit of the eldership is
involved with my own."

"Are you serious, Mr. Porteous?" asked the Sergeant.

"Serious!  Serious!--Your minister?--on Sabbath morning!--in a grave
matter of this kind!--to ask if I am serious!  Mr. Mercer, you are
forgetting yourself."

"I ask pardon," replied the Sergeant, "if I have said anything
disrespectful; but I really did not take in how the killing of my pet
starling could mend matters, for which I say again, that I am really
vexed, and ax yer pardon.  What has happened has been quite
unintentional on my part, I do assure you, sir."

"The death of the bird," said the minister, "I admit, in one serse, is a
mere trifle--a trifle to _you_: but it is not so to _me_, who am the
guardian of religion in the parish, and as such have pledged my word to
your neighbours that this, which I have called a great scandal, shall
never happen again. The least that you can do, therefore, I humbly
think, as a proof of your regret at having been even the innocent cause
of acknowledged evil; as a satisfaction to your neighbours, and a
security against a like evil occurring again; and as that which is due
to yourself as an office-bearer, to the parish, and, I must add, to _me_
as your pastor, and _my_ sense of what is right; and, finally, in order
to avoid a triumph to Dissent on the one hand, and to infidelity on the
other,--it is, I say, beyond all question your clear duty to remove the
_cause_ of the offence, by your destroying that paltry insignificant
bird.  I must say, Mr. Mercer, that I feel not a little surprised that
your own sense of what is right does not compel you at once to acquiesce
in my very moderate demand--so moderate, indeed, that I am almost
ashamed to make it."

No response from the Sergeant.

"Many men, let me tell you," continued Mr. Porteous, "would have
summoned you to the Kirk Session, and rebuked you for your whole
conduct, actual and implied, in this case, and, if you had been
contumacious, would then have libelled and deposed you!"  The minister
was warming as he proceeded.  "I have no time," he added, rising, "to
say more on this painful matter.  But I ask you now, after all I have
stated, and before we part, to promise me this favour--no, I won’t put
it on the ground of a personal favour, but on _principle_--promise me to
do this--not to-day, of course, but on a week-day, say to-morrow--to
destroy the bird,--and I shall say no more about it.  Excuse my warmth,
Adam, as I may be doing you the injustice of assuming that you do not
see the gravity of your own position or of mine."  And Mr. Porteous
stretched out his hand to the Sergeant.

"I have no doubt, sir," said the Sergeant, calmly, "that you mean to do
what seems to you to be right, and what you believe to be your duty.
But----" and there was a pause, "but I will not deceive you, nor promise
to do what I feel I can never perform.  _I_ must also do _my_ duty, and
I daurna do what seems to me to be wrang, cruel, and unnecessar’. I
canna’ kill the bird.  It is simply impossible!  Do pardon me, sir.
Dinna think me disrespectful or prood.  At this moment I am neither, but
verra vexed to have had ony disturbance wi’ my minister. Yet----"

"Yet what, Mr. Mercer?"

"Weel, Mr. Porteous, I dinna wish to detain you; but as far as I can see
my duty, or understand my feelings----"

"Feelings! forsooth!" exclaimed Mr. Porteous.

"Or understand my feelings," continued Adam, "I canna--come what may,
let me oot with it--I _will not_ kill the bird!"

Mr. Porteous rose and said, in a cold, dry voice, "If such is your
deliverance, so be it.  I have done my duty.  On you, and you only, the
responsibility must now rest of what appears to me to be _contumacious_
conduct--an offence, if possible, worse than the original one.  You sin
with light and knowledge--and it is, therefore, heinous by reason of
several aggravations.  I must wish you good-morning.  This matter cannot
rest here.  But whatever consequences may follow, you, and you alone, I
repeat, are to blame--my conscience is free.  You will hear more of this
most unfortunate business, Sergeant Mercer."  And Mr. Porteous, with a
stiff bow, walked out of the house.

Adam made a movement towards the door, as if to speak once more to Mr.
Porteous, muttering to himself, "He canna be in earnest!--The thing’s
impossible!--It canna be!"  But the minister was gone.




                               CHAPTER VI

                       THE STARLING ON HIS TRIAL


Adam was left alone with his wife.  His only remark as he sat down
opposite to her was: "Mr. Porteous has forgot himself, and was too
quick;" adding, "nevertheless it is our duty to gang to the kirk."

"Kirk!" exclaimed Katie, walking about in an excited manner, "that’s a’
ower!  Kirk! pity me! hoo can you or me gang to the kirk?  Hoo can we be
glowered at and made a speculation o’, and be the sang o’ the parish?
The kirk! waes me; that’s a’ by! I never, never thocht it wad come to
this wi’ me or you, Adam!  I think it wad hae kilt my faither.  It’s an
awfu’ chasteesement."

"For what?" quietly asked the Sergeant.

"Ye needna speer--ye ken weel eneuch it’s for that bird.  I aye telt ye
that ye were ower fond o’t, and noo!--I’m real sorry for ye, Adam.  It’s
for _you_, for _you_, and no’ for mysel’, I’m sorry.  Sirs me, what a
misfortun’!"

"What are ye sae sorry for?" meekly inquired Adam.

"For everything!" replied Katie, groaning; "for the stramash amang the
weans; for the clish-clash o’ the neebors; for you and me helping to
break the Sabbath; for the minister being sae angry, and that nae doubt,
for he kens best, for gude reasons; and, aboon a’, for you, Adam, my
bonnie man, an elder o’ the kirk, brocht into a’ this habble for
naething better than a bit bird!"  And Katie threw herself into the
chair, covering her face with her hands.

The Sergeant said nothing, but rose and went outside to bring in the
cage.  There were signs of considerable excitement in the immediate
neighbourhood. The long visit of the minister in such circumstances
could mean only a conflict with Adam, which would be full of interest to
those miserable gossips, who never thought of attending church except on
rare occasions, and who were glad of something to occupy their idle time
on Sunday morning.  Sundry heads were thrust from upper windows,
directing their gaze to the Sergeant’s house.  Some of the boys reclined
on the grass at a little distance, thus occupying a safe position, and
commanding an excellent retreat should they be pursued by parson or
parents.  The cage was the centre of attraction to all.

The Sergeant at a glance saw how the enemy lay, but without appearing to
pay any attention to the besiegers, he retired with the cage into the
house and fixed it in its accustomed place over his boy’s empty cot.
When the cage was adjusted, the starling scratched the back of his head,
as if something annoyed him; he then cleaned his bill on each side of
the perch, as if present duties must be attended to; after this he
hopped down and began to describe figures with his open bill on the
sanded floor of the cage, as if for innocent recreation.  Being
refreshed by these varied exercises, he concluded by repeating his
confession and testimony with a precision and vigour never surpassed.

Katie still occupied the arm-chair, blowing her nose with her Sunday
pocket-handkerchief.  The Sergeant sat down beside her.

"It’s time to gang to the kirk, gudewife," he remarked, although, from
the bells having stopped ringing, and from the agitated state of his
wife’s feelings, he more than suspected that, for the first time during
many years, he would be obliged to absent himself from morning
worship--a fact which would form another subject of conversation for his
watchful and thoughtful neighbours.

"Hoo can we gang to the kirk, Adam, wi’ this on our conscience?"
muttered Katie.

"I hae naething on _my_ conscience, Katie, to disturb it," said her
husband; "and I’m sorry if onything I hae done should disturb yours.
What can I do to lighten ’t?"

Katie was silent.

"If ye mean," said the Sergeant, "that the bird should be killed, by a’
means let it be done.  I’ll do onything to please _you_, though Mr.
Porteous has, in my opinion, nae richt whatever to insist on my doin’t
to please _him_; for _he_ kens naething aboot the cratur. But if you,
that kens as weel as me a’ the bird has been to us baith, but speak the
word, the deed will be allooed by me.  I’ll never say no."

"Do yer duty, Adam!" said his wife.

"That is, my duty to _you_, mind, for I owe it to nane else I ken o’.
But that duty shall be done--so ye’ve my full leave and leeberty tae
kill the bird.  Here he is!  Tak’ him oot o’ the cage, and finish him.
I’ll no interfere, nor even look on, cost what it may."  And the
Sergeant took down the cage, and held it near his wife.  But she said
nothing, and did nothing.

"I’m Charlie’s bairn!" exclaimed the starling.

"Dinna tell me, Adam, tae kill the bird!  It’s no’ me, but you, should
do sic wark.  Ye’re a man and a sodger, and it was you teached him, and
got us into this trouble."

"Sae be’t!" said the Sergeant.  "I’ve done mair bluidy jobs in my day,
and needna fear tae spill, for the sake o’ peace, the wee drap bluid o’
the puir h airmless thing.  What way wid ye like it kilt?"

"Ye should ken best yersel’, gudeman; killin’ is no woman’s wark," said
Katie, in a low voice, as she turned her head away and looked at the
wall.

"Aweel then, since ye leave it to me," replied Adam, "I’ll gie him a
sodger’s death.  It’s the maist honourable, and the bit mannie deserves
a’ honour frae our hands, for he has done his duty pleasantly, in fair
and foul, in simmer and winter, to us baith, and tae----Never heed--I’ll
shoot him at dawn o’ day, afore he begins whistlin’ for his breakfast;
and he’ll be buried decently.  You and Mr. Porteous will no’ be bothered
wi’ him lang.  Sae as that’s settled and determined, we may gang to the
kirk wi’ a guid conscience."

Adam rose, as if to enter his bedroom.

"What’s your hurry, Adam?" asked Katie, in a half-peevish tone of voice.
"Sit doon and let a body speak."

The Sergeant resumed his seat.

"I’m jist thinking," said Katie, "that ye’ll maybe no’ get onybody to
gie ye a gun for sic a cruel job; and if ye did, the noise sae early in
the morning wad frichten folk, and mak’ an awfu’ clash amang neeboors,
and luik dreadfu’ daft in an elder."

"Jock Hall has a gun I could get.  But noo that I think o’t, Jock
himsel’ will do the job, for he’s fit for onything, and up tae
everything except what’s guid. I’ll send him Charlie and the cage in the
morning, afore ye rise; sae keep your mind easy," said the Sergeant,
carelessly.

"I wadna trust Charlie into Jock Hall’s power--the cruel ne’er-do-weel
that he is!  Na, na; whatever has to be done maun be done decently by
yersel’, gudeman," protested Katie.

"Ye said, gudewife, to Mr. Porteous," replied Adam, "that ye kent I wad
do onything to please him and to gie satisfaction for this misfortun’,
as ye ca’ed it; and sin’ you and him agree that the bird is to be kilt,
I suppose I maun kill him to please ye baith; I see but ae way left o’
finishing him."

"What way is that?" asked Katie.

"To thraw his bit neck."

"Doonricht cruelty," suggested Katie, "to thraw the neck o’ a wee thing
like that!  Fie on ye, gudeman!  Ye’re no like yersel’ the day."

"It’s the _only_ way left, unless we burn him; so I’ll no’ argue mair
about it.  There’s nae use o’ pittin’ ’t aff ony langer; the better day,
the better deed.  Sae here goes!  It will be a’ ower wi’ him in a
minute; and syne ye’ll get peace----"

The Sergeant rose and placed the cage on a table near the window where
the bird was accustomed to be fed.  Charlie, in expectation of receiving
food, was in a high state of excitement, and seemed anxious to please
his master by repeating all his lessons as rapidly and correctly as
possible.  The Sergeant rolled up his white shirt-sleeves, to keep them
from being soiled by the work in which he was about to be engaged.
Being thus prepared, he opened the door of the cage, thrust in his hand,
and seized the bird, saying, "Bid fareweel to yer mistress, my wee
Charlie."

Katie sprang from her chair, and with a loud voice commanded the
Sergeant to "haud his han’ and let the bird alane!"

"What’s wrang?" asked the Sergeant, as he shut the door of the cage and
went towards his wife, who again sank back in her chair, and covered hef
eyes with her pocket-handkerchief.

"Oh, Adam!" she said, "I’m a waik, waik woman. My nerves are a’ gane; my
head and heart are baith sair.  A kind o’ glamour, a temptation has come
ower me, and I dinna ken what’s richt or what’s wrang.  I wuss I may be
forgie’n if I’m wrang, for the heart I ken is deceitfu’ aboon a’ things
and desperately wicked:--but, richt or wrang, neither by you nor by ony
ither body can I let that bird be kilt!  I canna thole’t! for I just
thocht e’enoo that I seed plainly afore me our ain wee bairn that’s
awa’--an’ oh, Adam!----"

Katie burst into a fit of weeping, and could say no more.  The Sergeant
hung up the cage in its old place; then going to his wife, he gently
clapped her shoulder, and bending over her whispered in her ear, "Dinna
ye fear, Katie, aboot Charlie’s bairn!"

Katie clasped her hands round his neck and drew his grey head to her
cheek, patting it fondly.

"Dry yer een, wifie," said Adam, "and feed the cratur, and syne we’ll
gang to the kirk in the afternoon."

He then retired to the bedroom, shut the door, and left Katie alone with
her starling and her conscience--both at peace, and both whistling, each
after its own fashion.




                              CHAPTER VII

                       THE SERGEANT ON HIS TRIAL


The Sergeant went to church in the afternoon, but he went alone.  Katie
was unable to accompany him.  "She didna like," she said.  But this
excuse being not quite satisfactory to her conscience, she had recourse
to that accommodating malady which comes to the rescue of universal
Christendom when in perplexity--a headache.  In her case it really
existed as a fact, for she suffered from a genuine pain which she had
not sufficient knowledge or fashion to call "nervous", but which, more
than likely, really came under that designation.  Her symptoms, as
described by herself, were that "her head was bizzin’ and bummin’ like a
bees’ skep".

As the Sergeant marched to church, with his accustomed regular pace and
modest look, he could, without seeming to remark it, observe an interest
taken in his short journey never manifested before. An extra number of
faces filled the windows near his house, and looked at him with half
smile, half sneer.

There was nothing in the sermon of Mr. Porteous which indicated any wish
to "preach to the times",--a temptation which is often too strong for
preachers to resist who have nothing else ready or more interesting to
preach about.  Many in a congregation who may be deaf and blind to the
Gospel, are wide-awake and attentive to gossip, from the pulpit.  The
good man delivered himself of an excellent sermon, which, as usual, was
sound in doctrine and excellent in arrangement, with suitable
introduction, "heads of discourse", and practical conclusion.  His
hearers, as a whole, were not of a character likely either to blame or
praise the teaching, far less to be materially influenced by it.  They
were far too respectable and well-informed for that.  They had "done the
right thing" in coming to church as usual, and were satisfied.  There
was one remark often made in the minister’s praise, that he was
singularly exact in preaching forty-five minutes, and in dismissing the
congregation at the hour and a half.

But there were evident signs of life in the announcement which he made
at the end of this day’s service. He "_particularly_ requested a meeting
of Kirk Session in the vestry after the benediction, and expressed a
hope that _all_ the elders would, if possible, attend".

Adam Mercer snuffed the battle from afar; but as it was his "duty" to
obey the summons, he obeyed accordingly.

The Kirk Session, in spite of defects which attend all human
institutions, including the House of Lords, with its Bench of Bishops,
is one of the most useful courts in Scotland, and has contributed
immensely in very many ways to improve the moral and physical condition
of the people.  Its members, as a rule, are the strength and comfort of
the minister, and it is, generally speaking, his own fault if they are
not. In the parish of Drumsylie the Session consisted of seven elders,
with the Minister as "Moderator".  These elders represented very fairly,
on the whole, the sentiments of the congregation and parish on most
questions which could come before them.

As all meetings of Kirk Session are held in private, reporters and
lawyers being alike excluded, we shall not pretend to give any account
of what passed at this one.  The parish rumours were to the effect that
the "Moderator", after having given a narrative of the occurrences of
the morning, explained how many most important principles were involved
in the case as it now stood--principles affecting the duty and powers of
Kirk Sessions; the social economy of the parish; the liberties and
influence of the Church, and the cause of Christian truth; and concluded
by suggesting the appointment of two members, Mr. Smellie and Mr.
Menzies, to "deal" with Mr. Mercer, and to report to the next meeting of
Session.  This led to a sharp discussion, in which Mr. Gordon, a
proprietor in the neighbourhood, protested against any matter which "he
presumed to characterise as trifling and unworthy of their grave
attention", being brought before them at all.  He also appealed the
whole case to the next meeting of Presbytery, which unfortunately was
not to take place for two months.

The Sergeant, strange to say, lost his temper when, having declared
"upon his honour as a soldier" that he meant no harm, and could
therefore make no apology, he was called to order by the Moderator for
using such a word as "honour" in a Church court.  Thinking his honour
itself called in question, Adam abruptly left the meeting.  Mr. Gordon,
it was alleged, had been seen returning home, at one moment laughing,
and the next evidently crying because of these proceedings; and more
than one of the elders, it was rumoured, were disposed to join him, but
were afraid of offending Mr. Porteous--a fear not unfrequently
experienced in the case of many of his parishioners.  The minister, it
may be remarked, was fond of quoting the text, "_first_ pure, _then_
peaceable".  But he never seemed to have attained the "first" in theory,
if one might judge from his neglect of the second in practice.

It was after this meeting of Session that Mr. Smellie remarked to Mr.
Menzies, as we have already recorded, that "the man was aince a
poacher!" a fact which, by the way, he had communicated to Mr. Porteous
also for the sake of "edification". Mr. Smellie bore a grudge towards
the Sergeant, who had somehow unwittingly ruffled his vanity or excited
his jealousy.  He was smooth as a cat; and, like a cat, could purr,
fawn, see in the dark, glide noiselessly, or make a sudden spring on his
prey.  The Sergeant, from certain circumstances which shall be hereafter
noticed, understood his character as few in the parish did.  Mr. Menzies
was a different, and therefore better man, his only fault being that he
believed in Smellie.

The Sergeant was later than usual in returning home.  It was impossible
to conceal from the inquiring and suspicious look of his wife that
something was out of joint, to the extent at least of making it
allowable and natural on her part to ask, "What’s wrang noo, Adam?"

"Nothing particular, except wi’ my honour," was the Sergeant’s cool
reply.

"Yer honour!  What’s wrang wi’ that?"

"The minister," said the Sergeant, "doots it, and he tells me that it
was wrang to speak aboot it."

On this, Katie, who did not quite comprehend his meaning, begged to know
what had taken place. "What did they say?  What did they do?  Wha
spak’?"  And she poured out a number of questions which could not
speedily be answered.  We hope it will not diminish the reader’s
interest in this excellent woman if we admit that for a moment she, too,
became the slave of gossip.  We deny that this prostration of the heart
and head to a mean idol is peculiar to woman--this craving for small
personal talk, this love of knowledge regarding one’s neighbours in
those points especially which are not to their credit, or which at least
are naturally desired by them to be kept secret from the world.  Weak,
idle, and especially vain men are as great traffickers as women in this
dissocial intercourse.  Like small insects, they use their small stings
for annoyance, and are flattered when they make strong men wince.

Katie’s fit was but momentary, and in the whole circumstances of the
case excusable.

The Sergeant told her of his pass at arms, and ended with an indignant
protest about his honour.

"What do they mak’," partly asserted, partly inquired Katie, "o’ ’Honour
to whom honour?’--and ’Honour all men?’--and ’Honour the king?’--and
’Honour faither and mither?’--what _I_ did a’ my life!  I’ll maintain
the word is Scriptoral!"

But the Sergeant, not being critical or controversial, did not wish to
contend with his wife on the connection which, as she supposed, existed
between the word honour, and his word of honour. His mind was becoming
perplexed and filled with painful thoughts.  This antagonism into which
he had been driven with those whom he had hitherto respected and
followed with unhesitating confidence, was growing rapidly into a form
and shape which was beyond his experience--alien to his quiet and
unobtrusive disposition, and contrary to his whole purpose of life.  He
sat down by the fireside, and went over all the events of the day.  He
questioned himself as to what he had said or done to give offence to
mortal man.  He recalled the history of his relationship to the
starling, to see, if possible, any wrong-doing in it.  He reviewed the
scene in the Kirk Session; and his conclusion, on the one hand, was a
stone blindness as to the existence of any guilt on his part, and on the
other, a strong suspicion that his minister _could_ not do him a
wrong--_could_ not be so displeased upon unjust, ignorant, or
unrighteous grounds, and that consequently there was a something--though
what it was he could neither discover nor guess--which Mr. Porteous had
misunderstood and had been misled by.  He went over and over again the
several items of this long account of debit and credit, without being
able to charge aught against himself, except possibly his concealment
from his minister of the reason why the starling was so much beloved,
and also the fact perhaps of his having taken offence, without adequate
cause, at the meeting of Session.  The result of all these complex
cogitations between himself and the red embers in the grate, was a
resolution to go that evening to the Manse, and by a frank explanation
put an end to all misunderstanding. In his pure heart the minister was
reflected as a man of righteousness, love, and peace.  He almost became
annoyed with the poor starling, especially as it seemed to enjoy perfect
ease and comfort on its perch, where it had settled for the night.

By and by he proceeded to call on the minister, but did not confide the
secret to Katie.




                              CHAPTER VIII

                      THE CONFERENCE IN THE MANSE


The manse inhabited by Mr. Porteous, like most of its parochial
companions at that time--for much improvement in this as in other
buildings has taken place since those days--was not beautiful, either in
itself or in its surroundings.  Its three upper windows stared day and
night on a blank hill, whose stupid outline concealed the setting, and
never welcomed the rising sun.  The two lower windows looked into a
round plot of tawdry shrubs, surrounded by a neglected boxwood border
which defended them from the path leading from the small green gate to
the door; while twenty yards beyond were a few formal ugly-looking trees
that darkened the house, and separated it from the arable land of the
glebe.  No blame to the minister for his manse or its belongings! On
£200 per annum, he could not keep a gardener, or afford any expensive
ornaments.  And for the same reason he had never married, although his
theory as to "feelings" may have possibly hindered him from taking this
humanising step.  And who knows what effect the small living and the
bachelor life may have had on his "principles"!

His sister lived with him.  To many a manse in Scotland the minister’s
sister has been a very angel in the house, a noble monument of devoted
service and of self-sacrificing love--only surpassed by that paragon of
excellence, if excellent at all, the minister’s wife.  But with all
charity, Miss Porteous--Thomasina she was called by her father, after
his brother in the West Indies, from whom money was expected, but who
had left her nothing--was not in any way attractive, and never gave one
the impression of self-sacrifice.  She evidently felt her position to be
a high one.  Being next to the Bishop, she evidently considered herself
an Archdeacon, Dean, or other responsible ecclesiastical personage.  She
was not ugly, for no woman is or can be that; but yet she was not
beautiful.  Being about fifty, as was guessed by the most charitable,
her looks were not what they once were, nor did they hold out any hope
of being improved, like wine, by age.  Her hair was rufous, and the
little curls which clustered around her forehead suggested, to those who
knew her intimately, the idea of screws for worming their way into
characters, family secrets, and similar private matters.  She was,
unfortunately, the minister’s newspaper, his remembrancer, his spiritual
detective and confidential informant as to all that belonged to the
parish and its passing history.

Miss Thomasina Porteous, in the absence of the servant, who was "on
leave" for a day or two, opened the door to the Sergeant.  Mr. Porteous
was in his study, popularly so called,--a small room, with a book-press
at one end, and a table in the centre, with a desk on it, a volume of
_Matthew Henry’s Commentary_, _Cruden’s Concordance_, an _Edinburgh
Almanac_, and a few _Reports_.  Beside the table, and near the fire, was
an arm-chair, in which the minister sat reading a volume of sermons.  No
sooner was the Sergeant announced than Mr. Porteous rose, looked over
his spectacles, hesitated, and at last shook hands, as if with an
icicle, or in conformity with Act of Parliament.  Then, motioning Mr.
Mercer to a seat, he begged to inquire to what he owed this call,
accompanying the questioning with a hint to Thomasina to leave the room.
The Sergeant’s first feeling was that he had made a great mistake, and
he wished he had never left the army.

"Well, Mr. Mercer?" inquired the minister, as he sat opposite to the
Sergeant.

"I am sorry to disturb you, sir," replied the Sergeant, "but I wished to
say that I think I was too hot and hasty this afternoon in the Session."

"Pray don’t apologise to _me_, Mr. Mercer," said the minister.
"Whatever you have to say on that point, had better be said publicly
before the Kirk Session. Anything else?"

The Sergeant wavered, as military historians would say, before this
threatened opposition, as if suddenly met by a square of bristling
bayonets.

"Well, then," he at last said, "I wish to tell you frankly, and in as
few words as possible, what no human being kens but my wife.  I never
blame ignorance, and I’m no gaun to blame yours, Mr. Porteous, but----"

"_My_ ignorance!" exclaimed the minister.  "It’s come to a pretty pass
indeed, if _you_ are to blame it, or remove it!  Ignorance of what,
pray?"

"Your ignorance, Mr. Porteous," continued the Sergeant, "on a point
which I should have made known to you, and for which I alone and not you
are in faut."

The minister seemed relieved by this admission.

The Sergeant forthwith told the story of the starling as the playmate of
his child, the history of whose sickness and death was already known to
Mr. Porteous; and having concluded, he said, "That’s the reason, sir,
why I couldna kill the bird.  I wadna tell this to ony man but to
yersel’, for it’s no’ my fashion tae sen’ the drum aboot the toon for
pity or for sympathy; but I wish _you_, sir, to ken what’s fac, for yer
ain guidance and the guidance o’ the Session."

"I remember your boy well," remarked Mr. Porteous, handing his snuff-box
in a very kindly way to his visitor.

The Sergeant nodded.  "Ye did _your_ duty, minister, to us on that
occasion, or I wadna have come here the nicht.  I kent ye wad like
onything Charlie was fond o’."

"I quite understand your feelings, Sergeant, and sympathise with them."

The Sergeant smiled, and nodded, and said, "I hope ye do, sir; I was
sure ye would.  I’m thankfu’ I cam’, and sae will Katie be."  The burden
was lifting off his heart.

"But," said Mr. Porteous, after a pause and a long snuff, "I must be
faithful with you, Adam: ’_First_ pure, _then_ peaceable,’ you know."

"And I hope, sir," said Adam, "’easy to be entreated.’"

"_That,_" replied Mr. Porteous, "depends on circumstances. Let us,
therefore, look at the whole aspects of the case.  There is to be
considered, for example, your original delinquency, mistake, or call it
by what name you please; then there is to be taken into account my full
explanation, given ministerially in your own house, of the principles
which guided my conduct and ought to guide yours; then there is also the
matter of the Kirk Session--the fact that they have taken it up, which
adds to its difficulty--a difficulty, however, let me say, Mr. Mercer,
which has not been occasioned by me.  Now, review all these--especially
that with which you have personally most to do--the _origo mali_, so to
speak--the fact that a bird endeared to you by very touching
associations was, let me admit it, accidentally, and
unintentionally,--let this also be granted for the sake of
argument,--made by you the occasion of scandal.  We are agreed on this
point at least?"

"It was on that point," interrupted the Sergeant, "I thought you doubted
my honour."

"No!" said Mr. Porteous; "I only declared that ’honour’ was a worldly,
not a Christian phrase, and unfit therefore for a Church court."

The Sergeant was nonplussed.  Thinking his ignorance sinful, he bowed,
and said no more.

"I am glad you acquiesce so far," continued Mr. Porteous.  "But
further:--carefully observe," and he leant forward, with finger and
thumb describing an argumentative enclosure out of which Adam could not
escape--"observe that the visible, because notorious, _fact_ of scandal
demands some reparation by a fact equally visible and notorious; you
see? What kind of reparation I demanded, I have already told you.  I
smile at its amount, in spite of all you have said, and said so well, in
explaining your difficulties in not at once making it; nay I sympathise
with your kindly, though, permit me to say, your weak _feeling_, Adam.
But, is feeling principle?"  Here Mr. Porteous paused with a complacent
smile to witness the telling effect of his suggestive question.  "Were
our Covenanting forefathers," he went on to say, "guided by feeling in
giving their testimony for truth by the sacrifice of their very lives?
Were the martyrs of the early Church guided by feeling?  But I will not
insult an elder of mine by any such arguments, as if he were either
ignorant of them, or insensible to their importance.  Let me just add,"
concluded the minister, in a low, emphatic, and solemn voice, laying one
hand on Adam’s knee, "what would your dear boy _now_ think--supposing
him to be saved--if he knew that his father was willing to lose, or even
to weaken his influence for good in the parish--to run the risk of being
suspended, as you now do, from the honourable position of an elder--and
all for what?" asked the minister, throwing himself back in his chair,
and spreading out his hands--"all for what! a toy, a plaything, a bird!
and because of your _feeling_--think of it, Adam--your _feeling_!  All
must yield but you: neighbours must yield, Session must yield, and I
must yield!--no sacrifice or satisfaction will you make, not even of
this bird; and all because _your_ feelings, forsooth, would suffer!
_That’s_ your position, Adam.  I say it advisedly.  And finally, as I
also hinted to you, what would the Dissenters say if we were less pure
in our discipline than themselves?  Tell it not in Gath, proclaim it not
in the streets of Askelon--the Philistines would rejoice!  Take any view
of the case you please, it is bad--very bad."  And the minister struck
his thigh, turned round in his chair, and looked at the roof of the
room.

Adam at that moment felt as if he was the worst man in the parish, and
given over to the power of evil.

"I dinna understand," he said, bending down his head, and scratching his
whisker.

"I thought you did not, Adam--I thought you did not," said Mr. Porteous,
turning towards him again; "but I am glad if you are beginning to see it
at last.  Once you get a hold of a principle, all becomes clear."

"It’s a sharp principle, minister; it’s no’ easy seen. It has a fine
edge, but cuts deep--desperate deep," remarked Adam, in an undertone.

"That is the case with most principles, Adam," replied Mr. Porteous.
"They have a fine edge, but one which, nevertheless, separates between a
lie and truth, light and darkness.  But if you have it--hold it fast."

The minister’s principles seemed unanswerable; Adam’s sense of right
unassailable.  Like two opposing armies of apparently equal strength
they stood, armed, face to face, and a battle was unavoidable.  Could
both be right, and capable of reconciliation?  Could right principle and
right feeling, or logical deductions from sound principles, ever be
really opposed to the strongest instincts of the heart, the moral
convictions of a true and loving nature? A confused medley of questions
in casuistry tortured Adam’s simple conscience, until they became like a
tangled thread, the more knotted the more he tried to disentangle the
meshes.

The Sergeant rose to depart, saying, "I have a small Sabbath class which
meets in my house, and I must not be too late for it; besides, there’s
nae use o’ my waiting here langer: I have said my say, and can say nae
mair."

"You will return to your class with more satisfaction," said Mr.
Porteous, "after this conversation. But, to prevent all misunderstanding
or informality, you will of course be waited upon by your brethren; and
when they understand, as I do, that you will cheerfully comply with our
request, and when they report the same, no more will be said of the
matter, unless Mr. Gordon foolishly brings it up.  And if--let me
suggest, though I do not insist--if, next Sunday, you should hang the
cage where it was this morning when it gave rise to such scandal, but
without the bird in it, the neighbours would, I am sure, feel gratified,
as I myself would, by such an unmistakable sign of your good-will to all
parties."

The Sergeant had once or twice made an effort to "put in a word", but at
last thought it best to hear the minister to the end.  Then, drawing
himself up as if on parade, he said, "I fear you have ta’en me up wrang,
Mr. Porteous.  My silence wasna consent. Had my auld Colonel--ane o’ the
best and kindest o’ men--ordered me to march up to a battery, I wad hae
done’t, though I should hae been blawn the next moment up to the moon;
but if he had ordered me, for example, tae strike a bairn, or even tae
kill my bird, I wad hae refused, though I had been shot the next minute
for’t.  There are things I canna do, and winna do, for mortal man, as
long as God gies me my heart: and this is ane o’ them--I’ll never kill
’Charlie’s bairn’.  That’s my last word--and ye can do as you and the
Session please."

The minister stood aghast with astonishment.  The Sergeant saluted him
soldier-fashion, and walked out of the room, followed by Mr. Porteous to
the front door.  As he passed out, the minister said, "Had you shot
fewer birds, sir, in your youth, you might have escaped the consequences
of refusing to shoot this one now.  ’Be sure your sin will find you
out’," he added, in a louder voice, as he shut the door with extra
force, and with a grim smile upon his face.

Smellie had informed him that forenoon of Mercer’s poaching days.

"Capital!" exclaimed Miss Thomasina, as she followed him into the study
out of a dark corner in the lobby near the door, where she had been
ensconced, listening to the whole conversation.  "Let his proud spirit
take that!  I wonder you had such patience with the upsetting, petted
fellow.  Him and his bird, forsooth, to be disturbing the peace of the
parish!"

"Leave him to me," quietly replied Mr. Porteous; "I’ll work him."




                               CHAPTER IX

                    CHARLIE’S COT ONCE MORE OCCUPIED


As the Sergeant returned home the sun set, and the whole western sky
became full of glory, with golden islands sleeping on a sea in which it
might seem a thousand rainbows had been dissolved; while the holy calm
of the Sabbath eve was disturbed only by the "streams unheard by day",
and by the last notes of the strong blackbird and thrush,--for all the
other birds, wearied with singing since daybreak, had gone to sleep.
The beauty of the landscape, a very gospel of "glory to God in the
highest, on earth peace and goodwill to men", did not, however, lift the
dull weight off Adam’s heart.  He felt as if he had no right to share
the universal calm.

"Be sure your sin will find you out!"  So his minister had said.
Perhaps it was true.  He had sinned in his early poaching days; but he
thought he had repented, and become a different man.  Was it indeed so?
or was he now suffering for past misconduct, and yet too blind to see
the dealings of a righteous God with him?  It is twilight with Adam as
well as with the world!

He expected to meet his small evening class of about a dozen poor
neglected children who assembled every Sunday evening in his house, and
which, all alone, and without saying anything about it, he had taught
for some years, after his own simple and earnest fashion.  He was
longing to meet them. It would give him something to do--something to
occupy his disturbed mind--a positive good about which there was no
possible doubt; and it would also prevent Katie from seeking information
that would be painful for him to give and for her to receive.

To his astonishment he found one girl only in attendance.  This was Mary
Semple, or "Wee Mary", as she was generally called; a fatherless and
motherless orphan, without a known relation on earth, and who was
boarded by the Session, as being the only poor-law guardians in the
parish, with a widow in the immediate neighbourhood, to whom two
shillings weekly were paid for her.  Adam and his wife had taken a great
fancy to Mary.  She was nervous and timid from constitutional
temperament, which was aggravated by her poor upbringing as an infant,
and by the unkind usage, to say the least of it, she often received from
Mrs. Craigie, with whom she lived.  Adam had more than once expostulated
with the Kirk Session for boarding Mary with this woman; but as Mrs.
Craigie was patronised by Mr. Smellie, and as no direct charge against
her could be "substantiated on sufficient evidence", such as Mr. Smellie
demanded, Mary was not removed.  But she often crept into the Sergeant’s
house to warm herself and get a "piece" with Charlie; for she was so
meek, so kind, so playful, as to have been always welcomed as a fit
companion for the boy.  This was, perhaps, the secret of the attachment
of Adam and his wife to her after their boy’s death.

But where were the other children of the class? Mrs. Mercer could not
conjecture.  Could Mary? She hung her head, looked at her fingers, and
"couldna say", but yet seemed to have something to say, until at last
she confessed, saying: "Mrs. Craigie flyted on me for wantin’ to come to
the Sabbath-nicht skule, and said she wad gie me a thrashing if I left
the house when she gaed to the evenin’ sermon; but I ran awa’ to the
class, and I’m feared to gang hame."

"What for are ye feared, Mary?" asked the Sergeant.

"Jist because----" replied Mary, with her head down.

"Because o’ what, bairn?" persistently asked the Sergeant.

"Because o’ the bird," said Mary, driven to a corner.  And being further
urged, she went on to tell in her own way how "a’ the weans had been
ordered by their folk no’ to come to the class, as----"

But Mary hung down her head again, and was silent.

"As what, Mary?"

"As----"  And she wept as if her heart would break.

"As what, Mary?"

"As the Sergeant was an awfu’ bad man," she added, in her sobs.

"Don’t cry, Mary--be calm," said Adam.

"But I’ve com’d, as I kent it was a lee," the child said, looking up to
Adam’s face.

Mary had faith!  But if the Sergeant had any doubt as to Mary’s story,
it was soon dispelled by the sudden appearance of Mrs. Craigie,
demanding the child in a very decided tone of voice, and without making
any apology for the sudden intrusion, or offering any explanation.  "Did
I no’ tell ye to bide at hame, ye guid-for-nothing lassie?  Come awa’
wi’ me this minute!" she said, advancing to take hold of Mary.

Mary sprang to the Sergeant and hid herself behind his back.

"Not so hasty, Mrs. Craigie," said the Sergeant, protecting her; "not so
hasty, if you please.  What’s wrong?"

"Dinna let her tak’ me!  Oh, dinna let her tak’ me!" cried Mary, from
behind the Sergeant, and holding fast by his coat-tails.  "She struck me
black and blue; look at my arm," she continued, and she showed him her
little thin arm, coloured by Mrs. Craigie.

"Ye leein’ cuttie!" exclaimed Mrs. Craigie; "I’ll mak’ ye that ye’ll no
clipe fibs on me!" shaking her clenched fist at the unseen Mary.  Then,
looking the Sergeant in the face, with arms akimbo, she said, "I’ll mak’
you answer for this, ye hypocrite! that hae tried, as I ken, mony a time
to beguile Mary frae me.  But I hae freens, ay, hae I, freens that wull
see justice dune to me, and to _you_ too--that wull they, faix!  Black
and blue!  She fell running frae your ain wicked bird, whan ye were
corrupting the young on this verra Sabbath morning. And I said to Mr.
Smellie at the kirk-door in the afternoon, when the Session was by, ’Mr.
Smellie,’ says I, ’ye gied me a bairn to keep,’ says I, ’and to be
brocht up in the fear o’ religion,’ says I; ’but it’s ill to do that,’
says I, ’beside yon Sergeant,’ says I.  I did that, that did I; and Mr.
Smellie telt me he wad see justice dune me, and dune you, and that ye
war afore the Session, and I’m thankfu’ to a kind Providence that’s what
_I never was_.  Gie me my bairn, I say!" and she made another pounce at
Mary, followed by another cry from the child for protection.

Katie had retired to the bedroom and shut the door.

The Sergeant said, "I’ll keep Mary.  Gang hame, Mrs. Craigie.  I’ll
answer to the Session for you. Nae mair scauldin’ here."  And he pressed
forward with outstretched arms, gently compelling Mrs. Craigie to
retreat towards the door, until she finally vanished with exclamations,
and protestations, and vows of vengeance, which need not be here
repeated.

[Illustration: ’I’LL KEEP MARY’  Page 66]

"Sirs, me!" ejaculated Katie, as she came out of her retreat; "that’s
awfu’!"

"Dinna be frichtened, my wee woman," said the Sergeant, as he led Mary
to the fireside.  "Warm yer bit feet, and get yer supper, and I’ll gie
ye a lesson afore ye gang to yer bed."

Mary blew her nose, dried her eyes, and did as she was bid.

The Sergeant motioned to his wife to come to the bedroom.  He shut the
door, and said, "I’ll never pairt wi’ Mary, come what may.  My heart
tells me this.  Get Charlie’s bed ready for her; she’ll lie there, and
be our bairn.  God has sent her."

"I was thinking that mysel’," said Katie; "I aye liked the wee thing,
and sae did Charlie."

The Sergeant’s lesson was a very simple one, as, indeed, most of his
were.  He took the child on his knee, and putting on his spectacles,
made her read one or two simple verses of Scripture.  This night he
selected, from some inner connexion, the verse from the Sermon on the
Mount:--"Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they
reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are
ye not much better than they?"

And he said, "Mary, dear, did you come and hear my bird whistle?"

"Oo, ay," replied Mary.  "It was real bonnie; and I thocht a’ the time
o’ wee Charlie."

"But why did ye run awa’ and mak’ a noise on the Sabbath morning?  Ye
shouldna hae been sporting on the Lord’s day."

"I was frichtened for the minister," replied Mary.

"Why were ye frichtened for the good man?"

"I dinna ken," said Mary; "but the boys ran, and I ran, and Archy Walker
fell ower me and hurled me.  I wasna meaning ony ill;" and Mary
threatened to give way again.

"Whisht, Mary," said the Sergeant.  "I wasna blaming you; but ye ken I
didna hang Charlie’s bird oot to harm you, or mak’ sport, but only
because he wasna weel."

"What was wrang wi’ him?" asked Mary. "There’s an awfu’ heap o’ measles
gaun aboot."

"Not that," said the Sergeant, smiling; "but it was to mak’ him weel,
no’ to mak’ you play, that I pit him oot.  But ye see God kens aboot the
bird, and it was Him that made him, and that feeds him; and see hoo he
sleeps ower your new bed,--for that’s whaur Charlie used to sleep; and
ye’ll sleep there, dear, and bide wi’ me; and God, that takes care o’
the wee birds, will tak’ care o’ you."

Mary said nothing, but turned her face and hid it in the Sergeant’s
bosom, next his heart; and he was more than ever persuaded that his
heart was not wrong in wishing the orphan to lie there.

"Mary," the Sergeant whispered to her after a while, "ye maun aye ca’ me
faither."

Mary lay closer to his heart.

Katie, who had been sitting in the same arm-chair which she had occupied
in the morning, heard her husband’s words, and rising, bent over the
child, and added, "And, Mary, ye maun aye ca’ me mither."

The starling, who was asleep, suddenly awoke, as if startled, shook
himself, elevated his yellow bill above the round ball of feathers,
turned his head and looked at the group with his full bright eye, and
although too drowsy to say "I’m Charlie’s bairn," he evidently
remembered the relationship, and would have expressed it too--partly
from jealousy, partly from love--had he not been again overpowered by
sleep.

"We’ll hae worship," said the Sergeant, as he put Mary down, and placed
her in a little chair which had never been occupied since his boy died.
After reading the Scriptures--the portion chosen was the 23rd Psalm--the
Sergeant prayed, Mary concluding at his request by repeating the Lord’s
Prayer aloud.  They then retired to rest--Charlie’s cot once more
occupied; and the quiet stars never shone on a more peaceful home.




                               CHAPTER X

                  THE SERGEANT ALONE WITH THE STARLING


Mr. Smellie called upon the Sergeant next forenoon.  His manner was cold
and formal, as that of one who had power, if not right, on his side, and
whose pride was flattered by the conviction that his real or supposed
opponent was in the wrong. His reception was equally cold, for although
Adam had respect for his minister, and also for Mr. Menzies, he had, as
we have already said, none whatever for Mr. Smellie.

"Mr. Mercer," said Smellie, "I have called on you, in order first of all
to correct a grave error you have committed in regard to Mary Semple,
the child boarded by the Kirk Session with Mrs. Craigie."

"I’m not aware, Mr. Smellie," replied the Sergeant, "that _you_ are the
Kirk Session, or have any richt whatsomever to correct my error, as ye
ca’t, in this matter."

Smellie smiled sarcastically, and added, "In a friendly way, at least,
Mr. Mercer.  You, of course, ken that the whole expense of the bairn
must be borne by yersel’, for I don’t believe that the Session will pay
one farthing to you--not a farthing!--as you have ta’en her from Mrs.
Craigie on your ain responsibility."

"I ken a’ that; and I ken also that I mean to keep her frae Mrs.
Craigie, unless the Session and the law hinder me, and compel me to gie
her up; which is no’ likely; but if they do, on them be the curse of
injuring the orphan.  Understan’ then that I mean to keep her at my ain
expense, even should the Session offer to pay for her.  Anything else,
Mr. Smellie?"

"Weel then, Mr. Mercer," said Smellie, "see til’t, see til’t; for there
will be determined opposition to you."

"I have had worse in my day, Mr. Smellie," drily replied the Sergeant,
"and I’m no’ feared.  In the meantime Mary remains here, and I’m
determined she’ll never return to Mrs. Craigie--that’s settled. An’ if
the Session kent the woman as I do, and maybe as ye do, they wad be
thankfu’, as I am, that Mary is wi’ me and no’ wi’ her.  Onything mair
to complain o’ in what ye ca’ a freendly way?"

"Oh, naething, naething!" said Mr. Smellie, with pent-up annoyance,
"except that the committee which the Session appointed--that’s me and
Mr. Menzies--to deal with you about this scandal--a most unpleasant
business--mean to ca’ upo’ you this evening at six, if that hour will
suit."

"As weel, or as ill, as ony other hour, Mr. Smellie," replied Adam, "for
I dinna mean to be dealt wi’, either by you or by Mr. Menzies."

"No’ to be dealt with, Mr. Mercer!  Do ye mean to say that ye won’t even
receive the committee?" he asked with amazement.

"That’s jist exactly what I mean, Mr. Smellie!" replied Adam; "I don’t
mean to receive your committee, that’s plain, and you may tak’ a minute
o’t. If ye wish to ken why, ye had better speer at Mr. Porteous.  But ye
needna trouble yoursel’ wi’ me. What I have said I’ll stan’ to like a
man; what I have promised I’ll perform like a Christian; and what I
canna do, I winna do!  If ye need mair explanation, this maybe will
suffice:--that I’ll no’ kill my bird for you, nor for the Session, nor
yet for the minister, nor for the hail parish; and that ye may as well
try tae kill me wi’ blank cartridge, as try yer han’ in persuading me to
kill the starling. Sae, Mr. Smellie, as far as that business is
concerned, ye may gang hame, and no wat yer shoon to come my gait ony
mair."

"Sae be’t, sae be’t!" replied Smellie, with a cackle of a laugh, as much
as to say, "I have him!"  He then bowed and departed, walking silently
like a cat along the street, but not purring.  Yet he seemed to be
feeling for something with the long hairs which projected from his
whiskers like bristles.

Poor Adam!  Now began such a week in his history as he never had
experienced before.  Oh! it was cold, dark, and dreary!  He had to drink
the cup of loneliness in the midst of his fellowmen--the bitterest cup
which can be tasted by anyone who loves his brother.  But all his
suffering was kept within his own heart, and found "no relief in word,
or sigh, or tear".

What a sinner he had become in the opinion of many of the respectable
inhabitants of Drumsylie! What a double distilled spirit of evil!--far
over proof, for no _proofs_ are ever applied to such evil spirits.
Drumsylie was all agog about him.  He was as interesting as a shipwreck
to a seaport town; as a great swindle to a stock exchange; or as a
murder to a quiet neighbourhood!  What had he done!  What had he been
guilty of!  Some said, or at least heard that some one else had said,
that he had insulted the minister and the Kirk Session; others, that he
had secretly supported himself as a poacher; others that he had been
heard to declare, that rather than kill the bird, he would, out of mere
spite and obstinacy, give up the eldership, the Church, ay, even
Christianity itself; others, that he had stolen a child from Mrs.
Craigie, whom, though a woman, he, a soldier, had threatened to strike
in his own house.  He was a terror even to evil doers!

Most marvellous is this birth and upbringing of lies!  Who lays the
first egg?  How does it multiply so rapidly?  And how singular is the
development of each of the many eggs--through all the stages of evil
thoughts, suspicious hints, wondering _if’s_ and _maybe’s_, perversions,
exaggerations, fibs, white lies--until it is fully hatched into
out-and-out lies repeated with diligence, malice, and hate!  We can give
no account of this social phenomenon except the old one, of the devil
being first the parent of the whole family, and his then distributing
and boarding out each to trustworthy friends to be hatched and trained
up in the way it should go in order to please him, its parent.

In Drumsylie, as in other towns, there were some who so indulged the
self-pleasing habit of confessing and mourning over the sins and
shortcomings of their neighbours, that they had little time or
inclination to confess their own.  Some of these confessors might be
heard during this week in Adam’s history lamenting:--"Oh! it’s a
dreadfu’ place this!  Eh! it’s eneuch to keep ane sleepless to think
o’t!  Whan a man like Adam Mercer, wi’ a’ his knowledge and profession,
becomes a scoffer, and despises ordinances, and," &c. &c.

But it would be unjust to Drumsylie and the Sergeant to affirm that this
state of public feeling had not very many marked exceptions.  Some,
chiefly among the poor, truly loved him and sympathized with him, and
openly confessed this.  Many protested, in private at least, against his
treatment. But such is, alas! the moral cowardice, or maybe the
thoughtlessness only, of even good men, that few expressed to Adam
himself their goodwill towards him, or their confidence in his
righteousness.  It is indeed remarkable, in a free country of brave men,
how very many there are who, before taking any decided part in questions
which distract communities, small or great, attentively consider on
which side the hangman is, or seems likely to be.  The executioner’s
cord seen in the possession of this or that party has a wonderful
influence on the number of its adherents.  As far as appearances went,
this sign of authority and power was supposed for the time being to be
in the possession of the Rev. Daniel Porteous.  And so the cautious and
prudent consoled themselves by saying: "It is not our business", or
"Least said soonest mended", or "Why quarrel with the minister?" or "Why
displease my aunt, or my uncle, who are so bigoted and narrow?" or "Mr.
Porteous and the majority of Session may be wrong, but that is their
affair, not ours".  Such were some of the characteristic sayings of the
men who were doubtful as to the side which possessed Calcraft and his
cord of office.

Mr. Smellie had communicated Adam Mercer’s resolution to Mr. Menzies,
and this had deterred him from attempting to follow in the track of
expostulation with Adam, which it was evident would lead to nothing.
Smellie had failed--who could succeed? Mr. Menzies ought to have
_tried_.  Some success by one good man in dealing with another good man,
is certain.

The Session met on the next Sunday after Adam’s quarrel with his
minister, or rather of his minister with him.  The court was, as usual,
"constituted by prayer".  But whether the spirit of prayer constitutes
the spirit of every meeting opened by it, may, without offence, be
questioned.  It is unnecessary to condense the debates--for debates
there were at this meeting. Adam, with a soldier’s gentlemanly feeling,
did not attend, lest it might be supposed that he wished to influence
the court.  Smellie, in spite of some opposing murmurs of dissent,
ascribed his absence to "contumacious pride", and the minister did not
contradict him.

Mr. Porteous addressed the court.  He asked whether it was possible for
them to stop proceedings in the case of Mr. Mercer without stultifying
themselves?  Had they not taken the very mildest and most judicious
course, and considered both what was due to themselves and also to their
erring brother?  Yet they had not only failed to obtain the slightest
concession from him, but he had gone so far as even to refuse to receive
or confer with their own committee!  The case was no doubt most
distressing to them all, but, as far as he could see, it would bring
well-merited ridicule on all Church discipline if they dropped it at
this stage.  To appoint another deputation would be disrespectful to the
dignity of the court; and as for himself, he had done all he could since
their last meeting to bring about an amicable settlement: for, on the
previous Sabbath evening, he had had a private interview in the manse
with Mr. Mercer, which had terminated, he grieved to say, in a most
unsatisfactory manner.

Such was the general tenor of the minister’s harangue.  It was in vain
that Mr. Gordon, backed by William Simpson, farmer, of Greenfield, and
Andrew Grainger, watchmaker, argued against the minister--the latter
declaring that the Session were putting back the hands of the clock, and
falling behind time.

But all in vain!  Adam, by the casting vote of the Moderator, was
"suspended" from the eldership; that is, deprived for a time of his
official position. Mr. Gordon and the two elders who supported him,
vehemently protested against what they called the "tyrannical proceeding
of the majority".  Most fortunately for the cause of justice, the Rev.
Daniel was not a bishop who could rule his parish presbyters as his own
"principles", whims, or--pardon the irreverent insinuation--his
indigestion, might dictate. There was a higher court, and there was the
law of the land, higher than the court, to curb the minister’s will, or
as he always called it when in a passion--his conscience.  The sentence
of the Session might be, as was confidently anticipated, reversed by the
Presbytery, though the district was notoriously narrow and prejudiced,
and some of the clergy fancied that moving straws showed how the winds
of heaven blew, when they were only stirred by their own breath.

When Adam returned on that Sunday afternoon from church, he fortunately
did not know, though he more than suspected, what the decision of the
Kirk Session had been.  He knew certainly that his case must not only
have come before the court, but must also, from its nature, have caused
such a division of opinion as would make his position as an elder one of
remark, of suspicion, and, to him, of personal pain.  It was a temporary
comfort, however, that he had no certain bad news to communicate to
Katie, and that he could say, as he did with truth, "It wasna for me to
be present, or to interfere.  They have done their duty nae doot, an’ I
have done mine as far as I could."

When his humble Sunday meal was over, and before sunset, Adam went to
visit one or two of the sick, infirm, or bedridden, who were on his list
to attend to as an elder.  Not until he was on his way to their homes
did he realise the fact that, for the present at least, he was probably
no longer an elder.  But as he never had formed the habit of visiting
the sick as a mere official, but had made his office only a better
means, given him in God’s providence, for gratifying his benevolent and
Christian feelings, he went, as he was wont to do, with a peaceful
spirit and loving heart.  The poor and suffering whom he visited
received him with their usual kindness and gratitude. They _felt_ that
Adam could not be a bad or false man; that in him was love--love in its
meekness, calmness, self-possession, sympathy, and forgiveness of
others. They could not, perhaps, explain the grounds of their perfect
and unreserved confidence in him, yet they could not--it was
impossible--entertain any doubts of his Christian character which could
hinder their hearts from feeling what they in many cases expressed with
their lips, that "A _real_ guid man is Adam Mercer!  It’s me that should
say’t, for he has been aye kind and guid to me.  I’m no saying wha’s
richt or wrang; I ken this only, that I’ll stan’ by Adam! I wish we had
mair like him!"




                               CHAPTER XI

         THE OLD SOLDIER AND HIS YOUNG PUPIL ON SUNDAY EVENING


On his return home after these visits, he placed Mary on Charlie’s
chair, beside himself, resolving, although the other members of the
class were still absent, that he would nevertheless teach Mary as their
representative, as well as for her own sake.  There had come into his
possession one of those small books of guidance and instruction which
many intellectual people--so called by men, but probably not so
recognized by the angels, who minister even to children--affect to
despise, just as they would despise any "still small voice" when
compared with the loud storm, the brilliant fire, and the powerful,
rock-moving earthquake.  This book was but a number of texts wisely
arranged by a bedridden Christian, for each day of the year, with one of
special and deeper import for its Sabbaths.  The text for this Lord’s
Day was--"They who know thy name will put their trust in thee"; and Adam
said to Mary, when she had repeated it as the lesson for the day, "Do ye
understan’ what is meant, my dearie, by trusting God?"

"I’m no sure," she replied.

"But ye surely ken what it wad be to trust _me_, Mary?" continued the
Sergeant.

Mary looked up and smiled.  She made no reply, but was evidently puzzled
by an attempt she was unconsciously making to understand the possibility
of want of trust in the Sergeant.  So, finding no response, he again
asked, "Wad ye trust me, my wee woman?"

Mary seemed vexed, and said, "What wrang hae I dune?  Ye telt me aye to
ca’ you faither; I canna help; sae ye maunna be angry, for I hae nae
faither but you."

"Richt! verra richt!" said the Sergeant; "but, Mary dear, wad ye trust
God as weel as me?"

"No!" said Mary, very decidedly.

"What for no’?" asked the Sergeant, kindly.

"I’m awfu’ frichtened for him," said Mary.

"Why are ye frichtened for _Him_?" asked Adam.

Mary seemed to be counting the buttons on his coat.

"Tell me, bairn!" he continued.

"Because," said Mary, sorrowfully, yet encouraged by his tone, "Mrs.
Craigie aye telt me He wad sen’ me to the bad place; and when I got my
fit burned she said that I wad be a’ burnt thegither some day, as I was
a bad lassie; and I’m sure I wasna’ doing her ony ill to mak’ her say
that."

"God will never," remarked the Sergeant, reverently, "send ye to the bad
place, unless ye gang yersel’."

"I’ll never do that!" exclaimed Mary.

"I hope no’, my lassie," said Adam, "for I wish you no’ to be bad, but
to be good; and to trust God is the way to be good.  Noo tell me, Mary,
why wad ye trust me?"

"Because--jist because," said Mary, looking up to his face, "ye’re
faither."

"Weel dune, Mary!" continued the Sergeant. "Noo tell me what’s the
beginning o’ the Lord’s Prayer?"

"Our Faither which art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy name.  Thy----"

"That’ll do, Mary," interrupted Adam.  "But can ye tell me noo wha’s yer
Faither as weel as me?"

After a pause, Mary said, as if she had made a discovery, "Our Faither
in heaven!"

"That’s a clever woman!  _Faither!_ that’s God’s _Name_.  And noo that
ye ken his Name, ye maun trust Him faur mair than me: for He lo’es ye
mair than I can do, and is aye wi’ ye; and never will forsake ye, and
can aye help ye; and He has said that when faither and mither forsake
you, he will tak’ ye up.  That will He, my lassie!"

"But," said Mary, "my mither and faither, they tell me, dee’d wi’ fever,
but didna forsake me."

"That’s true; but I mean, my bairn," said Adam, "that ye can never be an
orphan lassie wi’ God as yer Faither."

"But," said Mary, "for a’ that, ye maun aye be my faither as weel.  Oh!
dinna sen’ me back to Mrs. Craigie."

"Dinna fear, Mary," replied Adam; "but maybe I maun hae to leave you.
God may tak’ me awa’, and tak’ yer mither there awa’ too; and then when
ye’re alane in the world, ye maun trust God."

"I’ll no’ trust Him," replied Mary; "if you and mither dees, I’ll dee
tae, and gang wi’ ye."  And she fairly broke down, and clung to him as
if he was about to leave her.

The Sergeant took Mary on his knee.  "Be cheerie, Mary--be cheerie!" he
said.  "If ye kent God, ye wad aye be cheerie, my lassie.  Mrs. Craigie
has frichted ye."

"Ay, awfu’!" said Mary.

The Sergeant felt as if Mary had not quite learned her lesson, and he
continued:--"D’ye mind what I telt ye ae nicht aboot mithers bringing
their bairns to Christ?--and hoo some folk that didna ken Him were for
keeping them awa’?--and hoo Jesus was angry at them?--and hoo the bairns
gaed till Him----"

"And did they no’ squeel wi’ fricht?" asked Mary.

"Did ye squeel, Mary," asked the Sergeant, with a smile, "when I took ye
into _my_ arms?"

"No.  What for should I?" replied Mary.

"Aweel, my lassie," argued Adam, "why do ye think that bairns like
yersel’ should be frichted to trust that same Jesus wha was Himsel’ a
bairn and kens a bairn’s heart?  He wad be unco sorry, Mary, if ye didna
trust Him, when He dee’d, as ye ken, on the cross to save you and me and
ilka body, and aye thinks aboot us and prays for us."

Mary sighed, and crept closer to the Sergeant.

Adam, taking her little hand in his, said, "Mind what I tell ye, my
bairn.  Learn ye to speak aye to God and tell Him yer heart in yer ain
prayer, and never gang ony road He wadna like; and stick till Him as ye
wad to me if we were gaun ower the muir thegither at nicht, or through a
burn in a spate; and never, Mary, in the hour o’ distress think that He
doesna care for you or has forgotten you.  For nae doot whan ye grow up
to be big ye’ll hae mony a distress, like ither folk, ye dinna ken aboot
yet."

Mary turned her face to his bosom as if to sleep, but never was she less
inclined to sleep.

The Sergeant added, with a sigh, "Think, my wee dearie, on what I tell
ye noo, after I’m dead and gane."

Katie, seated on the opposite side of the fire, had been reading
Boston’s _Crook in the Lot_.  She seemed not to have heard a word of her
husband’s lesson; but her ears drank in the whole of it.  The Sergeant
had evidently forgotten her presence, so quiet was she, and so absorbed
was he with Mary, who was to him a new life--his own child restored.
But as Katie caught his last words, she put down her book, and looking
almost in anger at her husband--could she have felt jealous of
Mary?--said, "Tuts, Adam! what’s the use o’ pitting me and Mary aboot
wi’ discoorsin’ in that way!  It’s really no’ fair.  I declare ane wad
think that Andra Wilkie, the bederal, was diggin’ yer grave!  What pits
deein’ in yer head e’enoo?  An’ you an auld sodger!  Be cheerie yersel’,
man!"

"I daursay ye’re richt, gudewife," said Adam, with a smile, and rather a
sheepish look, as if he had been caught playing the woman with an
unmanly expression of his feelings and dim forebodings.  "Gie Mary her
piece," he added, "and sen’ her to her bed.  She has dune unco weel."
He passed into the bedroom, closing the door while Katie was putting
Mary to rest.

It was a peaceful night.  He sat down near the small window of the
bedroom, from which was a pleasant peep of trees, their underwood now
hid in darkness, but their higher branches, with every leafy twig,
mingling with the blue of the starry sky, partially illumined by a new
moon.  He had felt during these last days an increasing dulness of
spirits.  But this evening he had been comforting himself while
comforting Mary; and remembering the lesson he had given her, he said to
himself, "Blessed are all they who put their trust in Thee".  And
somehow there came into his mind pictures of the old war--times in
which, amidst the trampling of armed men and words of command, the
sudden rush to the charge or up the scaling-ladder, the roar and cries
of combat, the volcano of shot and shell bursting and filling the
heavens with flame and smoke and deadly missile, he had trusted God, and
felt calm at his heart, like a child in the arms of a loving parent.
These pictures flashed on him but for a second, yet they were sufficient
to remind him of what God had ever been to him, and to strengthen his
faith in what He would ever be.




                              CHAPTER XII

                  ADAM MERCER, SERGEANT, BUT NOT ELDER


Next morning the announcement of the Sergeant’s suspension from the
eldership was conveyed to him by an official document from Mr.
Mackintosh, the Session clerk and parish schoolmaster;--a good, discreet
man, who did his duty faithfully, loyally voted always with the minister
from an earnest belief that it was right to do so, and who made it his
endeavour as a member of society to meddle with nobody, in the good hope
that nobody would meddle with him. Every man can find his own place in
this wide world.

Katie heard the news, but, strange to say, was not so disconcerted as
Adam anticipated.  In proportion as difficulties gathered round her
husband, she became more resolute, and more disposed to fight for him.
She was like many women on their first voyage, who in calm weather are
afraid of a slight breeze and the uneasy motion of the ship, yet who,
when actual danger threatens, rise up in the power and dignity of their
nature, and become the bravest of the brave--their very feeling and
fancy, which shrank from danger while it was unseen, coming to their aid
as angels of hope when danger alone is visible.

"Aweel, aweel," remarked Katie; "it’s their ain loss, Adam, no’ yours;
ye hae naething to charge yersel’ wi’."

But she would sometimes relapse into a meditative mood, as the more
painful side of the case revealed itself.  "Ay noo--ay--and they hae
suspended ye?--that’s hanged ye, as I suppose, like a dog or cat!
Bonnie-like Session!--my word!--and for what?  Because ye wadna kill the
bird!  Teuch! It micht pit a body daft tae think o’t!"  And so on.

But this did little good to Adam, who felt his character, his honour, at
stake.  Things were daily getting worse to bear.  The news had spread
over the town, "Adam Mercer has been rebuked and suspended by the Kirk
Session!"  From that moment he became a marked man.  Old customers fell
away from him; not that any openly declared that they would not employ
him as a shoemaker merely because the minister and Kirk Session were
opposed to him:--Oh no!  Not a hint was given of that, or anything
approaching to it; but, somehow, new shoes seemed to have gone out of
fashion in Drumsylie.

The cold unfeeling snowball increased as it rolled along the street in
which Adam lived, until it blocked up his door, so that he could hardly
get out.  If he did go, it was to be subjected to constant annoyance.
The boys and girls of the lowest class in his neighbourhood, influenced
by all they heard discussed and asserted in their respective homes,
where reserve was not the characteristic of the inmates, were wont to
gather round his window, and to peer into the interior with an eager
gaze, as if anxious to discover some fitting fuel to enlighten their
domestic hearths at night.  It was as impossible to seize them as to
catch a flock of sparrows settled down upon a seed plot in a garden.
When the Sergeant therefore ventured to go abroad, the nickname of "The
Starling" was shouted after him by the boys, who adopted all the various
modes of concealing their ringleaders which evidence such singular
dexterity and cunning.  The result was that Adam was compelled, as we
have said, to keep within doors.  He thus began to feel as if he was
alone in the world. Everyone seemed changed.  Those on whom he had
hitherto relied failed him.  He or the world was worse than he had ever
imagined either to be, and it was little comfort to him to know which of
the two was wrong.

The Sergeant, however, enjoyed much inward peace though little
happiness.  For how different is peace from happiness!  Happiness is the
result of harmony between our wants as creatures and the world without:
peace is the harmony between us as spiritual beings and the Father of
our spirits.  The one is as changeable as the objects or circumstances
on which it for the moment relies; the other is as unchangeable as the
God on whom it eternally rests. We may thus possess at once real
happiness and real peace; yet either may exist without the other.  Nay
more, happiness may be destroyed by God in order that the higher
blessing of peace may be possessed; but never will He take away peace to
give happiness!  Happiness without peace is temporal, but peace along
with happiness is eternal.

Adam, as we have said, enjoyed little happiness in the conflict in which
he was engaged, but he was kept in "perfect peace".

When another Sunday came round, the old sense of duty induced him to go,
as usual, to church. His absence might be supposed to indicate that he
feared the face of man, because fearing the face of God.  Katie
accompanied him.  Her courage rose to the occasion.  Let not the reader
who, moving in a larger sphere of life, has learned to measure his
annoyances by a larger standard, smile at these simple souls, or think
it an exaggeration thus to picture their burden as having been so heavy.

Adam and Katie walked along the street, knowing all the time that they
did so under the gaze of the cold and criticising eyes of some who were
disposed to say to them, "Stand back, I am holier than thou!"  Yet more
persons than they themselves were aware of felt towards them kindness,
pity, and respect, mingled with very opposite feelings to those of the
minister and the members of Kirk Session who had made so much ado about
so small an affair.  Others forgot the sympathy due to a suffering, good
man, apart from its immediate cause.  Many of his worthy friends said
afterwards that they "did not think of it!"  Alas! this _not_ thinking
is often the worst form of thought.

Adam and Katie passed Smellie, as he stood at "the plate", without the
slightest recognition on either side.  They occupied their accustomed
seat, but sat alone.  Those who ordinarily filled the pew suffered from
cold or conscience, and so were either absent or seated elsewhere.  One
may guess what sort of sermon Mr. Porteous preached from the text,
"Beware of evil doers".  The personal reference to the Sergeant was like
a theme pervading his overture; or as an idea not so much directly
expressed as indirectly insinuated from first to last.  The argument was
a huge soap-bubble of what he called "principle" blown from his pipe
until he could blow no longer, and which when fully developed he
contemplated with admiration, as if it were a glorious globe of thought
that must necessarily be heavenly because reflecting to his eyes the
colours of the rainbow.  His picture of the danger of the times in which
he lived was very vivid, and his hopes of any improvement very small.
The history of society seemed but a record of degeneracy since the first
century of the Christian era.  But whoever proved a traitor, he himself,
he said, would still earnestly contend for the faith once delivered to
the saints; and _his_ trumpet, at least, should never give an uncertain
sound; and _he_ would hold fast the form of sound words:--and so on he
went until his forty-five minutes were ended.

That the preacher was perfectly sincere, no one could doubt.  He was no
coward, or make-believe, but was thoroughly convinced.  He would at any
time have given up his "all" for his "principles", and given his body
even to be burned for them without fear--yet possibly "without charity".

We do not condemn Mr. Porteous’s "principles". They were, most of them,
what might be called Christian truisms, which no one believing in the
supreme authority of the Bible, far less any parish minister, could
dispute.  But the practical application of his principles by the
minister on certain occasions, as on this one, might be questioned.  He
might also have considered whether there were not many other Bible and
Christian principles of wider import and deeper spiritual meaning, than
those he contended for, and gave such prominence to, not excluding but
including his special favourites, which he required to know before he
could really understand or truly apply those even which he so
tenaciously held and so frequently expounded.  Half truths are untruths.
A man who always tried to stand on his head might be as well without
one.

Adam accepted the heavy fire from the pulpit with calm submission.  He
knew that very many in the congregation while listening to the minister
were looking at himself; but, knowing also how much depends in every
battle on the steadiness and self-possession of the non-commissioned
officers, he looked the enemy in the face and never winced. Katie seemed
inspired by his example--so far, at least, that she neither fled nor
fainted; and though not daring to gaze on the foe, she braved his charge
as if kneeling in the rear rank, with a calm countenance, but with eyes
cast down to the ground.

Poor Katie!  What would Waterloo have been to her in comparison with
that day’s mental battle in the kirk!  The one was an honourable
conflict; but this was reckoned by those whom she respected as one of
dishonour.  In the one was danger of wounds and of death; but in this
were deeper wounds, and danger possibly beyond the grave!  How often did
the form of her old "faither" come before her--though she thought it
strange that he did not seem to frown.  But she never communicated her
fears or feelings to her husband.  "He has eneuch to carry wi’oot me,"
she said.

As they left the church, more than one person took an opportunity of
addressing the Sergeant, and, to the credit of all, not one uttered an
unkindly word. Some shook him warmly by the hand, but said nothing.
Others added, "God bless ye!  Dinna heed, Mr. Mercer.  It’ll come a’
richt yet."  Mr. Gordon and one or two of the elders were marked in
their kindness.  It would not have conduced to the comfort of the
minister, though it might have made him doubt how far his people really
sympathised with him or his "principles", had he heard some of the
remarks made after the sermon by the more intelligent and independent of
his congregation.  But his ignorance was to him a kind of bliss; and
whatever tended or threatened to disturb his self-satisfaction would
have been recognised by him as folly, not wisdom.

Adam could not shut his ears, but he could hold his tongue; and he did
so.

The worthy couple walked home in silence, and arm-in-arm too! for the
first time probably in their lives.  Mary, whom we forgot to mention,
followed them in new shoes, a new bonnet, a new shawl, with her Bible
wrapped up in a clean pocket-handkerchief. As they entered their home,
the starling received them with quite a flutter of excitement.  Shaking
his feathers, hopping violently about his cage, or thrusting his bill,
as if for a kiss, between the bars, he welcomed Mary, as she approached
him with some food, and made the room ring with various declarations as
to his being Charlie’s bairn, his hopes of being yet a king, and his
belief in genuine manhood.

"I think," quoth the Sergeant, "he is ane o’ the happiest and maist
contented bit craturs in the parish."

Mary, as if feeling that it was right to say something good on Sunday,
archly put in, "I mind what ye telt me aboot the bird."

"What was’t, my bairn?" asked Adam.

"It was aboot the fowls--I dinna mind a’ the verse, but a bit o’t was,
’Are not ye better than the fowls?’"

"Thank ye for the comfort, Mary dear," said Adam, gravely.

From some common instinct of their hearts, Mr. Porteous’s sermon was not
spoken of.  Was it because Mary was present? or only because Katie was
so anxious to see the cheese well toasted for their tea? or
because----yet why go on conjecturing!  But at evening worship, which
closed the day, Adam, as usual, prayed for his minister, and for God’s
blessing on the preached word; and he prayed to be delivered from
evil-doing, and from fretting at evil-doers, and to be enabled to put
his trust in God and do good. Katie on rising from her knees did what
she never did before--kissed her husband, saying, "God bless you, my
best o’ men!"

"Gae awa’, gae awa’!" said the Sergeant; "ye want to gaur me greet like
yersel’, do ye?  But na, lass, I’m ower auld a sodger for that!"  With
all his boasting, however, he was very nearly betrayed into the weakness
which he professed to despise.  But he seemed greatly pleased with his
good wife’s kindness, and he added, "Bless you, my braw leddy, a’ the
same.  And," in a whisper, "ye needna let on to Mary that I’m fashed.
It micht vex the lassie."




                              CHAPTER XIII

                      JOCK HALL, THE NE’ER-DO-WEEL


We must go back for a few days in our story. During the lonely week
which we have but very partially and inadequately described--for how few
would believe that a man with a good conscience and good sense could
suffer so much in such circumstances!--the Sergeant received a visit
from Jock Hall, who has been already mentioned, and whom Katie described
as "a ne’er-do-weel".

Katie’s estimate of Jock’s character was that of Drumsylie.  Most
parishes, indeed, have their quota of weaklings in intellect and
weaklings in morals. Jock belonged to the latter class.  He was a thin,
sallow-faced man, of a nervous temperament, and with lank black hair,
and sharp piercing unrestful eyes.  He might be aged thirty, although he
looked liker forty.  His jacket was made of fustian, which might have
been clean some years before; his corduroy trousers had ragged endings,
beneath which were revealed old boots and worn-out stockings; while a
tattered bonnet covered his capacious head--a head that,
phrenologically, was of a superior type.  How Hall lived no one knew,
nor cared to know.  His lodging, when under a roof, varied with the
means at his disposal for paying rent.  If any unknown householder in
the unknown recesses of the small towns which Jock visited, permitted
him to sleep gratis on the floor near the fire, it was a secret known
and appreciated by himself only.

Jock had never presumed to enter so aristocratic a house as Adam’s.  But
now that public report had brought the Sergeant down somewhat nearer to
his own level, and that he had a pair of boots to mend, without having
any credit with even the most drunken cobbler in Drumsylie, Jock thought
that, under the whole circumstances of the case, moral and commercial,
he might visit the Sergeant without any offence.  He did so, to the
astonishment of Adam, and much more to that of his wife.  "What do _ye_
want wi’ Mr. Mercer?" was her question, as she opened the door to Jock’s
knock.

"Business!" was his short and decided reply. When he entered the small
but cleanly kitchen, his only remark was, "Like a new preen!"  Looking
round with a half-vacant, half-curious gaze, he fixed his eyes on the
Sergeant for a moment, then walking up to the starling’s cage, he
muttered, "Deevils!"

This brief exclamation arrested the attention of Adam, who asked, "What
do ye mean, my man? D’ye ken what ye’re saying?"

"Fine!" replied Jock.  "Deevils! again say I!"

The Sergeant rose, tapped him on the shoulder, and pointed to the door.

"I understan’," said Jock; "ye wad hae me gang oot.  Ye’re no’ the first
that has sent Jock Hall that gait!  Maist folk like to see his back a
hantle better than his face.  But I’m no’ gaun oot at present, Sergeant.
That stirlin’ o’ yours ’ll no’ let me.  I’m fond o’ birds--in fac,
they’re the only leevin’ things I care for.  I never liked canaries,
they’re ower genteel and ower particklar about bein’ coodled, to please
a tramp like me that never was in that way mysel’.  But our ain
birds--that’s maavies, linties, and laverocks, or even gooldies, that
can stan’ a’ wathers, and sing for a’ folk, specially for them that’s
obleeged to lie oot in wuds, or on the heather--them’s the singers for
Jock Hall! But I’m no weel acquaint wi’ thae stirlin’s.  I’m telt that
yours is no canny, an’ that it speaks like an auld-farrant bairn.  Eh?"
And Jock turned to the cage from which his attention had for a moment
been diverted; and while the Sergeant was earnestly studying his strange
guest, the guest was as earnestly studying the strange bird.  The
starling was singularly still, and seemed to sympathise with his master
in his study of Hall.  He then leaped up to his perch, turned his back
to Jock, shook his feathers, turned round and again looked at his
visitor with a steady gaze.

"That’s a fearsome bird!" said Hall, without moving.  "As sure as I’m
leevin, I see’d his ee gettin’ bigger and bigger, till it was like a
saxpence as it glowered at me.  I was frichtened it kent a’things I was
doing or thinking aboot!"

"Let the bird alane!" said the Sergeant, "and come here to the window if
ye hae ony business wi’ me, Hall."

Jock obeyed; but twice, between the cage and the window, he looked over
his shoulder at the starling, as if he was afraid of him.

"What do ye want wi’ me?" inquired the Sergeant.

"Hoo lang," asked Hall, in a low voice, "hae ye had that bird?  Hoo auld
is he?  Whaur did ye get him?  What does he say when----"

"Never heed the bird," interrupted the Sergeant: "he’s doin’ ye nae
ill."

"I’m no sae sure but he _could_ do’t if he took a thraw at me," said
Jock; "I’ll wager he has seen me afore, an’ kens me--for he’s no canny."

"Nonsense!" said Adam.

"If it’s nonsense," replied Jock, "what way has he brocht you into this
habble?  What for do ye loe him sae weel?  Why wad ye gie up, as I hear
ye wad, yer verra saul and body for this world and the neist, for the
sake o’ the bird?  What way do they say he’s a witch?"

"Haud yer tongue, Hall," said the Sergeant, "and speak aboot yer ain
business, no’ mine."

"_My_ business!" exclaimed Jock; "at yer service, Mr. Mercer, at yer
service!"

"Oot wi’t, then, and be done wi’t," said Adam.

"It’s my business, then," said Hall, "to come here an’ abuse a’ thae
deevils,--Porteous, Smellie, and the lave--that abused that bird! that’s
my business---the chief part o’t," continued Hall, in rather an excited
manner; "an’ the bird kens that, I’m certain,--just see hoo he’s
glowerin’ at me!  I’se warrant he has watched me in the woods afore he
was catched; an’ if he if a witch, and kens aboot me, then----"

"Haud yer tongue, Hall, this moment," said the Sergeant, with a loud
voice of command, "or I’ll pit ye oot like a doug!  If ye hae a message
to deliver, say it and be aff."

Jock was suddenly quiet, as if arrested by some strong power.  Then in a
more natural tone of voice he said, "It’s no’ worth the while o’ an auld
sodger to kick a man like me.  But let sleepin’ dougs lie!  Dougs hae
teeth, and their bite is bad when mad--when mad!"  Then, after a pause,
he went on, in a laughing mood, "But I _hae_ business, important
business wi’ ye, Sergeant; an’ afore we proceed to consider it, ye’ll
tak’ a snuff!  It pits brains into a bodie’s head;" and Jock produced a
small tin snuff-box, and opening the lid he looked into it with an
expression of anxiety.  "There’s twa, I’m sure,--twa snuffs; an’ I
consider a man is no’ poor wha has ae snuff for himsel’ and anither for
a neebor.  Sae tak’ a snuff!" and he handed the box to the Sergeant, as
he himself leant back in his chair, crossed one leg over another, and
pointing to his boots said, "That’s some business, since ye insist on
it!  I want to gie ye a job, Mr. Mercer, for I hear ye’re idle."  Then
turning up the soles of his wretched boots, which looked like a kind of
leather vegetable about to rot into earth mould, he said, "They’ll be
ill to patch, or to fit new soles on, but I ken ye’re a gude tradesman.
Try."

Adam only smiled.

"Ye’ll be like the lave," Jock continued, "ower prood to work for a man
like me.  I wadna wunner if ye’re no sure o’ payment.  Sae maybe it’s as
weel to tell ye, that as far as I ken, ye’ll never get a bawbee frae me!
For Jock Hall is a braw customer to them that’ll ser’ him--though, faix,
there’s no mony o’ that kind noo!--but he’s a bad payer.  In fac, he has
clean forgot hoo to pay an account."

Sorrow softens the hearts of good men; and if it is in any degree
occasioned by unjust treatment, it prompts charitable sympathies towards
others who are condemned as wicked by society without a fair hearing
ever having been afforded them.  When the streams of their affection
have been frozen by the cold reception given where a warm welcome was
anticipated, it is a relief to let them flow into other and dried-up
cisterns where, in despair, from a long drought, such blessings were
never expected, and are joyfully appreciated.

So Adam felt kindly towards Jock, though he only said, "I’ll men’ your
boots for that fine pinch o’ snuff, and they’ll cost ye nae mair, except
guidwill, and that’s cheap."

Jock Hall looked rather perplexed, and cleared out his box with his long
finger, pressing his last snuff vehemently into his nostril.  Then
resuming, as if with difficulty, his careless manner, he said, "Hae the
boots ready by Friday nicht, as I maun fish the East Muir water on
Saturday."

"Ye may depend on them, Jock!  And noo, as yer business is done, ye may
gang."  The Sergeant did not wish him to resume his wild talk, as he had
threatened to do.

Jock crossed his arms, and gazed on the Sergeant as if he would look him
through.  Then grasping his own throat, and looking wildly, he said:
"It’s come! it’s come!  The evil speerit is chokin’ me!  He is here like
a cannon ball!  I maun speak, or my head will rive!  I maun curse
Porteous, and the kirk, and religion, and elders, and Sabbath days, and
a’ thing guid!" and his eyes flashed fire.

The Sergeant could not make him out, as they say. He was disposed to
think him insane, though he had never heard Jock’s name associated with
anything save recklessness of character.  He therefore did nothing but
return the gaze of the excited man. Katie, unwilling to sit in the same
room with him, had retired to her bedroom.  Mary sat at the fireside
with her book in evident alarm.

"I hate them!" repeated Jock, almost grinding his teeth.

"What do ye mean, Jock?" asked Adam, quietly but firmly.  "Do you want
to quarrel wi’ me?"

"I mean," said Jock, bending towards the Sergeant, "that noo the fingers
o’ religion are grippin’ _yer_ windpipe and chokin’ ye, as the evil
speerit is grippin’ and chokin’ me--that noo ye hae ministers an’ elders
o’ religion kicking ye in the glaur, lauchin at ye, bizzin at ye as a
blackguard--that noo when e’en Luckie Craigie an’ Smellie ca’ ye bad, as
a’ folks hae ca’ed me a’ my days--I thocht," he continued, with a
sarcastic grin, "that ye wad like ane waur than yersel’ to speak wi’ ye,
and, if ye liked, to curse wi’ ye!  Aha, lad!  I’m ready!  Say the word,
and Jock Hall’s yer man.  I ha’e poower noo in me for ony deevilry.
Begin!"

The Sergeant experienced what is called in Scotland a _grew_--the sort
of shiver one feels in a nightmare--as if a real demoniac was in his
presence. Fascinated as by a serpent, he said, "Say awa’, Jock, for I
dinna understan’ ye."

On this Jock became apparently more composed. But when with a suppressed
vehemence he was again beginning to speak, it struck the Sergeant to
interrupt the current of his passionate thoughts, on the plea that he
wished to hear Mary her lesson.  His object was, not only to calm Jock,
but also to get the child out of the room.

"Mary," he said, after having assured her there was no cause of fear,
and placing her between his knees, "wha should we trust?"

"God!" replied Mary.

"Why?" asked the Sergeant.

"Because his name is Love, and He is our Faither."

"Richt, Mary; and we ought a’ to love our Faither, for He loves us, and
to love our neebour as ourselves. Gang awa’ ben to your mither noo.  Ye
hae done weel."

When the door of the bedroom was shut, Jock Hall said, "That’s Luckie
Craigie’s lassie?  Fine woman, Luckie!  Kindly bodie!  A gude hoose is
hers to sen’ a puir orphan to.  Ha! ha! ha!  Keep us a’!--it’s a warld
this, far ower guid for me!  But Luckie is like the lave, and Smellie,
to do him justice, as he has mony a time done tae me, is no waur than
Luckie:

’When hungry gledds are screichin’,
  An’ huntin’ for their meat,
If they grip a bonnie birdie,
  What needs the birdie greet?’

An’ ye’re to pay yersel’ for the lassie, Smellie says; an’ ye’re to
teach her!  A fine lesson yon!  Ha! ha! ha! Jock Hall lauchs at baith o’
ye!"

The Sergeant was getting angry.  Hall seemed now to be rather a
free-and-easy blackguard, although there was a weird gleam in his eye
which Adam did not understand; and in spite of his self-respect, he felt
a desire to hear more from Jock.  So he only remarked, looking steadily
at him, "Jock! tak’ care what ye say--tak’ care!"

"Oo ay," said Hall.  "I’m lang eneuch in the warld to ken _that_ advice!
But what care I for the advice o’ you or ony man?  It was for me, nae
doot, ye intended that lesson?  I’m as gleg as a fish rising to a flee!
The lassock said we should love our faither!  Hoo daur you or ony man
say that tae me?"  Then, leaning forward with staring eyes and clenched
fist, he said, "I hated my faither!  I hated my mither!  They hated me.
My faither was a Gospel man; he gaed to the kirk on Sabbath--wha but
him!--and he drank when he could get it the rest o’ the week; an’ he
threshed my mither and us time aboot--me warst o’ a’, as I was the
youngest.  I focht mony a laddie for lauchin’ at him and for ca’in him
names when he was fou, and mony a bluidy nose I got; but he threshed me
the mair.  My mither, tae, gaed to the kirk, and begged claes for me and
my brithers and sisters frae guid folk, and said that my faither wasna
weel and couldna work.  Oh, mony a lee I telt for them baith!  And she
drank, as weel, and focht wi’ my faither and us time aboot.  And syne
they selt a’ their claes and a’ their blankets, and left us wi’ toom
stomachs and toom hearts, cowerin’ aboot a toom grate wi’ cauld cinders.
I never was at skule, but was cuffed and kickit like a doug; and my wee
brithers and sisters a’ dee’d--I dinna ken hoo: but they were starved
and threshed, puir things!  But they were waik, and I was strang.  Sae I
leeved--waes me!  I leeved!  I hae sat oot in the plantin’ mony a nicht
greetin’ for my brither Jamie, for he had a sair cough and dwined awa’,
naked and starved.  He aye gied me his bit bread that he stealt or
beggit"--and Jock cleared his throat and wiped his forehead with a scrap
of a ragged handkerchief.  "But my faither and mither dee’d, thank God!
I hate them noo, and they hated me--they hated me, they did"--and he
fell into a sort of dream.  His vehemence sank into a whisper; and he
spoke as one in sleep--"An’ a’ folks hate me--hate me.  An’ what for
no’?  I hate _them_!--God forgive me!  Na, na!  I’ll no’ say _that_.
There’s nae God!  But I believe in the Deevil--that I do, firmly."

Jock sank back in his chair, as if wearied, and closed his eyes, his
chest heaving.  Then opening his eyes, he said in a low tone, "The bird
kens that! Wha’ telt him?" and his eyes were again closed.

"Jock, my man," said the Sergeant, perplexed, yet kindly, "_I_ dinna
hate ye."

But Jock went on as in a dream.  "I hae led an awfu’ life o’t!  I hae
starved and stealt; I hae poached and robbed; I hae cursed and drank; I
hae ’listed and deserted; I hae lain oot on muirs and in mosses.  I’m
Jock Hall! a’body kens me, and a’ hate me as I do them!  And what guid
did yer ministers and elders, yer Sabbath days and yer preachings, do
for me? Curse them a’, I say! what’s Jock Hall’s saul worth! It’s no’
worth the burnin’!  What care I?

’Cock-a-Bendy’s lying sick,
  Guess what’ll mend him?
Hang the blackguard by the throat,
  And that’ll soon end him!"


"Be quiet, my puir fellow," said the Sergeant, "and listen to me.  _I_
never harmed you, Jock; I couldna harm you!  I never wull harm you.
I’ll feed ye noo; I’ll gie ye shoon; I’ll stan’ yer frien’."

Jock looked up, and in a calm tone said, "My head is spinnin’ and my
heart is sick!  I havena eaten a bit since yesterday.  Dinna flyte on me
e’enoo, I’m no mysel’; wait a wee, Mr. Mercer, and then ye can abuse me,
or kick me."  With still greater calm he added in a few seconds, and
looking round like one waking up more and more into life, "I hae been
dreaming or raving!  Man, Mercer, I think I tak’ fits
sometimes--especially when I’m lang wi’oot meat. What was I saying
e’enoo?"

"Naething particular," said Adam, wishing not to rouse him, but to feed
him; "never heed, Jock.  But bide a wee, I’ll gie ye a nice cup of tea
and a smoke after it, and we’ll hae a crack, and ye’ll comfort me in yer
ain way, and I’ll comfort you in mine."

Jock, like a man worn out with some great exertion, sat with his head
bent down between his hands--the veins of his forehead swollen.  The
Sergeant, after some private explanation with Katie, got tea and
wholesome food ready for Jock; and that he might take it in peace, Adam
said that he had to give Mary another lesson in the bedroom.

Hall was thus left alone with his food, of which he ate sparingly.  When
Adam again entered the kitchen, Jock was calm.  The Sergeant soon
engaged him in conversation after his own method, beginning by telling
some of his soldier stories, and then bit by bit unfolding the Gospel of
Peace to the poor man, and seeking to drop a few loving words from his
own softened heart to soften the heart of the Prodigal.

The only remark Jock made was, "I wish I’d been in a battle, and been
shot, or dee’d wi’ oor Jamie! But what for did I tell _you_ a’ this?  I
never spak’ this way to mortal man!  It’s that bird, I tell ye.  What’s
wrang wi’t?"

"Naething!" replied the Sergeant; "it’s a’ nonsense ye’re talking.  I’ll
let ye see the cratur, to convince ye that he is jist as natural and
nice as a mavis or laverock."

"Stop!" said Jock, "I dinna like him.  He is ower guid for me!  I tell
ye I’m a deevil!  But bad as I am--and I’ll never be better, nor ever do
ae haun’s turn o’ guid in this world--never, never, never!----"

The Sergeant rose and took down the cage, placing it before Hall,
saying, "Jist look at his speckled breest and bonnie ee!  Gie him this
bit bread yersel’, and he’ll be cheerie, and mak’ us a’ cheerie."

Jock took the bread and offered it to Charlie, who, seeing the gift,
declared "A man’s a man for a’ that!"  "Guid be aboot us!" said Hall,
starting back; "hear what he says to me!  If that’s no’ a witch, there’s
nane on yirth!  I said I was a deevil, he says I’m a man!"

"And sae ye _are_ a man for a’ that, and no sic a bad ane as ye think.
Cheer up, Jock!" said Adam, extending his hand to him.

Jock took the proffered hand, and said, "I dinna understan’ a’
this--but--but--I was gaun to say, God bless ye!  But it’s no’ for me to
say that; for I never was in a decent hoose afore--but only in jails,
and amang tramps and ne’er-do-weels like mysel’.  I’m no’ up tae
menners, Sergeant--ye maun excuse me."

Jock rose to depart.  Before doing so he looked again round the
comfortable clean room--at the nice fire and polished grate--at
Charlie’s bed with its white curtains--and at the bird, so happy in its
cage--then, as if struck by his own ragged clothes and old boots, he
exclaimed, "It wasna for me to hae been in a hoose like this."  Passing
the bedroom door, he waved his hand, saying, "Fareweel, mistress;
fareweel, Mary," and turning to the Sergeant, he added, "and as for you,
Sergeant----"  There he stopped--but ending with a special farewell to
the starling, he went to the door.

"Come back soon and see me," said the Sergeant. "I’ll be yer freen’,
Jock.  I hae ’listed ye this day, and I’ll mak’ a sodger o’ ye yet, an’
a better ane, I hope, than mysel’."

"Whisht, whisht!" said Jock.  "I have mair respec’ for ye than to let ye
be _my_ freen’.  But for a’ that, mind, I’m no gaun to pay ye for my
boots--and ye’ll hae them ready ’gin Friday nicht, for Saturday’s
fishin’--fareweel!"

"A’ richt, Jock," said Adam.

No sooner had Hall left the house than the Sergeant said to himself,
"God have mercy on me! I to be unhappy after that!  I wi’ Katie and
Mary! I wi’ mercies temporal and spiritual mair than can be numbered!
Waes me! what have I done! Starling, indeed! that’s surely no’ the
question--but starvation, ignorance, cruelty, hate, despair, hell, at
our verra doors!  God help puir Jock Hall, and may He forgive Adam
Mercer!"

Jock got his boots on Friday night, well repaired. He said nothing but
"Thank ye," and "Ye’ll get naething frae me."  But on Saturday evening a
fine basket of trout was brought by him to the Sergeant’s door.  Jock
said, "There’s beauties!  Never saw better trout! splendid day!"  But
when the Sergeant thanked him, and offered him a sixpence, Jock looked
with wonder, saying, "Dinna insult a bodie!"




                              CHAPTER XIV

                         JOCK HALL’S CONSPIRACY


On the Sunday, when the Sergeant went to church, as we have already
described, Jock Hall was quartered for the day with Mrs. Craigie.  To do
Smellie justice, he did not probably know how very worthless this woman
was, far less did the Kirk Session.  She was cunning and plausible
enough to deceive both.  Her occasional attendance at church was
sufficient to keep up appearances.  The custom of boarding out pauper
children with widows, except when these are not respectable, has on the
whole worked well, and is infinitely superior to the workhouse system.
Mrs. Craigie belonged to the exceptional cases.  She accommodated any
lodger who might turn up.

Jock and Mrs. Craigie were at the window, a second story one,
criticising the passers-by to church, as one has seen the loungers at a
club window do the ordinary passers-by on week-days.  The Sergeant and
his wife, with Mary following them, suddenly attracted their attention.

"The auld hypocrite!" exclaimed Mrs. Craigie; "there he gangs, as prood
as a peacock, haudin’ his head up when it should be bowed doon wi’ shame
to the dust!  An’ his wife, tae!--eh! what a ban net! sic a goon!  Sirs
me!  Baith are the waur o’ the wear.  Ha! ha! ha!  And Mary! as I
declare, wi’ new shoon, a new bannet, and new shawl!  The impudent hizzy
that she is!  It’s a’ to spite me, for I see’d her keekin’ up to the
window.  But stealt bairns can come to nae guid; confoond them
a’!--though I shouldna say’t on the Sabbath day."

Hall stood behind her, and watched the group over her shoulder.  "Ye’re
richt, Luckie," he said, "he _is_ an auld hypocrite.  But they are a’
that--like minister, like man.  ’Confoond them,’ _ye_ say; ’Amen’, _I_
say; but what d’ye mean by stealt bairns?"

Ah, Jock, art thou not also a hypocrite!

Mrs. Craigie had left the window, and sat down beside the fire, the
church-goers having passed, and the church bell having ceased to ring.
Jock then lighted his pipe opposite Mrs. Craigie.  "What d’ye mean," he
asked again, "by stealt bairns?"

"I mean this," replied she, "that yon auld hypocrite, sodger, and
poacher, Adam Mercer, stealt Mary Semple frae me!" and she looked at
Hall with an expression which said, "What do ye think of that?"  Then
having been invited by Hall to tell him all about the theft, she did so,
continuing her narrative up to the moment when she was ordered out of
the house by Adam; saying now as on that occasion, "But I hae freen’s,
and I’ll pit Smellie to smash him yet!  I’ll get my revenge oot o’ him,
the auld bitin’ brock that he is.  Smellie is my freen, and he has mair
power, far, than Adam wi’ the minister."  So thought Mrs. Craigie.

"Is Smellie yer freen’?" asked Hall, without taking his pipe out of his
mouth, "and does _he_ hate Adam? and does _he_ want Mary back tae you?"

"That does he," replied Mrs. Craigie; "and he wad gie onything to get
Mary back tae me?"

"Then, my certes, Smellie _has_ pooer! nae doot o’ _that_," remarked
Hall, with a grim smile; "for he has helpit to pit me mony a time into
the jail. Wad it obleege him muckle tae get Mary back frae the Sergeant?
Wad he befreen’ me if I helped him?" asked Jock confidentially.

"It wad be a real treat till him!" exclaimed Mrs. Craigie; "and he wad
befreen’ ye a’ yer life!  An’, Hall----"

"But," asked Jock, interrupting her, "what did ye say aboot poachin’?
Was Adam in that line?"

"Him!" exclaimed Mrs. Craigie; "I’se warrant he was--notorious!"

"Hoo d’ye ken?" inquired Jock.

"Smellie telt me! but mind ye, he said I was to keep it quait till he
gied me the wink, ye ken;" and Mrs. Craigie gave a knowing wink.  She
did not know that Smellie had already _peached_.  "For hoo Smellie kent
was this, that he had some sort o’ business in the place whaur Mercer
leeved--that’s north in Bennock parish, afore he was a sodger; and
Smellie picked up a’ the story o’ his poachin’, for Smellie is awfu’
shairp; but he wad never tell’t till he could pit it like a gag into the
prood mouth o’ Adam; and Smellie says he’ll pit it in noo, and let Adam
crunch his teeth on’t," said Mrs. Craigie, gnashing the few she had
herself.

Hall manifested a singular inquisitiveness to know as much as possible
about those poaching days, and their locality, until at last being
satisfied, and having learned that the old keeper of Lord Bennock was
still alive, though, as Mrs. Craigie said, "clean superannuat", and that
he was, moreover, Adam’s cousin, Jock said, "What an awfu’ blackguard
Adam maun be!  If I had kent what I ken noo, I never wad hae gi’en him
my boots to men’."

"Yer boots to men’!" exclaimed Mrs. Craigie, with astonishment; "what
for did ye do that?"

"He had nae wark."

"Ser’ him richt!" said Mrs. Craigie.

"And I patroneesed him," continued Jock.

"Ha! ha!  It was far ower guid o’ ye, Jock, tae patroneese him," said
Mrs. Craigie.  "Ye’ll no pay him, I houp?  But he’s sic a greedy fallow,
that he micht expec’ even a puir sowl like you tae pay."

"Me pay him!" said Jock, with a laugh, "maybe--when I hae paid the debt
o’ natur’; no till then."

"But, Jock," asked Mrs. Craigie, almost in a whisper, "did _ye_ see
Mary, the wee slut?"

"I did that," replied Jock, "an’ it wad hae broken yer feelin’ heart,
Luckie, had _ye_ seen her!--no lying as a puir orphan paid for by the
Session ocht to lie, on a shake-doon, wi’ a blanket ower her,--my
certes, guid eneuch for the like o’ her, and for the bawbees paid for
her----"

"Guid?--ower guid!" interpolated Mrs. Craigie.

"But," continued Hall, with a leer, "she was mair like a leddy, wi’ a
bed till hersel’, an’ curtains on’t; and sitting in a chair, wi’
stockin’s and shoon, afore the fire--learning her lesson, too, and
coddled and coddled by Adam and his wife.  What say ye to that, Luckie?
what say ye to that?"

"Dinna mak’ me daft!" exclaimed Mrs. Craigie; "it’s eneuch to mak’ a
bodie swear e’en on the Sabbath day!"

"Swear awa’!" said Hall; "the day maks nae difference to _me_.  Sae ca’
awa’, woman, if it wull dae ye ony guid, or gie ye ony comfort."

Mrs. Craigie, instead of accepting the advice of her "ne’er-do-weel"
lodger, fell into a meditative mood.  What could she be thinking about?
Her Sabbath thoughts came to this, in their practical results--a
proposal to Jock Hall to seize Mary as she was returning from church,
and to bring her again under the protection of her dear old motherly
friend.  She could not, indeed, as yet take her from under the
Sergeant’s roof by force, but could the Sergeant retake her if by any
means she were brought back under _her_ roof?

Jock, after some consideration, entertained the proposal, discussed it,
and then came to terms. "What wull ye gie me?" he at last asked.

"A glass o’ whuskey and a saxpence!" said Mrs. Craigie.

"Ba! ba!" said Jock; "I’m nae bairn, but gleg and cannie, like a
moudiewart!  Saxpence!  Ye ken as weel as I do, that if the Shirra--for,
losh me!  I ken baith him an’ the law ower weel!--if he heard ye were
plottin’ an’ plannin’ to grip a bairn that way on the Sabbath, and
paying me for helpin’ ye--my word! you and me wad be pit in jail; and
though this micht be a comfort tae _me_--lodgings and vittals for
naething, ye ken, and a visit to an auld hame--it wadna dae for a
Christian woman like you, Luckie! Eh, lass? it wad never dae!  What wad
the minister and Smellie say? no’ to speak o’ the Sergeant?--hoo _he_
wad craw!  Sae unless ye keep it as quait as death, an’ gie me
half-a-crown, I’ll no pit my han’ on the bairn."

"The bargain’s made!" said Mrs. Craigie.  "But ye maun wait till I get a
shilling mair frae Mrs. D’rymple, as I’ve nae change."

"Tell her to come ben," said Jock.  "Can ye trust her wi’ the secret?
Ye should get her tae help ye, and tae swear, if it comes tae a trial,
that the bairn cam’ tae ye o’ her ain free consent, mind. I’m ready, for
half-a-crown mair, to gie my aith to the same effec’."

"Ye’re no far wrang; that’s the plan!" said Mrs. Craigie.  "I can trust
Peggy like steel.  An’ I’m sure Mary _does_ want to come tae me.  That’s
the truth and nae lee.  Sae you and Peggy D’rymple may sweer a’ that wi’
a guid conscience."

"But _my_ conscience," said Jock, "is no sae guid as yours or Peggy’s,
an’ it’ll be the better o’ anither half-crown, in case I hae to sweer,
to keep it frae botherin’ me.  But I’ll gie ye credit for the money, an’
ye’ll gie me credit for what I awe ye for my meat and lodgin’ sin’
Monday."

"A’ richt, a’ richt, Jock; sae be’t," replied Mrs. Craigie, as she went
to fetch her neighbour, who lived on the same flat.

Mrs. Dalrymple was made a member of the privy council which met in a few
minutes in Mrs. Craigie’s room, the door being bolted.

"I’m nae hypocrite," confessed Jock.  "I scorn to be ane, as ye do; for
_ye_ dinna preten’ to be unco guid, and better than ither folk, like
Adam Mercer, or that godly man Smellie.  I tell ye, then, I’m up to
onything for money or drink.  I’ll steal, I’ll rob, I’ll murder,
I’ll----"

"Whisht, whisht, Jock!  Dinna speak that wild way an’ frichten folk!--Be
canny, man, be canny, or the neebours ’ll hear ye," said the prudent
Mrs. Craigie, who forthwith explained her plan to her confidential and
trustworthy friend, who highly approved of it as an act of justice to
Mrs. Craigie, to Mary, and the Kirk Session.  Half-a-crown was to be
Mrs. Dalrymple’s pay for her valued aid.  Hall arranged that the moment
the women saw the Sergeant coming from church, they were to give him a
sign; and then they--leaving the window, and retiring behind the
door--were to be ready to receive Mary and hold her fast when brought to
the house. To enable Hall to execute the plot more easily, Mrs. Craigie
gave him, at his own suggestion, in order to entice Mary, a few spring
flowers she had got the evening before from a neighbour’s garden, as a
"posey" for the church--which she had not, however attended, being
deprived of the privilege, as she meant to assure Smellie, by illness.
Jock had already accepted of a glass of whisky.  But as the exciting
moment approached, and as the two women had helped themselves to a
cheerer, as they called it, he got a second glass to strengthen his
courage. His courage, however, did not seem to fail him, for he once or
twice whistled and hummed some song--to the great horror of his good
friends; and, strange to say, he also fell into a fit of uncontrollable
laughter--at the thought, so he said, of how the old hypocrite and his
wife would look when Mary was missed and found to be with Mrs. Craigie!
Much hearty sympathy was expressed with his strange humour.

The service in the "auld kirk", as the parish church is called, being
over, the congregation were walking home.  One or two of its members had
already passed the window where sat the eager and expectant
conspirators.  Jock Hall, with a bunch of flowers, was ready to run
down-stairs, to the close mouth, the moment the appointed signal was
given. Very soon the Sergeant and his wife made their appearance a
little way off, while Mary--how fortunate for the plotters!--followed at
some distance. No sooner were they discovered, than the two women
retired from the window, and gave the signal to Hall to "be off!"  They
then ensconced themselves, as previously arranged, at the back of the
door, with eager and palpitating hearts.

Jock sprang out, shutting the door after him, and rattling down-stairs
reached the street just as Mary was within a few yards.  When she was
passing the close, he stepped out, and with a kind voice, said: "I hae a
message for your faither, Mary dear! Jist speak to me aff the street."
Mary, no longer associating Hall with the thought of a wild man, but of
one who had been a guest of the Sergeant’s, entered the close.  Jock
Hall gave her the flowers and said: "Gie this posey to your mither, for
the gran’ tea she made for me; and gie this half-croon to yer faither
for the braw boots he patched for me. Noo run awa’, my bonnie lassie,
and be guid, and do whatever yer faither and mither bid ye, or Jock Hall
wull be angry wi’ ye--run!"

Mrs. Craigie, in her excitement and curiosity, could not resist the
temptation of going again to the window, and no sooner had she seen Mary
enter the close than she ran to her retreat behind the door, whispering
joyfully to Mrs. Dalrymple, "The wee deevil is catched, and coming!"

In a moment Jock was at the door, and while he firmly held the key
outside, he opened it so far as to let in his head.  Then addressing the
women, he said in an under-breath, or rather hiss: "Whisht! dinna speak!
I catched her!  I gied her the posey for Mrs. Mercer--I gied her the
half-croon to pay Mr. Mercer for my boots!--and she’s hame!--an’ ye’ll
never get her!--You twa limmers are cheated! If ye cheep, I’ll tell the
Shirra.  Jock Hall is nae hypocrite!  Deil tak’ ye baith, and Smellie
likewise! I’m aff!" and before a word could be spoken by the astonished
conspirators, Jock locked the door upon them, and flinging the key along
the passage he sprang down-stairs and fled no one knew whither!

Mary gave the bouquet of flowers to Mrs. Mercer, whose only remark was:
"Wha wad hae thocht it!" and she gave the half-crown to Adam, who said:
"I never hae been as thankfu’ for a day’s wage! Pit it in the drawer,
and keep it for Jock.  I’m no feared but wi’ God’s help I’ll mak’ a
sodger o’ him yet!  For as Charlie’s bairn weel remarks: ’A man’s a man
for a’ that’."




                               CHAPTER XV

                          JOCK HALL’S JOURNEY


John Spence, who, as we have seen, was connected with the early history
of Adam Mercer, had now reached an extreme old age, somewhere between
eighty and ninety years.  As he himself for a considerable time had
stuck to the ambiguous epoch of "aboon fourscore", it was concluded by
his friends that his ninth decade had nearly ended.  He was hale and
hearty, however,--"in possession of all his faculties", as we say--with
no complaint but "the rheumatics", which had soldered his joints so as
to keep him generally a prisoner in the large chair "ayont the fire", or
compel him to use crutches, when he "hirpled" across the floor.  He was
able, however, in genial weather, to occupy the bench at his cottage
door, there to fondle the young dogs, and to cultivate the acquaintance
of the old ones.  He had long ago given up all active work, and was a
pensioner on his Lordship; but he still tenaciously clung to the title
of "Senior Keeper".  The vermin even which he had killed, and nailed, as
a warning to evil-doers, over the gable-ends and walls of outhouses,
had, with the exception of a few fragments of bleached fossils, long
since passed away, giving place to later remains.

John was a great favourite with his master; and his advice was asked in
all matters connected with the game on the estate of Castle Bennock.
His anecdotes and reminiscences of old sporting days which he had spent
with three generations of the family, and with generations of their
friends and relations, were inexhaustible.  And when the great annual
festival of "the 12th" came round, and the Castle was crowded, and the
very dogs seemed to snuff the game in the air and became excited, then
John’s cottage, with its kennels and all its belongings, was a constant
scene of attraction to the sportsmen; and there he held a sort of court,
with the dignity and gravity of an old Nimrod.

The cottage was beautifully situated in a retired nook at the entrance
of a glen, beside a fresh mountain stream, and surrounded by a scattered
wood of wild birches, mountain ash, and alder.  The first ridge of
Benturk rose beyond the tree tops, with an almost perpendicular ascent
of loose stones, ribbed by wintry floods, and dotted by tufts of heather
and dots of emerald-green pasture, up to the range of rocks which
ramparted the higher peaks, around which in every direction descended
and swept far away the endless moorland of hill and glen.

John had long been a widower, and now resided with his eldest son Hugh,
whose hair was already mingled with white, like brown heather sprinkled
with snow.

Although the distance which separated John Spence from Adam Mercer was
only about thirty miles, there had been little intercourse between the
cousins.  A ridge of hills and a wild district intervened without any
direct communication.  The mail coach which passed through Drumsylie did
not come within miles of Castle Bennock.  Letters, except on business,
were rare between the districts, and were very expensive at that time to
all but M.P.’s, who could frank them for themselves or their friends.
And so it was that while John and Adam occasionally heard of each other,
and exchanged messages by mutual friends, or even met after intervals of
years, they nevertheless lived as in different kingdoms.

It was late on the Tuesday after his flight that Jock Hall, for reasons
known only to himself, entered the cottage of John Spence and walked up
to the blazing fire, beside which the old keeper was seated alone.

"Wat day, Mr. Spence!" said Jock, as his clothes began to smoke almost
as violently as the fire which shone on his wet and tattered garments.

John Spence was evidently astonished by the sudden appearance and blunt
familiarity of a total stranger, whose miserable and woebegone condition
was by no means prepossessing.  Keeping his eye fixed on him, John
slowly drew a crutch between his knees, as if anxious to be assured of
present help.

"Wha the mis-chief are ye?" asked Spence in an angry voice.

"A freen’, Mr. Spence--a freen’!" replied Jock, quietly.  "But let me
heat mysel’ awee--for I hae travelled far through moss and mire, and
sleepit last nicht in a roofless biggin, an’ a’ to see you--and syne
I’ll gie ye my cracks."

Spence, more puzzled than ever, only gave a growl, and said, slowly and
firmly, "A freen’ in need is nae doot a freen’ indeed, and I suppose
ye’ll be the freen’ in need, and ye tak’ me for the freen’ indeed, but
maybe ye’re mista’en!"

Hall remaining silent longer than was agreeable, Spence at last said
impatiently, "Nane o’ yer nonsense wi’ me!  I’ll ca’ in the keepers.
Ye’re ane o’ thae beggin’ ne’er-do-weel tramps that we hae ower mony o’.
Gang to the door and cry lood for Hugh.  He’s up in the plantin’; the
guidwife and bairns are doon at the Castle.  Be quick, or be aff aboot
yer business."

Jock very coolly replied, "My business is wi’ you, an’ I’m glad I hae
gotten ye by yersel’ an’ naebody near.  I’ll _no_ ca’ Hugh, an’ I ken
_ye_ canna do’t. Sae I’ll jist wait till he comes, an’ tell ye my
business in the meantime.  Wi’ your leave, Mr. Spence, I’ll tak’ a
seat;" on which he drew a chair to the side of the fire opposite old
John, who partly from fear and partly from a sense of his own weakness,
and also from curiosity, said nothing, but watched Hall with a look of
childish astonishment, his under lip hanging helplessly down, and his
hand firmly grasping the crutch.  His only remark was--"My certes, ye’re
a cool ane!  I hae seen the day----" but what he had seen vanished in
another growl, ended by a groan.

"Tak’ a snuff, Mr. Spence," said Hall, as he rose and offered his tin
box to the keeper.  "Snuff is meat and music; it’s better than a bite o’
bread when hungry, and maist as gude as a dram when cauld, and at a’
times it is pleasant tae sowl and body.  Dinna spare’t!"

There was not, as usual, much to spare of the luxury, but Spence refused
it on the ground that he had never snuffed, and "didna like to get a
habit o’t".

"I think," said Jock, "ye might trust yersel’ at fourscore for no’ doing
that."

The keeper made no reply, but kept his small grey eyes under his bushy
eyebrows fixed on his strange visitor.

When Jock had resumed his seat, he said, "Ye’ll ken weel, I’se warrant,
Mr. Spence, a’ the best shootin’ grun’ about Benturk?  Ye’ll nae doot
ken the best bits for fillin’ yer bag when the win’ is east or wast,
north or south?  And ye’ll ken the Lang Slap? and the Craigdarroch brae?
and the short cut by the peat moss, past the Big Stane, and doon by the
whins to the Cairntupple muir?  And ye’ll ken----"

Old Spence could stand this no longer, and he interrupted Jock by
exclaiming, "Confoond yer gab and yer impudence! dauring to sit afore me
there as if ye were maister and I servant!  What do ye mean?"

"I was but axin’ a ceevil question, Mr. Spence; and I suppose ye’ll no’
deny that ye ken thae places?"

[Illustration: "I WAS BUT AXIN’ A CEEVIL QUESTION, MR. SPENCE"  Page
117]

"An’ what if I do? what if I do?" retorted the keeper.

"Jist this," said Jock, without a movement in the muscles of his
countenance, "that I ken them tae for mony a year; and sae baith o’ us
hae common freens amang the hills."

"What do _ye_ ken aboot them?" asked Spence, not more pacified, nor less
puzzled.

"Because," said Jock, "I hae shot ower them a’ as a poacher--my name is
Jock Hall, parish o’ Drumsylie--and I hae had the best o’ sport on
them."

This was too much for the Senior Keeper.  With an exclamation that need
not be recorded, Spence made an attempt to rise with the help of his
crutches, but was gently laid back in his chair by Jock, who said--

"Muckle ye’ll mak’ o’t! as the auld wife said to the guse waumlin’ in
the glaur.  Sit doon--sit doon, Mr. Spence; I’ll be as guid to you as
Hugh; an’ I’ll ca’ in Hugh ony time ye like: sae be easy. For I wish
atween oorsels to tell ye aboot an auld poacher and an auld acquaintance
o’ yours and mine, Sergeant Adam Mercer; for it’s aboot him I’ve come."
This announcement induced John to resume his seat without further
trouble, on which Jock said, "Noo, I’ll ca’ Hugh to ye, gin ye bid me,
as ye seem feared for me;" and he motioned as if to go to the door.

"I’m no feared for you nor for mortal man!" replied Spence, asserting
his dignity in spite of his fears; "but, my fac! _ye_ might be feared,
pittin’ yer fit into a trap like this! and if Hugh grips ye!----"  He
left the rest to be inferred.

"Pfuff!" said Jock.  "As to that, gudeman, I hae been in every jail
roon’ aboot!  A jail wad be comfort tae me compared wi’ the hole I
sleepit in the nicht I left Drumsylie, and the road I hae travelled
sinsyne!  But wull ye no’ hear me about Adam Mercer?"

Spence could not comprehend the character he had to deal with, but
beginning to think him probably "a natural", he told him to "say awa’,
as the titlin’ remarked tae the gowk".

Jock now gathered all his wits about him, so as to be able to give a
long and tolerably lucid history of the events which were then agitating
the little world of Drumsylie, and of which the Sergeant was the centre.
He particularly described the part that Mr. Smellie had taken in the
affair, and, perhaps, from more than one grudge he bore to the said
gentleman, he made him the chief if not the only real enemy of the
Sergeant.

The only point which Jock failed to make intelligible to the keeper was
his account of the starling. It may have been the confusion of ideas
incident to old age when dealing with subjects which do not link
themselves to the past; but so it was that there got jumbled up in the
keeper’s mind such a number of things connected with a bird which was
the bairn of the Sergeant’s bairn, and whistled songs, and told Jock he
was a man, and disturbed the peace of the parish, and broke the Sabbath,
and deposed the Sergeant, that he could not solve the mystery for
himself, nor could Jock make it clear. He therefore accepted Spence’s
confusion as the natural result of a true estimate of the facts of the
case, which few but the Kirk Session could understand, and accordingly
he declared that "the bird was a kin’ o’ witch, a maist extraordinar’
cratur, that seemed to ken a’ things, and unless he was mista’en wad pit
a’ things richt gin the hinner en’".  The keeper declared "his
detestation o’ a’ speaking birds"; and his opinion that "birds were made
for shootin’, or for ha’ein’ their necks thrawn for eatin’--unless when
layin’ or hatchin’".

But what practical object, it may be asked, had Hall in view in this
volunteer mission of his?  It was, as he told the keeper, to get him to
ask his Lordship, as being the greatest man in the district, to
interfere in the matter and by all possible means to get Smellie, if not
Mr. Porteous, muzzled.  "Ye’re Adam’s coosin, I hear," said Jock, "and
the head man wi’ his Lordship, and ye hae but tae speak the word and
deliver the Sergeant an’ his bird frae the grips o’ these deevils."

Jock had, however, touched a far sorer point than he was aware of when
he described Smellie as the propagator of the early history of the
Sergeant as a poacher.  This, along with all that had been narrated, so
roused the indignation of Spence, who had the warmest regard for the
Sergeant, apart from his being his cousin and from the fact of his
having connived in some degree at his poaching, that, forgetting for a
moment the polluted presence of a confessed poacher like Hall, he told
him to call Hugh; adding, however, "What wull he do if he kens what ye
are, my man?  It’s easy to get oot o’ the teeth o’ an auld doug like me,
wha’s a guid bit aboon fourscore.  But Hugh!--faix he wad pit baith o’
us ower his head!  What _wad_ he say if he kent a poacher was sitting at
his fireside?"

"I didna say, Mr. Spence, that I _am_ a poacher, but that I was ane; nor
did I say that I wad ever be ane again; nor could Hugh or ony ane else
pruve mair than has been pruved a’ready against me, and paid for by sowl
and body to jails and judges: sae let that flee stick to the wa’!"
answered Jock; and having done so, he went to the door, and, with
stentorian lungs, called the younger keeper so as to wake up all the
dogs with howl and bark as if they had been aware of the poaching habits
of the shouter.

As Hugh came to the door, at which Jock calmly stood, he said to him in
a careless tone, like one who had known him all his life: "Yer faither
wants ye;" and, entering the kitchen, he resumed his former seat,
folding his arms and looking at the fire.

"Wha the sorrow hae ye gotten here, faither, cheek by jowl wi’ ye?"
asked the tall and powerful keeper, scanning Jock with a most critical
eye.

"A freen’ o’ my cousin’s, Adam Mercer," replied old Spence.  "But speer
ye nae questions, Hugh, and ye’ll get nae lees.  He has come on business
that I’ll tell ye aboot.  But tak’ him ben in the meantime, and gie him
some bread and cheese, wi’ a drap milk, till his supper’s ready.  He’ll
stay here till morning.  Mak’ a bed ready for him in the laft."

Hugh, in the absence of his wife, obeyed his father’s orders, though not
without a rather strong feeling of lessened dignity as a keeper in being
thus made the servant of a ragged-looking tramp. While Jock partook of
his meal in private, and afterwards went out to smoke his pipe and look
about him, Old Spence entered into earnest conference with his son Hugh.
After giving his rather confused and muddled, yet sufficiently correct,
edition of Mercer’s story, he concentrated his whole attention and that
of his son on the fact that Peter Smellie was the enemy of Adam Mercer,
and had been so for some time; that he had joined the minister to
persecute him; and, among other things, had also revealed the story of
Adam’s poaching more than thirty years before, to raise prejudice
against his character and that of Spence as a keeper.

"Wha’s Smellie?  I dinna mind him," asked Hugh.

"Nae loss, Hugh!--nae loss at a’.  I never spak’ o’t to onybody afore,
and ye’ll no clipe aboot it, for every dog should hae his chance; and if
a man should miss wi’ ae barrel, he may nevertheless hit wi’ the tither;
and I dinna want to fash the man mair than is necessar’.  But this same
Smellie had a shop here at the clachan aboon twenty years syne, and I
got him custom frae the Castle; an’ didna the rogue--Is the door
steekit?" asked the old man in a whisper.  Hugh nodded.  "An’ didna the
rogue," continued old John, "forge my name tae a bill for £50?  That did
he; and I could hae hanged him! But I never telt on him till this hour,
but made him pay the half o’t, and I paid the ither half mysel’; and
Adam see’d me sae distressed for the money that he gied me £5 in a
present tae help.  Naebody kent o’t excep’ mysel’ and Adam, wha was
leevin’ here at the time, and saw it was a forgery; and I axed him
_never_ to say a word aboot it, and I’ll wager he never did, for a
clean-speerited man and honourable is Adam Mercer!  Weel, Smellie by my
advice left the kintraside for Drumsylie, and noo he’s turning against
Adam!  Isna that awfu’?  Is’t no’ deevilish?  Him like a doug pointing
at Adam!  As weel a moose point at a gled!"

"That’s a particular bonnie job indeed," said Hugh.  "I wad like to
pepper the sneaky chiel wi’ snipe-dust for’t.  But what can be dune
noo?"

"Dune!  Mair than Smellie wad like, and enouch to mak’ him lowse his
grip o’ Adam!" said the old man.  "I hae a letter till him bamboozlin’
my head, and I’ll maybe grip it in the mornin’ and pit it on paper afore
breakfast-time!  Be ye ready to write it doon as I tell ye, and it’ll
start Smellie ower his wabs and braid claith, or I’m mista’en!"

Hugh was ordered to meet his father in the morning to indite the
intended epistle.




                              CHAPTER XVI

                          FISHERS AND FISHING


As the evening drew on, the family who occupied the keeper’s house
gathered together like crows to their rookery.  Mrs. Hugh, who had been
helping at a large washing in "the big house", returned with a blythe
face, full of cheer and womanly kindness.

"Hech! but I hae had sic a day o’t!  What a washing! an’ it’s no’ half
dune!  But wha hae we here?" she asked, as she espied Jock seated near
the fire.  "Dae I ken ye?" she further inquired, looking at him with a
sceptical smile, as if she feared to appear rude to one whom she ought,
perhaps, to have recognised.

Jock, with a sense of respect due to her, rose, and said, "I houp no’,
for maybe I wad be nae credit tae ye as an acqua’ntance."

"A freen’ o’ my cousin’s, Adam Mercer, o’ Drumsylie," remarked old
Spence.  "Sit doon, my man!"

"I’m glad tae see ye," said the happy sonsy wife, stretching out her
hand to Jock, who took it reluctantly, and gazed in the woman’s face
with an awkward expression.

"It’s been saft weather, and bad for travellin’, and ye hae come a far
gait," she continued; and forthwith began to arrange her house.  Almost
at her heels the children arrived.  There were two flaxen-haired girls,
one ten and the other about twelve, with bare feet, and their locks tied
up like sheaves of ripe golden grain.  Then came in a stout lad of about
seven, from school and play.  All looked as fresh and full of life as
young roe from the forest.

"Gang awa’, bairns, and snod yersels," said Mrs. Hugh.

"This man," said old Spence, who was jealous of his authority over the
household, pointing to Jock, "wull tak’ his supper wi’ us.  He’s tae
sleep in the stable-laft."

"He’s welcome, he’s welcome," said Mrs. Hugh. "The bed’s nae braw, but
it’s clean, and it’s our best for strangers."

The last to enter, as the sun was setting, was John, the eldest, a lad
of about fourteen, the very picture of a pure-eyed, ruddy-complexioned,
healthy, and happy lad.  He had left school to assist his father in
attending to his duties.

"What luck, Johnnie?" asked his father, as the boy entered with his
fishing basket over his shoulder.

"Middlin’ only," replied John; "the water was raither laigh, and the
tak’ wasna guid.  There were plenty o’ rises, but the troots were unco
shy.  But I hae gotten, for a’ that, a guid wheen;" and he unslung his
basket and poured out from it a number of fine trout.

Jock’s attention was now excited.  Here was evidence of an art which he
flattered himself he understood, and could speak about with some
authority.

"Pretty fair," was his remark, as he rose and examined them; "whaur got
ye them?"

"In the Blackcraig water," replied the boy.

"Let me luik at yer flee, laddie?" asked Jock. The boy produced it.
"Heckle, bad!--ye should hae tried a teal’s feather on a day like this."

Johnnie looked with respect at the stranger.  "Are ye a fisher?" he
asked.

"I hae tried my han’," said Jock.  And so the conversation began, until
soon the two were seated together at the window.  Then followed such a
talk on the mysteries of the craft as none but students of the angle
could understand:--the arrangement and effect of various "dressings", of
wings, bodies, heckles, &c., being discussed with intense interest,
until all acknowledged Jock as a master.

"Ye seem tae understan’ the business weel," remarked Hugh.

"I wad need," replied Jock.  "When a man’s life, no’ to speak o’ his
pleasure, depen’s on’t, he needs tae fish wi’ a watchfu’ e’e and canny
han’.  But at a’ times, toom or hungry, it’s a great diverteesement!"

Both Johnnie and his father cordially assented to the truth of the
sentiment.

"Eh, man!" said Jock, thus encouraged to speak on a favourite topic,
"what a conceit it is when ye reach a fine run on a warm spring mornin’,
the wuds hotchin’ wi’ birds, an’ dauds o’ licht noos and thans glintin’
on the water; an’ the water itsel’ in trim order, a wee doon, after a
nicht’s spate, and wi’ a drap o’ porter in’t, an’ rowin’ and bubblin’
ower the big stanes, curlin’ into the linn and oot o’t; and you up tae
the henches in a dark neuk whaur the fish canna see ye; an’ than to get
a lang cast in the breeze that soughs in the bushes, an’ see yer flee
licht in the vera place ye want, quiet as a midge lichts on yer nose, or
a bumbee on a flower o’ clover, an’----"

Johnnie was bursting with almost as much excitement as Jock, but did not
interrupt him except with a laugh expressive of his delight.

"An’ than," continued Jock, "whan a muckle chiel’ o’ a salmon, wi’oot
time tae consider whether yer flee is for his wame or only for his
mooth--whether it’s made by natur’ or by Jock Hall--plays flap! and by
mistak’ gangs to digest what he has gotten for his breakfast, but
suspec’s he canna swallow the line alang wi’ his mornin’ meal till he
taks some exercise!--an’ then tae see the line ticht, and the rod
bendin’ like a heuk, and tae fin’ something gaun frae the fish up the
line and up the rod till it reaches yer verra heart, that gangs _pit
pat_ at yer throat like a tickin’ watch; until the bonnie cratur’, efter
rinnin’ up and doon like mad, noo skulkin’ aside a stane tae cure his
teethache, then bilkin’ awa’ wi’ a scunner at the line and trying every
dodge, syne gies in, comes tae yer han’ clean beat in fair play, and
lies on the bank sayin’ ’Wae’s me’ wi’ his tail, an’ makin’ his will wi’
his gills and mooth time aboot!--eh, man, it’s splendid!"  Jock wearied
himself with the description.

"Whaur hae ye fished?" asked Hugh, after a pause during which he had
evidently enjoyed Jock’s description.

"In the wast water and east water; in the big linn an’ wee linn, in the
Loch o’ the Whins, in the Red Burn, an’ in----"

"I dinna ken thae waters at a’," remarked the keeper, interrupting him,
"nor ever heard o’ them!"

"Nor me," chimed in old John, "though I hae been here for mair than
fifty year."

"Maybe no’," said Jock with a laugh, "for they’re in the back o’ the
beyonts, and that’s a place few folk hae seen, I do assure you--ha! ha!
ha!"  Jock had, in fact, fished the best streams watched by the keepers
throughout the whole district.  Young John was delighted with this new
acquaintance, and looked up to him with the greatest reverence.

"What kin’ o’ flee duve ye fish wi’?" asked Johnnie. "Hae ye ony aboot
ye e’enoo?"

"I hae a few," said Hall, as he unbuttoned his waistcoat, displaying a
tattered shirt within, and, diving into some hidden recess near his
heart, drew forth a large old pocket-book and placed it on the table.
He opened it with caution and circumspection, and spread out before the
delighted Johnnie, and his no less interested father, entwined circles
of gut, with flies innumerable.

"That’s the ane," Jock would say, holding up a small, black, hairy
thing, "I killed ten dizzen wi’--thumpers tae, three pun’s some o’
them--afore twa o’clock.  Eh, man, he’s a murderin’ chiel this!"
exhibiting another.  "But it was this ither ane," holding up one larger
and more gaudy, "that nicked four salmon in three hours tae their great
surprise!  And thae flees," taking up other favourites, "wi’ the
muirfowl wing and black body, are guid killers; but isna this a cracker
wi’ the wee touch o’ silver? it kilt mair salmon--whaur, ye needna
speer--than I could carry hame on a heather wuddie!  But, Johnnie," he
added after a pause, "I maun, as yer freen’, warn ye that it’s no’ the
flee, nor the water, nor the rod, nor the win’, nor the licht, can dae
the job, wi’oot the watchfu’ e’e and steady han’, an’ a feelin’ for the
business that’s kin’ o’ born wi’ a fisher, but hoo that comes aboot I
dinna ken--I think I could maist catch fish in a boyne o’ water if there
were ony tae catch!"




                              CHAPTER XVII

                           THE KEEPER’S HOME


While the preparations for supper were going on within doors, Jock went
out to have a "dauner", or saunter, but, in truth, from a modest wish to
appear as if not expecting to be asked to partake of supper with the
family.

The table was spread with a white home-made linen cloth, and deep plates
were put down, each with a horn spoon beside it.  A large pot,
containing potatoes which had been pared before they were placed on the
fire, was now put on the floor, and fresh butter with some salt having
been added to its contents, the whole was beat and mashed with a heavy
wooden beetle worked by Hugh and his son--for the work required no small
patience and labour--into a soft mass, forming an excellent dish of
"champed potatoes", which, when served up with rich milk, is "a dainty
dish to set before a king", even without the four-and-twenty blackbirds.
Then followed a second course of "barley scones" and thick crisp oatmeal
cakes, with fresh butter, cheese, and milk.

Before supper was served Jock Hall was missed, and Johnnie sent in
search of him.  After repeated shouts he found him wandering about the
woods, but had the greatest difficulty in persuading him to join the
family.  Jock said, "It wasna for him tae gang ben",--"he had had eneuch
tae eat in the afternoon",--"he wad hae a bite efter hin", &c.  But
being at last persuaded to accept the pressing invitation, he entered,
and without speaking a word seated himself in the place allotted to him.

"Tak’ in yer chair, Maister Hall,"--Jock could hardly believe his
ears!--"and mak’ what supper ye can," said Mrs. Hugh.  "We’re plain
kintra folk hereawa’,"--an apology to Jock for their having nothing
extra at supper to mark their respect for a friend of the Sergeant’s!
What were his thoughts? The character of an impostor seemed forced upon
him when he most desired to be an honest man.

Then the old man reverently took off his "Kilmarnock cool", a coloured
worsted night-cap, and said grace, thanking God for all His mercies, "of
the least of which," he added, "we are unworthy".  After supper Mrs.
Hugh gave a long account of the labours of the day, and of the big
washing, and told how she had met Lady Mary, and Lady Caroline, and Lord
Bennock, and how they had been talking to the children, and "speering
for faither and grandfaither".

A happy family was that assembled under the keeper’s roof.  The youngest
child, a boy, was ever welcome on old John’s knee, who never seemed able
to exhaust the pleasure he derived from his grandson’s prattle.  His
large watch, which approached in size to a house clock, with its large
pewter seal, was an endless source of amusement to the child; so also
was the splendid rabbit shadowed on the wall, with moving ears and
moving mouth, created by John’s hands; and his imitation of dogs, cats,
and all other domestic animals, in which he was an adept;--nay, his very
crutches were turned to account to please the boy, and much more to
please himself.  The elder daughters clung round their mother in a
group, frankly talking to her in mutual confidence and love. The boys
enjoyed the same liberty with their father, and indulged unchecked in
expressions of affection. All was freedom without rudeness, play without
riot, because genuine heartfelt affection united all.

Jock did not join in the conversation, except when he was asked
questions by Mrs. Hugh about Drumsylie, its shops and its people.  On
the whole he was shy and reserved.  Anyone who could have watched his
eye and seen his heart would have discovered both busy in contemplating
a picture of ordinary family life such as the poor outcast had never
before beheld.  But Jock still felt as if he was not in his right
place--as if he would have been cast out into the darkness had his real
character been known.  His impressions of a kind of life he never dreamt
of were still more deepened when, before going to bed, the large Bible
was placed on the table, and Hugh, amidst the silence of the family,
said, "We’ll hae worship."  The chapter for the evening happened to be
the fifteenth of St. Luke.  It was as if written expressly for Jock.
Are such adaptations to human wants to be traced to mere chance?  Surely
He who can feed the wild beasts of the desert, or the sparrow amidst the
waste of wintry snows, can give food to the hungry soul of a Prodigal
Son, as yet ignorant of the food he needs and of the Father who alone
can supply it.

They did not ask Jock if he would remain for evening worship.  "The
stranger within the gate" was assumed to be, for the time, a member of
the household. It was for him to renounce his recognised right, not for
the family to question it.  But Jock never even argued the point with
himself.  He listened with head bent down as if ashamed to hold it up,
and following the example set to him by the family, knelt down--for the
first time in his life--in prayer.  Did he pray?  Was it all a mere
form? Was it by constraint, and not willingly?  What his thoughts were
on such an occasion, or whether they were gathered up in prayer to the
living God, who can tell?  But if the one thought even, for the first
time, possessed him, that maybe there was a Person beyond the seen and
temporal, to whom the world and man belonged, whose Name he could now
associate with no evil but with all good, who possibly knew him and
wished him to be good like Himself;--if there was even a glimmer in his
soul, as he knelt down, that he might say as well as others, and along
with them, "Our Father, which art in Heaven", then was there cast into
his heart, though he knew it not, the germ of a new life which might yet
grow into a faith and love which would be life eternal.

The prayer of Hugh the keeper was simple, earnest, and direct, a real
utterance from one person to another--yet as from a man to God, couched
in his own homely dialect to Him whom the people of every language and
tongue can worship.  The prayer was naturally suggested by the chapter
which was read. He acknowledged that all were as lost sheep; as money
lost in the dust of earth; as miserable prodigals lost to their Father
and to themselves, and who were poor and needy, feeding on husks, having
no satisfaction, and finding no man to give unto them. He prayed God to
bring them all into the fold of the Good Shepherd, who had given His
life for the sheep, and to keep them in it; to gather them as the lost
coins into the treasury of Him who was rich, yet who for our sakes
became poor; he prayed God to help them all to say, "I will arise and go
to my Father", in the assured hope that their Father would meet them
afar off, and receive them with joy.  After remembering the afflicted in
body and mind, the orphan and widow, the outcast and stranger, he asked
that God, who had mercy on themselves who deserved nothing, would make
them also merciful to others; and he concluded with the Lord’s Prayer.

Had any one seen poor Hall that night as he lay in the hay-loft, a clean
blanket under him and more than one over him, they might have discovered
in his open eyes, and heard in his half-muttered expressions, and
noticed even from his wakeful tossings to and fro, a something stirring
in his soul the nature or value of which he himself could not comprehend
or fully estimate.




                             CHAPTER XVIII

                          THE KEEPER’S LETTER


Old John Spence was an early riser.  He did not share Charles Lamb’s
fears of indulging in the ambition of rising with the sun.  The latter
part of the day was to him a period of repose, a siesta of half-sleepy
meditation, which not unfrequently passed into a deep-toned sleep in his
arm-chair.  In a lucid interval, during the evening of Jock’s arrival,
he had been considering how he might best help the Sergeant out of his
difficulties.  He had not for a moment accepted of Jock’s policy
suggesting his lordship’s interference in the great Drumsylie case.
With the instinct of an old servant, he felt that such presumption on
his part was out of the question.  So he had informed Jock, bidding him
not to think of his lordship, who would not and could not do anything in
the matter.  He assured him at the same time that he would try what
could be done by himself to muzzle Smellie.  Having accordingly matured
his plans, he was ready at daybreak to execute them.  He embraced
therefore the first opportunity of taking Hugh into a small closet,
where the little business which required writing was generally
transacted, and where a venerable escritoire stood, in whose drawers and
secret recesses were carefully deposited all papers relating to that
department of his lordship’s estate over which John was chief.

The door having been carefully barred, the old keeper seated in an
arm-chair, and his son Hugh at the escritoire, John said, "Get the pen
and paper ready."

"A’ richt," said Hugh, having mended his pen and tried it on his
thumb-nail, looking at it carefully as he held it up in the light.

"Weel, then, begin!  Write--’Sir;’ no’ ’Dear Sir,’ but jist ’Sir’.  Of
coorse ye’ll pit the direction ’To Mr. Peter Smellie’.  Eh?--halt a
wee--should I say Mr. or plain Peter?  Jist mak’ it plain Peter--say,
’To Peter Smellie’."

"To Peter Smellie," echoed Hugh.

"John Spence, keeper--or raither John Spence, senior keeper--wishes tae
tell ye that ye’re a scoondrill."

After writing these words with the exception of the last, Hugh said, "Be
canny, faither, or maybe he micht prosecute you."

"Let him try’t!" replied John; "but let scoondrill stan’.  It’s the vera
pooder and shot o’ my letter; wi’oot that, it’s a’ tow and colfin."

"I’m no’ sure, faither, if I can spell’t," said Hugh, who did not like
the more than doubtful expression, and put off the writing of it by
asking, "Hoo, faither, d’ye spell scoondrill?"

"What ither way but the auld way?"

"But I never wrote it afore, for I hae had little to dae wi’ ony o’ the
squad."

"Weel, I wad say--s, k, oo, n, d, r, i, l, l, or to that effec’.  Keep
in the _drill_ whatever ye dae, for that’s what I mean tae gie him!"

Having written this very decided introduction, Hugh went on with his
letter, which when completed ran as follows:--


"John Spence, Senior Keeper, Castle Bennock, to Peter Smellie, Draper,
Drumsylie.

"You are a skoondrill, and you kno it!  But nobody else knos it but my
son and me and Serjent Mercer.  I wuss you to understan’ that he knos
all about yon black business o’ yours, 20 year back.  This comes to let
you kno that unless you leve him alone, and don’t molest him, I will
send you to Botany Bay, as you deserve.  Medle not with the Sergeant, or
it wull be to your cost.  Attend to this hint.  I wull have you weel
watched.  You are in Mr. Mercer’s power.  Bewar!

"Your servt.,
       "JOHN SPENCE."


"I houp," said John, as he had the letter read over to him, "that will
mak the whitrat leave aff sookin’ the Sergeant’s throat!  If no’, I’ll
worry him like a brock, or hunt him like a fox aff the kintra side.  But
no’ a word o’ this, mind ye, tae ony leevin’ cratur, mair especial tae
yon trampin’ chiel. Gie Smellie a chance, bad as he is.  Sae let the
letter be sent aff this verra nicht wi’ Sandy the Post. The sooner the
better.  The nesty taed that he is! Him to be preaching tae a man like
Adam oot o’ his clay hole!"

The letter was despatched that night by the post. It was not thought
discreet to intrust Jock with the secret, or to let Adam Mercer know in
the meantime anything about this counter-mine.

Breakfast being over, Hall proposed to return to Drumsylie.  Before
doing so he wished some positive assurance of obtaining aid in favour of
the Sergeant from Spence.  But all he could get out of the keeper was to
"keep his mind easy--no’ to fear--he wad look efter the Sergeant".

Old Spence would not, however, permit of Jock’s immediate departure, but
invited him to remain a day or two "and rest himsel’".  It was
benevolently added, that "he could help Johnnie to fish at an odd hour,
and to sort the dogs and horses in ordinar’ hours".  The fact was, old
Spence did not wish Hall to return immediately to Drumsylie, until
events there had time to be affected by his letter to Smellie. Jock was
too glad of the opportunity afforded him of proving that he might be
trusted to do whatever work he was fitted for, and that he was not "a
lazy tramper" by choice.

As the week was drawing to an end, Jock made up his mind to return to
his old haunts, for home he had none.  He had also an undefined longing
to see the Sergeant, and to know how it fared with him.

But when the day arrived for his departure, Hugh suggested that perhaps
Jock would like to see the Castle.  It was not, he said, every day he
would have such a chance of seeing so grand a place, and maybe he might
even see his lordship!--at a distance. Besides, it would not take him
far out of his road; and Hugh would accompany him a part of the way
home, as he had to visit a distant part of the estate in the discharge
of his professional duties.

Jock’s curiosity was excited by the thought of seeing the great house
not as a beggar or a poacher, but under the genteel protection of a
keeper and confidential servant, and when a live lord might be scanned
from afar without fear.

When Jock came to bid farewell to old Spence, he approached him bonnet
in hand, with every token of respect.  He said little but "Thank
ye--thank ye, Mr. Spence, for yer guidness;" and whispering, added, "I’m
sorry if I offended ye.  But maybe ye could get a job for me if I canna
fa’ in wi’ honest wark at Drumsylie?  I’ll break my back, or break my
heart, tae please you or ony dacent man that ’ll help me to feed my
body--it’s no mickle buik--and to cover’t--and little will keep the
cauld oot, for my hide is weel tanned wi’ win’ and weather."

Spence looked with interest at the poor but earnest pleader at his
elbow, and nodded encouragingly to him.

"Eh, man!" said Jock, "what a pity ye dinna snuff!  I wad lee ye my auld
snuff-box gin ye wad tak’ it."

Spence smiled and thanked him--ay even shook hands with him!--an honour
which went to Jock’s heart; and Spence added, "My compliments to my
cousin Adam, and tell him to stan’ at ease and keep his pooder dry."

Mrs. Spence had prepared a good "rung" of bread and cheese, which she
stuffed into Jock’s pocket to support him in his journey.

"Awfu’ guid o’ ye--maist awfu’!" said Jock, as he eyed the honest woman
pressing the food into its ragged receptacle.

Jock looked round, and asked for Johnnie.  On being told that he was at
the stables, he went off to find him, and, having succeeded, took him
aside and said--"Johnnie, laddie, I hae been treated by yer folk like a
lord, tho’ efter a’ I dinna weel ken hoo a lord is treated; but,
howsomdever, wi’oot ony clavers aboot it, here’s a present for you o’
the best buik o’ flees in the haill kintra side.  Tak’ them, and
welcome."  And Jock produced his "Book of Sports", which had been his
most cheerful companion for many a year, and almost forcing John to take
it, added, "I hae a obligation to ax: never tell yer folk aboot it till
I’m awa’, and never tell ony stranger atween this and Drumsylie that ye
got it frae Jock Ha’."  And before the astonished boy could thank him as
the generous giver of so many keys to unlock every pool of its
treasures, on every day in the year and at all seasons, Jock ran off to
join Hugh.




                              CHAPTER XIX

                             EXTREMES MEET


In a short time Hugh was conducting Jock towards the Castle.  After they
passed the lodge, and were walking along the beautiful avenue and
beneath the fine old trees, with the splendid park sweeping around, and
the turrets of the Castle in sight, Hugh said, "Now, Hall, dinna speak
to onybody unless they speak to you, and gie a discreet answer.  Dae my
biddin’; for I’m takin’ a great responsibility in bringin’ ye in here.
His lordship maybe wadna be pleased to see a trampin’ chiel like you
here.  But I’ll tak’ care he doesna see ye, nor if possible hear tell o’
ye."

"Never fear me," said Jock; "I’ll be as quaet as a dead rabbit.  But,
Hugh man, I hae seen his lordship afore."

"Whaur?" asked Hugh, with an expression of astonishment.

"He ance tried me, as a maugistrat’," replied Jock, equally placid.

"Tried ye!" exclaimed Hugh, pausing in his walk as if he had got into
one scrape and was about to enter a second--"tried ye for what?"

"Oh, never heed," said Jock; "dinna be ower particular.  It was a job
that ended in a drucken habble I got into wi’ twa tailor chappies that
struck me, and my head and e’e were bun’ wi’ a bluidy napkin at the
trial, and his lordship wull no’ mind on me; tho’ faix! I mind on him,
for he sent me tae jail."

"Was that a’?" carelessly remarked Hugh.  "Ye micht hae thrashed nine
tailors and no’ got yersel’ hurt; I gripped three o’ them mysel’ when
poachin’."

But Jock did not tell the whole history of one of his own poaching
affrays along with the tailors.

Hugh ensconced Jock in the shrubbery until he ascertained from one of
the servants that his lordship had gone out to walk in the grounds, that
the ladies were taking an airing in the carriage, and that it was quite
possible to get a peep into the great hall and the public rooms opening
from it, without being discovered.  As Hugh, accompanied by Jock, crept
almost noiselessly along the passages, he directed with underbreath
Jock’s attention to the noble apartments, the arms and suits of mail
hung round the wall of the great entrance-hall, the stags’ heads, the
stuffed birds, and one or two fine paintings of boar-hunts.  But when
the drawing-room door was opened, and there flashed upon Jock’s eyes all
the splendour of colour reflected from large mirrors, in which he saw,
for the first time, his own odd figure from crown to toe, making him
start back as if he had seen a ghost, and when through the windows he
beheld all the beauty of flowers that filled the parterres, dotted with
_jets d’eaux_, white statues and urns, and surrounded by bowery foliage,
a vision presented itself which was as new to him as if he had passed
into Eden from the lodgings of Mrs. Craigie.

He did not speak a word, but only remarked it was "nae doubt unco braw,
and wad hae cost a heap o’ siller".  But, as they were retreating,
suddenly the inner door of the hall opened, and his lordship stood
before them!

"Heeven be aboot us!" ejaculated Spence, and in a lower voice added,
"Dune for,--dune for life!"  He looked around him, as if for some means
of concealing himself, but in vain.  The door by which they had entered
was closed.  There was no mode of exit.  Jock, seeing only a
plain-looking little gentleman in a Glengarry bonnet and tweed suit,
never imagined that this could be a lord, and was accordingly quite
composed.  Spence, with his eyes fixed on the ground and his face
flushed to the roots of his hair, seemed speechless.

His lordship was a slight-built man, of about forty, with pleasing hazel
eyes and large moustache.  He had retired from the army, and was much
liked for his frank manner and good humour.  Seeing his keeper in such
perplexity, accompanied by so disreputable-looking a person, he said,
"Hollo, Spence! whom have you got here?  I hope not a poacher, eh?"

"I humbly beg your lordship’s pardon; but, my lord, the fac’ is----"
stammered Hugh.

"Is that his lordship?" whispered Jock.

"Haud yer tongue!" replied Hugh in an undertone of intense vehemence.
Then addressing his lordship, he said, "He’s no poacher, my lord; no,
no, but only----"

"Oh! an acquaintance, I suppose."

"No’ that either, no’ that either," interrupted Hugh, as his dignity was
frying on account of his companion, whom he wished a hundred miles away,
"but an acqua’ntance o’ an acqua’ntance o’ my faither’s lang syne--a
maist respectable man--Sergeant Mercer, in Drumsylie, and I took the
leeberty, thinking yer lordship was oot, to----"

"To show him the house.  Quite right, Spence; quite right; glad you did
so."  Then addressing Jock, he said, "Never here before, I suppose?"

Jock drew himself up, placed his hands along his sides, heels in, toes
out, and gave the military salute.

"Been in the army?  In what regiment?  Have you seen service?"

"Yes, sir--yes, my lord," replied Jock; "as yer honour says, I ha’e seen
service."

This was information to Spence, who breathed more freely on hearing such
unexpected evidence of Jock’s respectability.

"Where?" inquired his lordship, seating himself on one of the lobby
chairs, and folding his arms.

"In the berrick-yaird o’ Stirlin’, yer honour," replied Jock; "but in
what regiment I dinna mind. It was a first, second, or third something
or anither; but I hae clean forgotten the name and number."

"The barrack-yard?" said his lordship, laughing; "pray how long did you
serve his Majesty in that severe campaign?"

"Aboot a fortnicht," said Jock.

"What!" exclaimed his lordship; "a fortnight only?  And what after
that?"

"I ran aff as fast as I could," said Jock; "and never ran faster a’ my
days, till I reached Drumsylie."

Hugh turned his back as if also to run away, with sundry half-muttered
exclamations of horror and alarm.  His lordship burst into a fit of
laughter, and said,--"On my honour, you’re a candid fellow!"  But he
evidently assumed that Jock was probably a half-witted character, who
did not comprehend the full meaning of his admission.  He was confirmed
in his supposition by Jock going on to give a history of his military
life in the most easy and simple fashion,--

"I ’listed when I was fou’; and though I had nae objections at ony time
to fire a gun at a bird or a Frenchman, or tae fecht them that wad fecht
me, yet the sodjers at Stirlin’ made a fule o’ me, and keepit me walkin’
and trampin’ back and forrid for twa weeks in the yaird, as if they were
breakin’ a horse; and I could dae naething, neither fish, nor e’en shoot
craws, wi’oot the leave o’ an ill-tongued corporal.  I couldna thole
that, could I?  It wasna in the bargain, and sae I left, and they didna
think it worth their while to speer after me."

"Egad!" said his lordship, laughing, "I dare say not, I dare say not!
Do you know what they might have done to you if they had caught you, my
man?" asked his lordship.

"Shot me, I expec’," said Jock; "but I wasna worth the pooder; and, tae
tell the truth, I wad raither be shot like a gled for harryin’ a
paitrick’s nest, than be kept a’ my days like a gowk in a cage o’ a
berricks at Stirlin’!  But I didna heed atweel whether they shot me or
no’," added Jock, looking round him, and stroking his chin as if in a
half dream.

"The black dog tak’ ye!" said Spence, who lost his temper.  "My lord, I
declare----"

"Never mind, Spence, never mind; let him speak to me; and go you to the
servants’ hall until I send for you."

Spence bowed and retired, thankful to be released from his present
agony.  His lordship, who had a passion for characters which the keeper
could not comprehend, gave a sign to Jock to remain, and then went on
with the following catechism.

"What did your parents do?"

"Little guid and mickle ill."

"Were you at school?"

"No’ that I mind o’."

"How have ye lived?"

"Guid kens!"

"What have you been?"

"A ne’er-do-weel--a kin’ o’ cheat-the-widdie.  Sae folk tell me, and I
suppose they’re richt."

"Are you married?"

"That’s no’ a bad ane, efter a’!" said Jock, with a quiet laugh, turning
his head away.

"A bad what?" asked his lordship, perplexed by the reply.

"I jist thocht," said Jock, "yer honour was jokin’, to think that ony
wumman wad marry me!  He! he! Lassies wad be cheaper than cast-awa’
shoon afore ony o’ them wad tak’ Jock Ha’--unless," he added, in a lower
tone, with a laugh, "ane like Luckie Craigie.  But yer lordship ’ill no’
ken her, I’se warrant?"

"I have not that honour," said his lordship, with a smile.  "But I must
admit that you don’t give yourself a good character, anyhow."

"I hae nane to gie," said Jock, with the same impassible look.

"On my word," added his lordship, "I think you’re honest!"

"It’s mair," said Jock, "than onybody else thinks. But if I had wark,
I’m no’ sure but I wad be honest!"

His lordship said nothing, but stared at Hall as if measuring him from
head to foot.  Jock returned his gaze.  It was as if two different
portions of a broken-up world had met.  His lordship felt uncertain
whether to deal with Jock as a fool or as a reprobate.  He still
inclined to the opinion that he had "a want", and accordingly continued
his catechism, asking,--

"What would you like to have?"

"It’s no’ for me tae say," replied Jock; "beggars shouldna be choosers."

"Perhaps you would have no objection to have this fine house--eh?" asked
his lordship, with a smile.

"I’ll no’ say that I wad," replied Jock.

"And what would you make of it?"

"I wad," replied Jock, "fill’t fu’ wi’ puir ne’er-do-weel faitherless
and mitherless bairns, and pit Sergeant Mercer and his wife ower
them--that’s Mr. Spence’s cousin, ye ken."

"Hillo!" said his lordship, "that would make a large party!  And what
would you do with them, when here assembled, my man?"

"I wad feed them," said Jock, "wi’ the sheep and nowt in the park, and
the birds frae the heather, and the fish frae the burns, and gie them
the flowers aboot the doors--and schule them weel, and learn them
trades: and shoot them or hang them, if they didna dae weel efter hin."

"Ha! ha! ha!  And what would you do with me and my wife and daughters?"
asked his lordship.

"I wad mak’ you their faither, and them their mither and sisters.  Ye
never wad be idle or want pleasure, yer honour, among sic a hantle o’
fine lads and lasses."

"Never idle--never idle!  I should think not!  But as to the pleasure!
Ha! ha! ha!"  And his lordship laughed with much glee at the idea of his
being master of such an establishment.

"Eh! sir," said Jock, with fire in his eyes, "ye dinna ken what poverty
is!  Ye never lay trimblin’ on a stair-head on a snawy nicht; nor got a
spoonfu’ or twa o’ cauld parritch in the mornin’ tae cool ye, wi’ curses
and kicks tae warm ye, for no’ stealin’ yer ain meat; nor see’d yer wee
brithers an’ sisters deein’ like troots, openin’ their mooths wi’
naethin’ to pit in them; or faix ye wad be thankfu’ tae help mitherless
and faitherless bairns, and instead o’ sendin’ young craturs like them
tae the jail, ye wad sen’ aulder folk that ill-used and neglected them;
ay, and maybe some rich folk, and some ministers and elders as weel, for
helpin’ naebody but themsel’s!"

His lordship looked in silence with wide-open eyes at Jock; and for a
moment, amidst his ease and luxury, his fits of _ennui_ and difficulty
in killing time, his sense of the shallowness and emptiness of much of
his life, with the selfishness of idle society, there flashed upon his
naturally kind heart a gleam of noble duties yet to perform, and noble
privileges yet to enjoy, though not perhaps in the exact form suggested
by Jock Hall.  But this was not the time to discuss these.  So he only
said, "You are not a bad fellow--not at all.  Wiser men have said more
foolish things," he added, as if thinking to himself; and then
approaching Jock with a kindly smile, offered him some money.

"Na! na!" said Jock, "I didna come here to beg; I’ll no’ tak’ onything."

"Come! come!" said his lordship, "you won’t disoblige me, will you?" and
he thrust the money into Jock’s hand; and ringing a bell, he ordered the
servant who appeared in reply to it to take him to the servants’ hall,
and to send Hugh Spence to the business room.

Jock made a low bow and salaam, and retired.

"William," said his lordship to another servant, who happened to be
passing, "go to the old clothes press, and select a complete suit for
that poor fellow. Be kind to him: see that he has some food and a glass
of beer."

When Hugh was summoned into the presence of his lordship, he had sad
misgivings as to the object of the interview, and had carefully prepared
a long apologetic speech, which however he had hardly begun when he was
cut short by his lordship saying, "You have picked up a rare character,
Spence, upon my honour!  But I like the fellow.  He is an original, and
has something good in him.  I can’t quite make him out."

"Nor me either, my lord, I do assure you," interrupted Spence.

"But I have taken rather a fancy to him," continued his lordship.  "He
is neither knave nor fool; but seems to have been ill-used, and to have
had a hard time of it.  There is something about him which takes me, and
if any friend of your father’s has an interest in him, I won’t
object--quite the reverse--to your getting him something to do about the
kennels. I really would like it.  So look to him."

Hugh having made a low bow and remained discreetly silent, according to
his own prudential aphorism of "least said being soonest mended", his
lordship conversed on some business matters connected with the game,
with which we have nothing to do, and then dismissed him.




                               CHAPTER XX

                           JOCK HALL’S RETURN


When Jock and Spence returned along the avenue, not a word was spoken
for some time.  Jock carried a large bundle, with the general contents
of which both were acquainted.  After a while Spence remarked, as if to
break the silence, "Weel, what do ye think o’ his lordship?"

"He looks a fine bit decent ’sponsible bodie," said Jock, as if speaking
of a nobody.

"I should think sae!" remarked Hugh, evidently chagrined by the cool
criticism of his companion.

"Were ye no’ frighted for him?" asked Hugh.

"Wha?--me?" replied Jock.  "Frichted for what? He said naethin’ tae
fricht me.  Certes, I was mair frichted when I stood afore him for
threshing the tailors!  The man didna molest me, but was unco ceevil, as
I was tae him, and he gied me siller and claes as I never got frae
mortal man afore, no’ tae speak o’ a lord.  Frichted!  I was ower prood
to be frichted."

"Aweel, aweel," said the keeper, "ye’re a queer cratur, Jock! and if ye
haena’ gowd ye hae brass.  I was trimblin’ for ye!"

"Nae wunner," said Jock; "ye had somethin’ tae lose, but I had naethin’.
What could he dae to me but put me oot o’ the hoose? and I was gaun oot
mysel’.  Jock Ha’ is ower far doon for ony mortal man tae pit him doon
farther.  He may be better, but he canna be waur.  Naebody can hurt a
dead doug, can they?"

"Tuts, Jock, my puir fallow," said Hugh, "I didna mean to flyte on ye.
I ax yer pardon."

"Gae awa, gae awa wi’ yer nonsense, Mr. Spence!" replied Jock--"that’s
what naebody ever did, to ax my pardon, and it’s no’ for a man like you
tae begin. Ye micht as weel ax a rattan’s pardon for eatin’ a’ yer
cheese!  In troth I’m no gi’en mysel tae that fashion o’ axin’ pardons,
for it wad be a heap o’ trouble for folk to grant them.  But, man, if I
got wark, I would maybe be able to ax pardon o’ a dacent man, and tae
get it tae for the axin’!"

"I’ll no’ forget ye, I do assure ye," said Spence, kindly.  "You and me
if I’m no mista’en ’ill meet afore lang up the way at the cottage.  His
lordship is willin’ tae gie ye wark, and sae am I and my faither."

Jock could not resist the new emotion which prompted him to seize the
keeper’s hand and give it a hearty squeeze.  On the strength of the
renewed friendship, he offered him a snuff.

The keeper, from commands received from his lordship, found that he
could not accompany Jock as far on his road as he had anticipated, but
was obliged to part with him where his path to Drumsylie led across the
moorland.  Here they sat down on a heathery hill, when Spence said,
"Afore we part, I wad like tae ken frae yersel’, Jock, hoo _ye_ are a
freen’ tae Adam Mercer?"

"I never said I was a freen’ tae Adam Mercer," replied Jock.

Hugh, as if for the first time suspecting Hall of deception, said
firmly, "But ye did that!  I declare ye did, and my faither believed
ye!"

"I never did sic a thing!" said Jock, as firmly, in reply.  "For I
couldna do’t wi’oot a lee, and _that_ I never telt tae you or yours,
although in my day I hae telt ither folk an unco’ heap tae ser’ my turn.
What I said was that Adam Mercer was a freen’ tae me."

Hugh, not quite perceiving the difference yet, asked, "Hoo was he a
freen’ tae you?"

"I’ll tell ye," said Jock, looking earnestly at Hugh. "Had a man ta’en
ye into his hoose, and fed ye whan stervin’, and pit shoon on ye whan
barefitted, and spak’ to ye, no’ as if ye war a brute beast, and whan
naebody on yirth ever did this but himsel’, I tak’ it ye wad understan’
what a freen’ was!  Mind ye, that I’m no sic a gomeril--bad as I am--or
sae wantin’ in decency as to even tae mysel’ to be the Sergeant’s
freen’; but as I said, and wull say till I dee, he was _my_ freen’!"

"What way war ye brocht up that ye cam to be sae puir as to need Adam’s
assistance or ony ither man’s? Ye surely had as guid a chance as ony o’
yer neebors?"

Jock’s countenance began to assume that excited expression which the
vivid recollection of his past life, especially of his youth, seemed
always to produce.  But he now tried to check himself, when the symptoms
of his hysteria began to manifest themselves in the muscles of his
throat, by rising and taking a few paces to and fro on the heather, as
if resolved to regain his self-possession, and not to leave his
newly-acquired friend the keeper under the impression that he was either
desperately wicked or incurably insane.  A new motive had come into
play--a portion of his heart which had lain, as it were, dormant until
stimulated by the Sergeant’s kindness, had assumed a power which was
rapidly, under benign influences, gaining the ascendancy.  In spite of,
or rather perhaps because of, his inward struggle, his face for a moment
became deadly pale.  His hands were clenched.  He seemed as if
discharging from every muscle a stream of suddenly-generated
electricity. Turning at length to Hugh, he said, with knit brow and
keenly-piercing eyes, "What made ye ax me sic a question, Mr.
Spence?--What for?  I’ll no’ tell ye, for I canna tell you or ony man
hoo I was brocht up!"

But he did tell him--as if forced to do so in order to get rid of the
demon--much of what our readers already know of those sad days of
misery.  "And noo," he added, "had ye been like a wild fox and the
hoonds after ye, or nae mair cared for than a doug wi’ a kettle at its
tail, hidin’ half mad up a close ayont a midden; or a cat nigh staned to
death, pechin’ its life awa’ in a hole; and if ye kent never a man or
woman but wha hated ye, and if ye hated them; and, waur than a’, if ye
heard your ain faither and mither cursin’ ye frae the time ye war a
bairn till they gaed awa’ in their coffins, wi’ your curses followin’
after them,--ye wad ken what it was to hae ae freend on yirth;--and noo
I hae mair than ane!"  And poor Jock, for the first time probably in his
life, sobbed like a child.

Spence said nothing but "Puir fellow!" and whiffed his pipe, which he
had just lighted, with more than usual vehemence.

Jock soon resumed his usual calm,

"As one whose brain demoniac frenzy fires
Owes to his fit, in which his soul hath tost,
Profounder quiet, when the fit retires,--
Even so the dire phantasma which had crost
His sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost,
Left his mind still as a deep evening stream".


The keeper, hardly knowing what to say, remarked, "It’s ae consolation,
that your wicked faither and mither will be weel punished noo for a’
their sins. _Ye_ needna curse them!  They’re beyond ony hairm that ye
can do them.  They’re cursed eneuch, I’se warrant, wi’oot your meddlin’
wi’ them."

"Guid forbid!" exclaimed Jock.  "I houp no’!  I houp no’!  That wad be
maist awfu’!"

"Maybe," said the keeper; "but it’s what they deserve frae the han’ o’
justice.  And surely when their ain bairn curses them, _he_ can say
naethin’ against it."

"_I_ never cursed them, did I?" asked Jock, as if stupefied.

"Ye did that, and nae mistak’!" replied the keeper.

"Losh, it was a bad job if I did!" said Jock. "I’m sure I didna want to
hairm them, puir bodies, though they hairmed me.  In fac’," he added,
after a short pause, during which he kicked the heather vehemently, "I’m
willin’ tae let byganes be byganes wi’ them, and sae maybe their Maker
will no’ be ower sair on them.  Ye dinna think, Mr. Spence, that it’s
possible my faither and mither are baith in the bad place?"

"Whaur else wad they be, if no’ there?" asked the keeper.

"It’s mair than I can say!" replied Jock, as if in a dream.  "I only
thocht they were dead in the kirkyard.  But--but--ken ye ony road o’
gettin’ them oot if they’re yonner--burnin’ ye ken?"

"Ye had better," said Hugh, "gie ower botherin’ yersel’ to take _them_
oot; rather try, man, to keep yersel’ oot."

"But I canna help botherin’ mysel’ aboot my ain folk," replied Jock;
"an’ maybe they warna sae bad as I mak’ them.  I’ve seen them baith
greetin’ and cryin’ tae God for mercy even whan they war fou; an’ they
aince telt me, after an awfu’ thrashin they gied me, that I wasna for my
life to drink or swear like them.  Surely that was guid, Mr. Spence?
God forgie them!  God forgie them!" murmured Jock, covering his face
with his hands; "lost sheep!--lost money!--lost ne’er-do-weels! an’ I’m
here and them there! Hoo comes that aboot?" he asked, in a dreamy mood.

"God’s mercy!" answered Hugh; "and we should be merciful tae ither folk,
as God is mercifu’ to oorsel’s."

"That’s what I wish thae puir sowls to get oot o’ that awfu’ jail for!
But I’ll never curse faither or mither mair," said Jock.  "I’ll sweer,"
he added, rising up, muttering the rhyme as solemnly as if before a
magistrate:

"If I lee, let death
Cut my breath!"


"Dinna fash yersel’ ower muckle," said the keeper, "for them that’s
awa’.  The Bible says, ’Shall not the Judge o’ a’ the yirth dae richt?’
I wad think sae! Let us tak’ care o’ oorsel’s and o’ them that’s
leevin’, an’ God will do what’s richt tae them that’s ayont the grave.
He has mair wisdom and love than us!"

Jock was engaged outwardly in tearing bits of heather, and twisting them
mechanically together; but what his inward work was we know not.  At
last he said, "I haena heard an aith sin’ I left Drumsylie, and that’s
extraordinar’ to me, I can assure you, Mr. Spence!"

The keeper, who, unconsciously, was calmly enjoying the contemplation of
his own righteousness, observed that "the kintra was a hantle decenter
than the toon".  But in a better and more kindly spirit he said to Jock,
"I’ll stan’ yer friend, Hall, especially sin’ his lordship wishes me to
help you.  Ye hae got guid claes in that bundle, I’se warrant--the verra
claes, mark ye, that were on himsel’!  Pit them on, and jist think
_what’s_ on ye, and be dacent!  Drop a’ drinkin’, swearin’, and sic
trash; bend yer back tae yer burden, ca’ yer han’ tae yer wark, pay yer
way, and keep a ceevil tongue in yer head, and then ’whistle ower the
lave o’t!’  There’s my han’ to ye. Fareweel, and ye’ll hear frae me some
day soon, whan I get a place ready for ye aboot mysel’ and the dougs."

"God’s blessin’ be wi’ ye!" replied poor Jock.

They then rose and parted.  Each after a while looked over his shoulder
and waved his hand.

Jock ran back to the keeper when at some distance from him, as if he had
lost something.

"What’s wrang?" asked Spence.

"A’s richt noo!" replied Jock, as again he raised his hand and repeated
his parting words, "God’s blessin’ be wi’ ye"; and then ran off as if
pursued, until concealed by rising ground from the gaze of the keeper,
who watched him while in sight, lost in his own meditations.

One of the first things Jock did after thus parting with Hugh was to
undo his parcel, and when he did so there was spread before his
wondering eyes such a display of clothing of every kind as he had never
dreamt of in connexion with his own person.  All seemed to his eyes as
if fresh from the tailor’s hands. Jock looked at his treasures in
detail, held them up, turned them over, laid them down, and repeated the
process with such a grin on his face and exclamations on his lips as can
neither be described nor repeated. After a while his resolution seemed
to be taken: for descending to a clear mountain stream, he stripped
himself of his usual habiliments, and, though they were old familiar
friends, he cast them aside as if in scorn, stuffing them into a hole in
the bank.  After performing long and careful ablutions, he decked
himself in his new rig, and tying up in a bundle his superfluous
trappings, emerged on the moorland in appearance and in dignity the very
lord of the manor! "Faix," thought Jock, as he paced along, "the
Sterlin’ wasna far wrang when it telt me that ’a man’s a man for a’
that!’"

Instead of pursuing his way direct to Drumsylie, he diverged to a
village half-way between Castle Bennock and his final destination.  With
his money in his pocket, he put up like a gentleman at a superior
lodging-house, where he was received with the respect becoming his
appearance.  Early in the morning, when few were awake, he entered
Drumsylie, with a sheepish feeling and such fear of attracting the
attention of its _gamins_ as made him run quickly to the house of an old
widow, where he hoped to avoid all impertinent inquiries until he could
determine upon his future proceedings.  These were materially affected
by the information which in due time he received, that Adam Mercer had
been suddenly seized with illness on the day after he had left
Drumsylie, and was now confined to bed.




                              CHAPTER XXI

                               THE QUACK


It was true, as Jock Hall had heard, that Sergeant Mercer was very
unwell.  The events of the few previous weeks, however trivial in the
estimation of the great world, had been to him very real and afflicting.
The ecclesiastical trials and the social annoyances, with the secret
worry and anxiety which they had occasioned, began to affect his health.
He grew dull in spirits, suffered from a sense of oppression, and was
"head-achy", "fushionless", and "dowie".  He resolved to be cheerful,
and do his work; but he neither could be the one nor do the other.  His
wife prescribed for him out of her traditional pharmacopoeia, but in
vain.  Then, as a last resort, "keeping a day in bed" was advised, and
this was at once acceded to.

At the risk of breaking the thread of our narrative, or--to borrow an
illustration more worthy of the nineteenth century--of running along a
side rail to return shortly to the main line, we may here state, that at
the beginning of the Sergeant’s illness, a person, dressed in rather
decayed black clothes, with a yellowish white neckcloth, looking like a
deposed clergyman, gently tapped at his door.  The door was opened by
Katie.  The stranger raised his broad-brimmed hat, and saluted her with
a low respectful bow.  He entered with head uncovered, muttering many
apologies with many smiles.  His complexion was dark; his black hair was
smoothly combed back from his receding forehead, and again drawn forward
in the form of a curl under each large ear, thus directing attention to
his pronounced nostrils and lips; while his black eyes were bent down,
as if contemplating his shining teeth.  His figure was obese; his age
between forty and fifty.

This distinguished-looking visitor introduced himself as Dr. Mair, and
inquired in the kindest, blandest, and most confidential manner as to
the health of "the worthy Sergeant", as he condescendingly called him.
Katie was puzzled, yet pleased, with the appearance of the unknown
doctor, who explained that he was a stranger--his residence being
ordinarily in London, except when travelling on professional business,
as on the present occasion. He said that he had devoted all his time and
talents to the study of the complaint under which the Sergeant, judging
from what he had heard, was evidently labouring; and that he esteemed it
to be the highest honour--a gift from Heaven, indeed--to be able to
remedy it.  His father, he stated, had been a great medical man in the
West Indies, and had consecrated his life to the cure of disease, having
made a wonderful collection of medicines from old Negroes, who, it was
well known, had a great knowledge of herbs. These secrets of Nature his
father had entrusted to him, and to him alone, on the express condition
that he would minister them in love only.  He therefore made no charge,
except for the medicine itself--a mere trifle to cover the expense of
getting it from the West Indies.  Might he have the privilege of seeing
the Sergeant?  One great blessing of his medicines was, that if they did
no good--which rarely happened--they did no harm.  But all depended--he
added, looking up towards heaven--on _His_ blessing!

After a long unctuous discourse of this kind, accompanied by a low whine
and many gestures expressive of, or intended to express, all the
Christian graces, added to Nature’s gifts, the doctor drew breath.

Kate was much impressed by this self-sacrificing philanthropist, and
expressed a cordial wish that he should see the Sergeant.  Adam, after
some conversation with his wife, saw it was best, for peace’ sake, to
permit the entrance of the doctor.  After he had repeated some of his
former statements and given assurances of his skill, the Sergeant asked
him: "Hoo do I ken ye’re speaking the truth, and no’ cheatin’ me?"

"You have my word of honour, Sergeant!" replied Dr. Mair, "and you don’t
think _I_ would lie to you? Look at me!  I cannot have any possible
motive for making you unwell.  Horrible thought!  I hope I feel my sense
of responsibility too much for that!"  Whereupon he looked up to heaven,
and then down into a black bag, out of which he took several phials and
boxes of pills, arranging them on a small table at the window.  He
proceeded to describe their wonderful qualities in a style which he
intended for the language of a scholarly gentleman, interlarding his
speech with Latinized terms, to give it a more learned colouring.

"This medicine," he said, "acts on the spirits. It is called the
_spiritum cheerabilum_.  It cures depression; removes all nervous,
agitating feelings--what we term _depressiones_; soothing the anxious
mind because acting on the vital nerves--going to the root of every
painful feeling, through the gastric juice, heart, and liver, along the
spinal cord, and thence to the head and brain.  This view is according
to common-sense, you must admit.  A few doses of such a medicine would
put you on your legs, Sergeant, in a week!  I never once knew it fail
when taken perseveringly and with faith--with faith!" he added, with a
benignant smile; "for faith, I am solemnly persuaded, can even yet
remove mountains!"

"Doctor, or whatever ye are," said the Sergeant, in an impatient tone of
voice, "I want nane o’ yer pills or drugs; I hae a guid eneuch doctor o’
my ain."

"Ha!" said Dr. Mair; "a regular practitioner, I presume?  Yes, I
understand.  Hem!  College bred, and all that."

"Just so," said the Sergeant.  "Edicated, as it were, for his wark, and
no’ a doctor by guess."

"But can you believe his word?" blandly asked Dr. Mair.

"As muckle, surely, as yours," replied the Sergeant; "mair especial’ as
guid and learned men o’ experience agree wi’ him, but no’ wi’ you."

"How do you know they are good and learned?" asked Dr. Mair, smiling.

"Mair onyhoo than I ken _ye’re_ good and learned, and no’ leein’," said
Adam.

"But God might surely reveal to me the truth," replied Mair, "rather
than to ten thousand so-called learned men.  Babes and sucklings, you
know, may receive what is concealed from the great and self-confident."

"My word! ye’re neither a babe nor a sucklin’, doctor, as ye ca’
yersel’; and, depen’ on’t, neither am I!" said the Sergeant.  "Onyhoo, I
think it’s mair likely the Almighty wad reveal himsel’ to a’ the
sensible and guid doctors rather than to you alane, forbye a’ yer
niggers!"

"But I have testimonials of my cures!" continued Dr. Mair.

"Wha kens aboot yer testimonials?" exclaimed Adam.  "Could naebody get
testimonials but you? And hae ye testimonials frae them ye’ve kill’t?
I’se warrant no’!  I tell ye again ye’ll never pruve tae me that ye’re
richt and a’ the edicated doctors wrang."

"But it’s possible?" asked Dr. Mair, with a smile.

"Possible!" said the Sergeant; "but it’s ten thoosand times mair
possible that ye’re cheatin’ yersel’ or cheatin’ me.  Sae ye may gang."

"But I charge nothing for my attendance, my dear sir, only for the
medicine."

"Just so," replied the Sergeant; "sae mony shillings for what maybe
didna cost ye a bawbee--pills o’ aitmeal or peasebrose.  I’m an auld
sodger, and canna be made a fule o’ that way!"

"I do not depend on my pills so much as on my prayers for the cure of
disease," said the quack solemnly.  "Oh, Sergeant! have you no faith in
prayer?"

"I houp I hae," replied the Sergeant; "but I hae nae faith in you--nane
whatsomever! sae guid day tae ye!"

Dr. Mair packed up his quack medicine in silence, which was meant to be
impressive.  He sighed, as if in sorrow for human ignorance and
unbelief; but seeing no favourable effect produced on the Sergeant he
said: "Your blood be on your own unbelieving head!  I am free of it."

"Amen!" said the Sergeant; "and gang about yer business to auld wives
and idewits, that deserve to dee if they trust the like o’ you."

And so the great Dr. Mair departed in wrath--real or pretended--to
pursue his calling as a leech, verily sucking the blood of the
credulous, of whom there are not a few among rich and poor, who, loving
quackery, are quacked.[#]


[#] It may be added as an instructive fact, that such leeches suck at
least £300,000 a year out of the people of this country.


Having disposed of the Quack, we now back into the main line, and resume
our journey.




                              CHAPTER XXII

                             CORPORAL DICK


Corporal Dick, who lived in the village of Darnic, several hours’
journey by the "Highflyer" coach from Drumsylie, came at this time to
pay his annual visit to the Sergeant.

The Corporal, while serving in the same regiment with Adam, had been
impressed, as we have already indicated, by the Christian character of
his comrade. Those early impressions had been deepened shortly after his
return home from service.  We need not here record the circumstances in
which this decided change in his sentiments and character had taken
place.  Many of our Scotch readers, at least, have heard of the movement
in the beginning of this century by the devoted Haldanes, who, as
gentlemen of fortune, and possessing the sincerest and strongest
Christian convictions, broke the formality which was freezing Christian
life in many a district of Scotland. They did the same kind of work for
the Church in the North which Wesley and Whitfield had done for that in
the South, though with less permanent results as far as this world is
concerned.  Dick joined the "Haldanites".  Along with all the zeal and
strictness characteristic of a small body, he possessed a large share of
_bonhomie_, and of the freedom, subdued and regulated, of the old
soldier.

At these annual visits the old veterans fought their battles over again,
recalling old comrades and repeating old stories; neither, however,
being old in their affections or their memories.  But never had the
Corporal visited his friend with a more eager desire to "hear his news"
than on the present occasion.  He had often asked people from Drumsylie,
whom he happened to meet, what all this disputing and talk about Adam
Mercer meant?  And every new reply he received to his question, whether
favourable or unfavourable to the Sergeant, only puzzled him the more.
One thing, however, he never could be persuaded of--that his friend Adam
Mercer would do anything unbecoming to his "superior officer", as he
called the minister; or "break the Sabbath", an institution which, like
every good Scotchman, he held in peculiar veneration; or be art or part
in any mutiny against the ordinances or principles of true religion. And
yet, how could he account for all that been told him by "decent folk"
and well-informed persons? The good he heard of the Sergeant was
believed in by the Corporal as a matter of course; but what of the evil,
which seemed to rest upon equally reliable authority?

Dick must himself hear the details of the "affair", or the battle, as it
might turn out.

It was therefore a glad day for both Adam and the Corporal when they
again met;--to both a most pleasant change of thought--a glad
remembrance of a grand old time already invested with romance--a meeting
of men of character, of truth and honour, who could call each other by
the loyal name of Friend.

We must allow the reader to fill up the outline which alone we can give
of the meeting--the hearty greetings between the two old companions in
arms; the minute questions by the one, the full and candid answers by
the other; the smiling Katie ever and anon filling up the vacancies left
in the narrative of ecclesiastical trials by the Sergeant, from his
modesty or want of memory; the joyous satisfaction of Dick, as he found
his faith in his comrade vindicated, and saw how firm and impregnable he
was in his position, without anything to shake any Christian’s
confidence in his long-tried integrity, courage, and singleness of
heart.

The Corporal’s only regret was to see his friend wanting in his usual
elasticity of spirits.  The fire in his eye was gone, and the quiet yet
joyous laugh no longer responded to the old jokes,--a smile being all he
could muster.  But the Corporal was determined to rouse him.  "The wars"
would do it if anything would.  And so, when supper came piping hot,
with bubbling half-browned toasted cheese, mutton pie, tea and toast,
followed by a little whisky punch, and all without gluttony or
drunkenness, but with sobriety and thankfulness felt and expressed--then
did the reminiscences begin!  And it would be difficult to say how often
the phrase, "D’ye mind, Sergeant?" was introduced, as old officers and
men, old jokes and old everything--marches, bivouacs, retreats, charges,
sieges, battles--were recalled, with their anxieties and hardships
passed away, and their glory alone remaining.

"Heigho!" the Corporal would say, as he paused in his excitement, "it’s
growing a dream already, Adam!  There’s no mony I can speak tae aboot
these auld times;--no’ auld to you and me.  Folks’ heads are taen up w’
naething but getting money oot o’ the peace we helped to get for the
kintra: and little thanks for a’ we did--little thanks, little thanks,
atweel!" the Corporal would ejaculate in a die-away murmur.

But this was not a time to complain, but to rouse--not to pile arms, but
to fire.  And so the Corporal said, "Did I tell ye o’ the sang made by
Sandie Tamson?  Ye’ll mind Sandie weel--the schulemaster that listed?  A
maist clever chiel!"

"I mind him fine," said the Sergeant.  "Curious eneuch, it was me that
listed him!  I hae heard a hantle o’ his sangs."

"But no’ this ane," said Dick, "for he made it--at least he said
sae--for our auld Colonel in Perth. It seems Sandie, puir fallow, took
to drink--or rather ne’er gied it ower--and sae he cam’ beggin’ in a
kin’ o’ private genteel way, ye ken, to the Colonel; and when he got
siller he wrote this sang for him. He gied me a copy for half-a-crown.
I’ll let ye hear ’t--altho’ my pipe is no sae guid as yer Sterlin’s."

As the Corporal cleared his voice, the Sergeant lifted the nightcap from
his ear, and said, "Sing awa’."

Dost thou remember, soldier, old and hoary,
  The days we fought and conquered side by side,
On fields of battle famous now in story,
  Where Britons triumphed, and where Britons died?
Dost thou remember all our old campaigning,
  O’er many a field in Portugal and Spain?
Of our old comrades few are now remaining--
  How many sleep upon the bloody plain!
    Of our old comrades, &c.

Dost thou remember all those marches weary,
  From gathering foes, to reach Corunna’s shore?
Who can forget that midnight, sad and dreary,
  When in his grave we laid the noble Moore!
But ere he died our General heard us cheering,
  And saw us charge with vict’ry’s flag unfurled;
And then he slept, without his ever fearing
  For British soldiers conquering o’er the world.
    And then he slept, &c.

Rememb’rest thou the bloody Albuera!
  The deadly breach in Badajoz’s walls!
Vittoria!  Salamanca!  Talavera!
  Till Roncesvalles echoed to our balls!
Ha! how we drove the Frenchmen all before us,
  As foam is driven before the stormy breeze!
We fought right on, with conquering banners o’er us,
  From Torres Vedras to the Pyrenees.
    We fought right on, &c.

Dost thou remember to the war returning,
  --Long will our enemies remember too!--
We fought again, our hearts for glory burning,
  At Quatre Bras and awful Waterloo!
We thought of home upon that Sabbath morning
  When Cameron’s pibroch roused our Highland corps,
Then proudly marched, the mighty Emperor scorning,
  And vowed to die or conquer as of yore!
    Then proudly marched, &c.

Rememb’rest thou the old familiar faces
  Of warriors nursed in many a stormy fight,
Whose lonely graves, which now the stranger traces,
  Mark every spot they held from morn till night?
In vain did Cuirassiers in clouds surround them,
  With cannon thundering as the tempest raves;
They left our squares, oh! just as they had found them,
  Firm as the rocks amidst the ocean’s waves!
    They left our squares, &c.

Those days are past, my soldier, old and hoary,
  But still the scars are on thy manly brow;
We both have shared the danger and the glory,
  Come, let us share the peace and comfort now.
Come to my home, for thou hast not another,
  And dry those tears, for thou shall beg no more;
There, take this hand, and let us march together
  Down to the grave, where life’s campaign is o’er!
    There, take this hand, &c.


While the song was being sung the Sergeant turned his head on his pillow
away from the Corporal.  When it was finished, he said, "Come here,
Dick."

The Corporal went to the bed, and seized the Sergeant’s proffered hand.

"That sang will do me mair guid than a’ their medicine.  The guidwife
will gie ye half-a-croon for puir Sandie Tamson."

Then asking Katie to leave him alone for a few moments with the
Corporal, the Sergeant said, retaining his hand--

"I’m no dangerously ill, my auld friend; but I’m no’ weel--I’m no’ weel!
There’s a weight on my mind, and an oppression aboot my heart that hauds
me doun extraordinar’."

"Dinna gie in, Adam--dinna gie in, wi’ the help o’ Him that has brocht
ye thro’ mony a waur fecht," replied the Corporal as he sat down beside
him.  "D’ye mind the time when ye followed Cainsh up the ladder at
Badajoz? and d’ye mind when that glorious fallow Loyd was kill’t at
Nivelle!  Noo----"

"Ah, Dick! thae days, man, are a’ by!  I’m no’ what I was," said the
Sergeant.  "I’m a puir crippled, wounded veteran, no’ fit for ony mair
service--no’ even as an elder," he added, with a bitter smile.

"Dinna fash yer thoomb, Adam, aboot that business," said Dick.  "Ye
deserved to hae been drummed oot o’ the regiment--I mean the kirk--no’
your kirk nor mine, but the kirk o’ a’ honest and sensible folk, gif ye
had swithered aboot that bird.  I hae had a crack wi’ the cratur, and
it’s jist extraordinar’ sensible like--sae crouse and canty, it wad be
like murder tae thraw a neck like that!  In fac’, a bird is mair than a
bird, I consider, when it can speak and sing yon way."

"Thank ye, Corporal," said Adam.

"It’s some glamour has come ower the minister," said Dick, "just like
what cam’ ower oor Colonel, when he made us charge twa thousand at
Busaco, and had, in coorse, tae fa’ back on his supports in
disgrace--no’ jist in disgrace, for we never cam’ tae that, nor never
wull, I hope--but in confusion!"

"God’s wull be done, auld comrade!" replied Adam; "but it’s His wull, I
think, that I maun fa’ on the field, and if so, I’m no’ feared--na, na!
Like a guid sodger, I wad like tae endure hardness."

"Ye’re speakin’ ower muckle," interrupted Dick, "and wearyin’ yersel’."

"I maun hae my say oot, Corporal, afore the forlorn hope marches,"
continued the Sergeant; "and as I was remarkin’, and because I dinna
want tae be interrupted wi’ the affairs o’ this life, so as to please
Him wha has ca’d me to be a sodger--I maun mak’ my last wull and
testament noo or never, and I trust you, Dick, mair than a’ the lawyers
and law papers i’ the worl’, tae see’t carried oot."  And he held out a
feverish hand to the Corporal, who gave it a responsive squeeze.

"Ye see, Corporal," said the Sergeant, "I hae nae fortun’ to leave; but
I hae laid by something for my Katie--and what _she_ has been tae me,
God alane kens!"  He paused.  "And then there’s wee Mary, that I luve
amaist as weel as my Charlie; and then there’s the bird.  Na, Corporal,
dinna blame me for speakin’ aboot the bird!  The Apostle, when aboot to
be offered up, spak’ aboot his cloak, and nae dead cloak was ever dearer
to him than the leevin’ bird is tae me, because it was, as ye ken, dear
tae the wee fallow that was my ain flesh and bluid, wha’s waiting for
me.  Duve ye mind Charlie?"

"Mind Charlie!" exclaimed the Corporal.  "Wait awee, Adam!" and he drew
out an old pocket-book from his breast-pocket, from which he took a bit
of paper, and, unfolding it, held up a lock of silken hair.  The
Sergeant suddenly seized the relic and kissed it, and then returned it
to the Corporal, who, without saying a word, restored it to its old
place of safety.

But Dick now began to see that the Sergeant seemed to be rather excited,
and no longer able to talk in his usual slow and measured manner, and so
he said to him--

"Wait till the morn, Adam, and we’ll put a’ richt to yer satisfaction."

"Na, na, Corporal!" replied Adam, "I never like pittin’ aff--no’ a fecht
even.  What ought to be dune, should be dune when it can--sae listen to
me:--Ye’ll help Katie tae gaither her siller and gear thegither--it’s no
muckle atweel!--and see that she and Mary, wi’ the bird, are pit in a
bit hoose near yersel’.  They can fen’ on what I’ll lea’ them, wi’ their
ain wark tae help.  Ye’ll stan’ their freen’--I ken, I ken ye wull!  And
oh, man, when ye hear folk abuse me, dinna say a word in my defence!
Let gowans grow frae my grave, and birds sing ower’t, and God’s sun
shine on’t, but let nae angry word, against even an enemy, ever be heard
frae’t, or be conneckit wi’ my memory."

Dick was silent.  He felt too much to speak.  The Sergeant
continued--"Gie a’ my boots and shoon tae Jock Hall.  Katie wull tell ye
aboot him."

After a pause, he said--"I ask forgiveness o’ the minister, if I hae
wranged him in ignorance.  But as to Smellie----" and the Sergeant
turned his head away.  "The heart, Corporal," he added, "is hard! I’m
no’ fit for that yet.  God forgie me! but I canna wi’oot hypocrisy
say----"

"I’ll no’ let ye speak another word, Adam!" said Dick.  "Trust me as to
yer will.  I’ll be faithfu’ unto death!" and he drew himself up, and
saluted the Sergeant, soldier fashion.

There was not a bit of the consciously dramatic in this; but he wished
to accept the trust given him in due form, as became a soldier receiving
important orders from a dying friend.

Adam did not like to confess it; but he was so wearied that he could
speak no more without pain, and so thanking the Corporal, he turned
round to sleep.




                             CHAPTER XXIII

                       CORPORAL DICK AT THE MANSE


Adam had received his pension-paper, which required to be signed by the
parish minister, as certifying that the claimant was in life.  Dick was
glad of this opportunity of calling upon the minister to obtain for his
friend the required signature.  He was known to Mr. Porteous, who had
met him once before in Adam’s house, and had attacked him rather sharply
on his Haldanite principles, the sect being, as he alleged, an
uncalled-for opposition to the regular parish clergy.

A short walk brought Dick to the manse.  After a few words of greeting
he presented the Sergeant’s paper.  Mr. Porteous inquired, with rather a
sceptical expression on his countenance--

"Is Mr. Mercer really unwell, and unable to come?"

"I have told you the truth, sir," was the Corporal’s dignified and short
reply.

Mr. Porteous asked what was wrong with him? The Corporal replied that he
did not know, but that he was feverish, he thought, and was certainly
confined to bed.

"Your friend, the Sergeant, as you are probably aware," remarked the
minister, signing the paper and returning it to the Corporal, "has
greatly surprised and annoyed me.  He seems quite a changed
man--changed, I fear, for the worse.  Oh! yes, Mr. Dick," he continued
in reply to a protesting wave of the Corporal’s hand, "he is indeed.  He
has become proud and obstinate--very."

"Meek as a lamb, sir, in time of peace, but brave as a lion in time of
war, I can assure you, Mr. Porteous," replied the Corporal.

"I know better!" said the minister.

"Not better than me, sir," replied Dick; "for tho’ ye have kent him as
well as me, perhaps, in peace, yet ye didna ken him at all in war, and a
truer, better, nobler sodger than Adam Mercer never raised his arms to
fight or to pray, for he did baith--that I’ll say before the worl’, and
defy contradiction!"

"Remember, Corporal, you and I belong to different Churches, and we
judge men differently.  We must have discipline.  All Churches are not
equally pure."

"There’s nane o’ them pure, wi’ your leave, neither yours nor mine!"
exclaimed the Corporal.  "I’m no’ pure mysel’, and accordingly when I
joined my kirk it was pure nae langer; and, wi’ a’ respec’ to you, sir,
I’m no’ sure if your ain kirk wasna fashed wi’ the same diffeeculty when
_ye_ joined it."

"Discipline, I say, must be maintained--_must_ be," said Mr. Porteous;
"and Adam has come under it most deservedly.  _First_ pure, _then_
peaceable, you know."

"If ever a man kept discipline in a regiment, he did!  My certes!" said
Dick, "I wad like to see him that wad raggle the regiment when Adam was
in’t!"

"I am talking of _Church_ discipline, sir!" said the minister, rather
irate.  "_Church_ discipline, you observe; which--as I hold yours to be
not a properly constituted Church, but a mere self-constituted sect--you
cannot have."

"We’re a kin’ o’ volunteers, I suppose?" interrupted Dick with a laugh;
"the Haldanite volunteers, as ye wad ca’ us; but maybe after a’ we’ll
fecht agin the enemy, an’ its three corps o’ the deevil, the worl’, and
the flesh, as weel as yours."

"You are not the regular army, anyhow," said the minister, "and I do not
recognise your Church."

"The mair’s the pity," replied the Corporal, "for I consider it a great
blin’ness and misfortin’ when ae regiment dislikes anither.  An army,
minister, is no’ ae regiment, but mony.  There’s cavalry and artillery,
light troops and heavy troops, field guns and siege guns in an army, and
ilka pairt does its ain wark sae lang as it obeys the
commander-in-chief, and fechts for the kingdom.  What’s the use, then,
o’ fechtin’ agin each ither?  In my opinion it’s real daft like!"

The minister looked impatiently at his watch, but Dick went on to say--

"In Spain, I can tell ye, we were a hantle the better o’ thae wild
chiels the guerillas.  Altho’ they didna enlist into the gand or ony
regular drilled regiment, Scotch or English, the Duke himsel’ was
thankfu’ for them.  Noo, Mr. Porteous, altho’ ye think us a sort o’
guerillas, let us alane,--let us alane!--dinna forbid us tho’ we dinna
follow _your_ flag, but fecht the enemy under oor ain."

"Well, well, Dick, we need not argue about it. My principles are too
firm, too long made up, to be shaken at this time of day by the
Haldanites," said Mr. Porteous, rising and looking out of the window.

"Weel, weel!" said Dick.  "I’m no’ wantin’ to shake your principles, but
to keep my ain."

At this stage of the conversation Miss Thomasina entered the room, with
"I beg pardon", as if searching for something in the press, but yet for
no other purpose, in her eager curiosity, than to ascertain what the
Corporal was saying, as she knew him to be a friend of the Sergeant’s.
Her best attention, with her ear placed close to the door, had made out
nothing more than that the rather prolonged conversation had something
to do with the great ecclesiastical question of the passing hour in
Drumsylie.

Almost breathless with indignation that anyone, especially a
Haldanite,--for she was quite as "High Church" as her brother,--should
presume to take the part of the notorious heretic in the august presence
of his great antagonist, she broke in, with what was intended to be a
good-humoured smile, but was, to ordinary observers, a bad-natured grin,
saying, "Eh!  Mr. Dick, _you_ to stand up for that man--suspended by the
Session, and deservedly so--yes, most deservedly so!  Him and his
starling, forsooth!  It’s infidelity at the root."

"It’s what?" asked the Corporal, with amazement. "Infidelity did you
say, my lady?"

The "my lady" rather softened Miss Thomasina, who returned to the charge
more softly, saying, "Well, it’s pride and stubbornness, and that’s as
bad.  But I hope his illness will be sanctified to the changing of his
heart!" she added, with a sigh, intended to express a very deep concern
for his spiritual welfare.

"I hope not, wi’ your leave!" replied the Corporal.

"Not wish his heart changed?" exclaimed Miss Thomasina.

"No!" said Dick, emphatically, "not changed, for it’s a good Christian
heart, and, if changed at all, it wad be changed for the worse."

"A Christian heart, indeed! a heart that would not kill a starling for
the sake of the peace of the Session and the Kirk!  Wonders will never
cease!"

"I hope never," said Dick, "if that’s a wonder. Our Lord never killed in
judgment man nor beast; and I suppose they were both much about as bad
then as now; and His servants should imitate His example, I take it.  He
was love."

"But," said Mr. Porteous, chiming in, "love is all very well, no doubt,
and _ought_ to be, where possible; but justice _must_ be, love or no
love.  The one is a principle, the other a feeling."

"I tak’ it, with all respect to you, sir, and to madam," said Dick,
"that love will aye do what’s right, and will, therefore, aye do what’s
just and generous.  We may miss fire pointing the gun wi’ the eye o’
justice, but never wi’ the eye o’ love.  The sight is then always
clearer; anyhow to me.  Excuse me, Mr. Porteous, if I presume to preach
to you. The Haldanites do a little in that line, tho’ they’re no’ a’
ministers!  I’m a plain man that speaks my mind, and sin’ ye hae gi’en
me liberty to speak, let me ax if ye wad hae killed yon fine bird, that
was wee Charlie’s, wi’ yer ain han’, minister?"

"Ay, and all the birds under heaven!" replied Mr. Porteous, "if the law
of the Church required it."

"I should think so! and so would I," added Miss Thomasina, walking out
of the room.

"It wad be a dreich warl’ wi’oot a bird in the wuds or in the lifts!"
said the Corporal.  "Maybe it’s because I’m a Haldanite, but, wi’ a’
respect, I think I wad miss the birds mair oot o’ the warl’ than I wad
a’ the kirk coorts in the kintra!"

"Drop the subject, drop the subject, Mr. Dick!" said the minister,
impatiently; "you are getting personal."

The Corporal could not see how that was, but he could see that his
presence was not desired.  So he rose to depart, saying--"I’m feared I
hae been impudent, an’ that my gun has got raither het firing, but, in
candid truth, I wasna meanin’t.  But jist let me say ae word mair; ye’ll
alloo this, that a fool may gie an advice tae a wise man, and this is my
advice tae you, sir--the advice o’ an auld sodger and a Haldanite; no’
muckle worth, ye may think:--Dinna hairm Adam Mercer, or ye’ll hairm yer
best freen’, yer best elder, and yer best parishioner.  I beg pardon for
my freedom, sir," he added, with a deferential bow.

The minister returned it stiffly, remarking only that Mr. Dick was
ignorant of all the facts and history of the case, or he would have
judged otherwise.

Something, however, of what the Corporal had said fell on the heart of
the minister, like dew in a cloudy night upon dry ground.




                              CHAPTER XXIV

                       DR. SCOTT AND HIS SERVANT


The Corporal was obliged, on family or on Haldanite business, we know
not which, to return by the "Highflyer" next morning.  As that slow but
sure conveyance jolted along the road but twice a week, he could not, in
the circumstances in which he was placed, remain until its next journey.

On leaving the Manse, he proceeded at once to the house of Dr. Scott,
the well-known doctor of the parish, and of a district around it limited
only by the physical endurance of himself and of his brown horse,
"Bolus".  When the Corporal called, the Doctor was absent on one of his
constantly recurring professional rides.  Being a bachelor, his only
representative was his old servant Effie, who received the visitor.  She
kept the surgery as well as the house, and was as well known in the
parish as her master.  Indeed she was suspected by many to have skill
equal to her master’s, very likely owing to the powerful effects
produced by her suggestive prescriptions.  On learning the absence of
the doctor, the Corporal inquired when he was likely to return.

"Wha i’ the warl’ can tell that?  Whatna quastion tae speer at me!"
exclaimed Effie.

"I meant nae offence," replied the Corporal; "but my freend, Sergeant
Mercer----"

"I beg yer pardon," interrupted Effie; "I wasna awar that ye were a
freen’ o’ the Sergeant’s, honest man!  Sae I may tell _you_ that the
doctor may be here in a minute, or may be no’ till breakfast-time the
morn; or he may come at twal’, at twa, or Gude kens whan!  But if it’s
an _ordinar’_ thing ye want for yersel’ or Adam, I can gie’t to ye:--sic
as a scoorin’ dose o’ sauts or castur-ile, or rubhard pills, or seena
leaf, or even a flee blister; or a few draps o’ lodamy for the grips."

The Corporal listened with all respect, and said, "I want naething for
mysel’ or Adam; but Dr. Scott is requested to veesit him on his return
hame, or as soon after as convenient."

"Convenient!" exclaimed Effie, "that’s no’ a word kent in Drumsylie for
the doctor!  He micht as well ax every gudewife in the parish if it was
convenient for them to hae a son or a dochter at twal’ hours i’ the day
or at twal’ at nicht on a simmer’s day or on a snawy ane; or tae ax whan
it was convenient for folk tae burn their fit, break their leg, or play
the mishanter wi’ themsels efter a fair.  Convenient!  Keep us a’!  But
depen’ on’t he’ll mak’ it convenient tae atten’ Mr. Mercer, nicht or
mornin’, sune or early."

"I’m sorry to trouble him, for I am sure he is unco’ bothered and
fashed," said the Corporal, politely.

"Fashed!" exclaimed Effie, thankful for the opportunity of expressing
sympathy with her master, and her indignation at his inconsiderate
patients; "naebody kens that but him and me!  Fashed! the man haesna the
life o’ a streyed dog or cat!  There’s no’ a lameter teylor wi’ his waik
fit, nor a bairn wi’ a sair wame frae eatin’ ower mony cruds or grosats,
nor an auld wife hostin’ wi’ a grew o’ cauld, nor a farmer efter makin’
ower free wi’ black puddins and haggis when a mairt is kill’t--but a’
maun flee tae the doctor, ilka ane yam, yam, yammerin’, as if _he_ had
the poower o’ life and death!  Puir cratur!  I could maist greet if I
wasna sae angry, to wauk him in his first sleep in a winter’s nicht to
ride aff on auld Bolus--that’s his auld decent horse, ye ken--and for
what?  Maybe for naething!  I assure you he has a taughy fleece tae
scoor in this parish!"  Effie stopped, not from want of illustration,
but from want of breath.

"A hard life, a hard life, nae doot," remarked the Corporal; "but it’s
his duty, and he’s paid for’t."

"Him paid for’t!" said Effie, "I wad like tae see the siller; as the
watchmaker said--The Doctor, quo’ he, should let them pay the debt o’
natur’ if they wadna pay his ain debts first.  He wasna far wrang!  But
I was forgettin’ the Sergeant--what’s wrang wi’ him?  That’s a man never
fashes the doctor or onybody; and wha pays what he gets. But ither folk
fash the Sergeant--I wuss I had the doctorin’ o’ some o’ them I ken o’l
Feggs, I wad doctor them!  I wad gie them a blister or twa o’ Spenish
flees that they wadna forget in a hurry I--but what’s wrang?" she asked,
once more halting in her eloquence.

"That’s just what we want tae ken," replied the Corporal, quietly.

"I’ll tell the Doctor," said Effie.  "I think ye said yer name was
Dick--Cornal Dick?"

"No, no! not Cornal yet," replied Dick, smiling, "I’m sorry tae say, my
braw woman, but Corporal only."

The epithet "braw" drew down a curtsy from Effie in reply to his "Gude
day; ye’ll be sure to send the Doctor."

Dr. Scott, whom Effie represented, was a man of few words, who never
attempted to explain the philosophy, if he knew it, of his treatment,
but prescribed his doses as firmly and unfeelingly as the gunner loads
his cannon.  He left his patients to choose life or death, apparently as
if their choice was a matter of indifference to him: yet nevertheless he
possessed a most kind and feeling heart, revealed not in looks or words,
but in deeds of patience and self-sacrifice, for which, from too many,
he got little thanks, and less pay, as Effie had more than insinuated.
Every one in the parish seemed to have a firm conviction as to the duty
of the Doctor to visit them, when unwell, at all hours, and at all
distances, by day or night; while _their_ duty of consideration for his
health was dim, and for his pocket singularly procrastinating.  "I do
not grudge," he once said, "to give my professional aid gratis to the
poor and needy, and even to others who could pay me if they would; nay,
I do not grudge in many cases to send a bag of meal to the family, but I
think I am entitled, without being considered greedy, and without my
sending for it, to get my empty bag returned!"

The Doctor was ever riding to and fro, his face red with winter’s cold
and summer’s heat, nodding oftener on his saddle than at his own
fire-side, watching all sorts of cases in farmhouses and lowly cottages,
cantering for miles to the anxiety and discomforts of the sick-room.

All liked the Doctor, and trusted him; though, alas! such men as Dr.
Mair--herbalists, vendors of wonderful pills and "saws", bone-setters,
and that whole race of ignorant and presuming quacks, resident or
itinerant, could always impose on the credulous, and dispose of their
marvellous cures for such prices as seldom entered honest Scott’s
pocket.

The Doctor in due time visited Adam.

"What’s wrong, Sergeant?" was his abrupt question; and he immediately
proceeded to examine tongue and pulse, and other signs and symptoms. He
then prescribed some simple medicine, rather gentler than Effie’s; and
said little, except that he would call back soon.  The case was at last
declared to be of a bad type of typhoid fever.




                              CHAPTER XXV

                        MR. SMELLIE’S DIPLOMACY


Mr. Smellie was not only a draper, but was the greatest in that line in
the parish of Drumsylie.  His shop had the largest display of goods in
the village. Handkerchiefs, cravats, Paisley shawls, printed calicoes,
&c., streamed in every variety of colour from strings stretched across
the large window, dotted with hats and bonnets for male and female
customers.  He was looked upon as a well-to-do, religious man, who
carefully made the most of both worlds.  He was a bachelor, and lived in
a very small house, above his shop, which was reached by a screw stair.
A small charity boy, with a singularly sedate countenance--he may for
aught I know be now a rich merchant on the London Exchange--kept the
shop.  I mention his name, Eben or Ebenezer Peat, to preserve for some
possible biographer the important part which the as yet great unknown
played in his early life.  The only domestic was old Peggy; of whom,
beyond her name, I know nothing.  She may have been great, and no doubt
was, if she did her duty with zeal and love to Peter Smellie.  Peggy
inhabited the kitchen, and her master the parlour, attached to which was
a small bed-closet.  The parlour was cold and stiff, like a cell for a
condemned Pharisee.  There was little furniture in it save an old sofa
whose hard bony skeleton was covered by a cracked skin of black
haircloth, with a small round cushion of the same character, roughened
by rather bristly hairs, which lay in a recess at the end of it.  A few
stuffed mahogany chairs were ranged along the wall; while a very
uncomfortable arm-chair beside the small fire, and a round table with a
dark wax-cloth cover, completed the furniture of the apartment.  There
were besides, a few old books of theology--which guaranteed Mr.
Smellie’s orthodoxy, if not his reading; a copy of _Buchan’s Domestic
Medicine_; and a sampler which hung on the wall, sewed by his only
sister, long dead, on which was worked a rude symbol of Castle Bennock
with three swans floating under it, nearly as large as the castle, and
beneath what was intended to represent flowers were the symbols, "For P.
S. by M. S."

Mr. Smellie, near a small fire, that twinkled like a yellow cairngorm
amidst basalt, sat reading his newspaper, when a letter was laid upon
the table by Peggy without any remark except "A letter."

"From whom, Peggy?" asked Smellie.

"Dinna ken; was left on the coonter."

Mr. Smellie opened it.  No sooner did he recognise the signature, than
he laid aside the paper--the _Edinburgh Courant_, even then best known
and long established.

He read the letter over and over again, very possibly a hundred times if
one might judge from the time it remained in his hands.  At last he put
it down quietly, as if afraid it would make a noise, and stared at the
small embryo fire.  He then paced across the room; lay down on the sofa;
resumed his seat at the fire; took up the letter, again perused it, and
again slowly laid it down.  He alone could decipher his own thoughts
while doing all this. For a time he was confused and bewildered, as if
endeavouring to comprehend his altered position. It was to him as if
some one whom he had hanged or murdered had come to life again.  What
was he to do now with reference to the Sergeant?  This was what puzzled
him--what could be done to save himself?  He had felt safe in the hands
of an honourable man--at a distance.  He had in fact, during many years
of comparative ease as to worldly things, almost forgotten his old
attempt at cheating. He had long ago repented, as he thought, of his
crime; but that which was past had now risen from the dead, and God
seemed to require it at his hands!

Had not his own continued sinfulness thus restored the dead past to
life?

It was a great shock for him to learn for the first time that his enemy,
as he looked upon Adam, knew it all, and had him in his power.  And then
to learn also that the Sergeant had never divulged the secret! What
could Smellie now do?  Would he provoke Adam to blast his character, to
triumph over him, to expose him to the Kirk Session and the parish? nay,
to--to banish him?  Or would he repent truly of all that false, hollow
past which was now being dimly revealed to him; confess his evil-doing
to the Sergeant, and ask his forgiveness, as well as that of God; trust
his mercy, bless him for his generosity, acknowledge that he was the
better man, and seek by a new and true life to imitate him?  O Mr.
Smellie! this is indeed one of those moments in thy life in which a
single step to the right or left may lead thee to light or to darkness,
to heaven or to hell.  Thy soul, of immeasurable littleness estimated by
the world, but of infinite greatness estimated by eternal truth and
righteousness, is now engaged in a battle in which its eternal destiny
is likely to be determined!  Confront then the good and evil masters,
God and Mammon, who are contending for the mastery; serve the one and
despise the other, and even thou mayest yet be great because good.  But
if not!--then in a few minutes mayest thou be irrecoverably on the road
to thine own place; and though this will be nothing to Drumsylie, it
will be everything to thee!

The battle went hard against Saul, and the Philistines of vanity, pride,
and a wicked consistency were pressing hard upon him!  One thing only,
the easiest for the time, he determined to do, and that was to get out
of the scrape--as his bad angel soothingly suggested--as speedily and as
easily as possible.  He must not keep up the quarrel longer with the
Sergeant; this at least seemed clear: for such a course was dangerous.
He must also immediately assure John Spence of obedience to his
commands.  So, without delay, he wrote to the keeper, imploring him, as
he himself expected mercy from God, to be silent regarding the old
crime; assuring him that he had mistaken the part which he had taken as
an elder in this most painful case, as he called it, and promising him
to do all he could to deliver the Sergeant out of trouble, which would
be at once his duty and his pleasure.  This letter, when written and
despatched, was a great relief to his mind: it delivered him, as he
hoped, from immediate danger at least, and enabled him to concentrate
his acute faculties on the carrying out of his plans for securing his
own safety.

His thoughts were for the moment broken by Eben announcing, as he was
wont to do, a superior customer whom it was expedient for the master
himself to serve. The customer on the present occasion was Miss
Thomasina Porteous, who had come to purchase some article for herself,
and a cheap shawl, out of the Session Charity Fund, for their poor,
persecuted, common friend, as she called Mrs. Craigie.

Mr. Smellie was unusually silent: he did not respond to the order for
Mrs. Craigie with his accustomed smile.  After a little, Miss Thomasina
blandly remarked:--"Sergeant Mercer is very ill, and I have no doubt
from a bad conscience--there’s no peace, you know, Mr. Smellie, to the
wicked."

"I am aware!" said Mr. Smellie, drily.  "This cheap shawl," he added,
selecting and spreading out one before her, "is good enough, I suppose,
for a pauper?"

"Considering all she has suffered from that man, I think she should get
a better one, or something in addition, Mr. Smellie," said the lady.

"Eben!" said Smellie, "go up-stairs.  I wish to speak to Miss Porteous
alone."

The boy disappeared.

"As a friend, Miss Porteous," whispered Smellie, "permit me to say, _in
strictest confidence_--you understand?--"

"Quite!" replied Miss Thomasina, with a look of intense curiosity.

"That I have learned some things about Mrs. Craigie," continued Mr.
Smellie, "which should make us _extremely_ cautious in helping or
trusting her."

"Indeed!" said Miss Thomasina.

"And as regards the Sergeant," said Mr. Smellie, "there is--rightly or
wrongly is not the question--a strong sympathy felt for him in the
parish.  It is human nature to feel, you know, for the weak side, even
if it is the worst side; and from my profound respect for our excellent
minister, over whom you exercise such great and useful influence, I
would advise----"

"That he should yield, Mr. Smellie?" interrupted Miss Thomasina, with an
expression of wonder.

"No, no, Miss Porteous," replied the worthy Peter, "that may be
impossible; but that we should allow Providence to deal with Adam.  He
is ill.  The Doctor, I heard to-day, thinks it may come to typhus fever.
He is threatened, at least."

"And may die?" said the lady, interpreting the elder’s thoughts.  "But I
hope not, poor man, for his own sake.  It would be a solemn judgment."

"I did not say die," continued Smellie; "but many things may occur--such
as repentance--a new mind, &c.  Anyhow," he added with a smile, "he
should, in my very humble opinion, be dealt wi’ charitably--nay, I would
say kindly.  Our justice should be tempered wi’ mercy, so that no enemy
could rejoice over us, and that we should feel a good conscience--the
best o’ blessings," he said with a sigh--"as knowing that we had
exhausted every means o’ bringing him to a right mind; for, between us
baith, and knowing your Christian principles, I do really houp that at
heart he is a good man.  Forgie me for hinting it, as I would not
willingly pain you, but I really believe it.  Now, if he dees, we’ll
have no blame.  So I say, or rather suggest, that, wi’ your leave, we
should in the meantime let things alone, and say no more about this sad
business.  I leave you to propose this to our worthy minister."

"I think _our_ kindness and charity, Mr. Smellie," replied Miss
Porteous, "are not required at present. On my word, no!  My poor brother
requires both, not Mercer.  See how _he_ is petted!  Those upstart
Gordons have been sending him, I hear, all sorts of good things: wine
and grapes--grapes, that even I have only tasted once in my life, when
my mother died!  And Mrs. Gordon called on him yesterday in her
carriage!  It’s absolutely ridiculous!  I would even say an insult! tho’
I’m sure I don’t wish the man any ill--not I; but only that we must not
spoil him, and make a fool of my brother and the Session, as if Mercer
was innocent.  I assure you my brother feels this sort of mawkish
sympathy very much--very much.  It’s mean and cowardly!"

"It is quite natural that he should feel annoyed," replied Mr. Smellie;
"and so do I.  But, nevertheless, I again say, we must be merciful; for
mercy rejoiceth over judgment.  So I humbly advise to let things alone
for the present, and to withdraw our hand when Providence begins to
work;--in the meantime, in the meantime."

Miss Thomasina was not prepared for these new views on the part of the
high-principled, firm, and consistent elder.  They crossed her purpose.
She had no idea of giving up the battle in this easy way.  What had she
to do with Providence?  To stand firm and fast to her principles was,
she had ever been taught, the one thing needful; and until the Sergeant
confessed his fault, it seemed to her, as she said, that "he should be
treated as a heathen and a publican!"

Mr. Smellie very properly put in the saving clause, "But no waur--no
waur, Miss Porteous."  He also oiled his argument by presenting his
customer with a new pair of gloves out of a parcel just received from
Edinburgh, as evidence of his admiration for her high character.

The lady smiled and left the shop, and said she would communicate the
substance of their conversation to her brother.

"Kindly, kindly, as becomes your warm heart," said Mr. Smellie,
expressing the hope at the same time that the gloves would fit her
fingers as well as he wished his arguments would fit the mind of Mr.
Porteous.

Another diplomatic stroke of Mr. Smellie in his extremity was to obtain
the aid of his easy brother-elder, Mr. Menzies, to adjust matters with
the Sergeant, so as to enable Mr. Porteous, with some show of
consistency, to back out of the ecclesiastical mess in which the Session
had become involved: for "consistency" was a great idol in the Porteous
Pantheon.

"I hae been thinking, my good freen’," said Smellie to Menzies, as both
were seated beside the twinkling gem of a fire in the sanctum over the
draper’s shop, "that possibly--possibly--we micht men’ matters atween
the Session and Sergeant Mercer. He is verra ill, an’ the thocht is
neither pleasant nor satisfactory to us that he should dee--a
providential event which _micht_ happen--an’ wi’ this scandal ower his
head.  I am willin’, for ane, to do whatever is reasonable in the case,
and I’m sure sae are ye; for ye ken, Mr. Menzies, there’s nae man
perfec’--nane!  The fac’ is, I’m no’ perfec’ mysel’!" confessed Mr.
Smellie, with a look intended to express a humility of which he was
profoundly unconscious.

Mr. Menzies, though not at all prepared for this sudden outburst of
charity, welcomed it very sincerely. "I’m glad," said he, "to hear a man
o’ your influence in the Session say sae."  Menzies had himself
personally experienced to a large degree the _dour_ influence of the
draper over him; and though his better nature had often wished to rebel
against it, yet the logical meshes of his more astute and strong-willed
brother had hitherto entangled him.  But now, with the liberty of speech
granted in so genial a manner by Smellie, Mr. Menzies said, "I wull
admit that Mr. Mercer was, until this unfortunate business happened, a
maist respectable man--I mean he was apparently, and I wad fain houp
sincerely--a quiet neebour, and a douce elder.  I never had cause to
doot him till the day ye telt me in confidence that he had been ance a
poacher.  But we mauna be ower hard, Mr. Smellie, on the sins o’ youth,
or even o’ riper years.  Ye mind the paraphrase--

"’For while the lamp holds on to burn,
The greatest sinner may return’.

I wad do onything that was consistent to get him oot o’ this job wi’ the
minister an’ the Session.  But hoo can it be managed, Mr. Smellie?"

"I think," said Smellie, meditatively, "that if we could only get the
minister pleased, things wad richt themsel’s."

"Between oorsel’s, as his freen’s," said Menzies, with a laugh, "he’s
no’ easy to please when he tak’s a thraw!  But maybe we’re as muckle to
blame as him."

"That bird," remarked Smellie, as he poked up his almost extinguished
fire, "has played a’ the mischief!  Could we no’ get it decently oot o’
the way yet, Mr. Menzies?"

"What d’ye mean, neebour?" asked Menzies, looking puzzled.

"Weel, I’ll tell ye," replied the draper.  "The Sergeant and me, ye ken,
cast oot; but you and him, as well as the wife, are freendly.  Noo, what
do ye say to seeing them in a freendly way; and as the Sergeant is in
bed----"

"They say it’s fivver," interrupted Menzies, "and may come to be verra
dangerous."

"Weel a-weel," said Smellie, "in that case what I propose micht be
easier dune: the wife micht gie you the bird, for peace’ sake--for
conscience’ sake--for her guidman’s sake--and ye micht do awa’ wi’t, and
the Sergeant ken naething about it; for, ye see, being an auld sodger,
he’s prood as prood can be; and Mr. Porteous wad be satisfied, and
maybe, for peace’ sake, wad never speer hoo it was dune, and we wad hae
a guid excuse for sayin’ nae mair about it in the Session.  If the
Sergeant dee’d, nae hairm would be done; if he got weel, he wad be
thankfu’ that the stramash was a’ ower, and himsel’ restored, wi’oot
being pit aboot for his bird.  Eh?"

"I wadna like to meddle wi’ the cratur," said Menzies, shaking his head.

"But, man, do ye no’ see," argued Smellie, "that it wad stultify yersel’
tae refuse doing what is easier for you than for him?  Hoo can ye, as a
member o’ Session, blame him for no’ killing a pet o’ his dead bairn, if
ye wadna kill it as a strange bird?"

"Can _ye_ no’ kill’t then?" asked Menzies.

"I wad hae nae difficulty in doing that--nane," said Smellie, "but they
wadna trust me, and wadna lippen to me; but they wad trust _you_.  It’s
surely your duty, Mr. Menzies, to do this, and mair, for peace."

"Maybe," said Menzies.  "Yet it’s a cruel job. I’m sweir tae meddle
wi’t.  I’ll think aboot it."

"Ay," said Smellie, putting his hand on his shoulder; "an’ ye’ll do’t,
too, when ye get the opportunity--I dinna bid ye kill’t, that needna be;
but jist tae let it flee awa’--that’s the plan!  Try’t. I’m awfu’ keen
to get this job by, and this stane o’ offence oot o’ the road.  But
mind, ye’ll never, never let on I bade ye, or it will blaw up the
mercifu’ plan. Will ye keep a quiet sough aboot me, whatever ye do?
And, moreover, never breathe a word about the auld poaching business; I
hae reasons for this, Mr. Menzies--reasons."

Such was Smellie’s "game", as it may be called. For his own ends he was
really anxious that Mr. Porteous should feel kindly towards the
Sergeant, so far at least as to retrace the steps he had taken in his
case.  He was actuated by fear lest Adam, if crushed, should be induced
to turn against himself, and, in revenge, expose his former dishonest
conduct. He did not possess necessarily any gratitude for the generous
part which Adam had played towards him;--for nothing is more hateful to
a proud man, than to be under an obligation to one whom he has injured.
It was also very doubtful how far Mr. Porteous, from the strong and
public position he had taken in the case, would, or could yield, unless
there was opened up to him some such back-door of escape as Smellie was
contriving, to save his consistency.  If this could be accomplished
without himself being implicated, Smellie saw some hope of ultimate
reconciliation, and the consequent removal on the Sergeant’s part of the
temptation to "peach".

Mr. Menzies, however, was ill at ease.  The work Smellie had assigned to
him was not agreeable, and he was only induced to attempt its
performance in the hope that the escape of the starling would lead
ultimately to the quashing of all proceedings against Adam.

With these feelings he went off to call upon Mrs. Mercer.




                              CHAPTER XXVI

                      THE STARLING AGAIN IN DANGER


Mrs. Mercer received her visitor very coldly.  She associated his name
with what she called "the conspiracy", and felt aggrieved that he had
never visited her husband during those previous weeks of trial.  He was,
as she expressed it, "a sight for sair een". Mr. Menzies made the best
excuse he could, and described the circumstances in which he had been
placed towards Adam as "the reason why he had not visited her sooner.
He said, also, that however painful it was to him, he had nevertheless
been obliged by his ordination vows to do his duty as a member of
Session, and he hoped not in vain, as he might now be the means of
making peace between his friend, Mr. Mercer, and the minister.

"I’m Charlie’s bairn," said the starling, just as Menzies had given a
preliminary cough, and was about to approach the question which had
chiefly brought him to the cottage.  "I’m Charlie’s bairn--a man’s a
man--kick, kur--whitt, whitt."

The starling seemed unable or unwilling to end the sentence; at last it
came out clear and distinct--"a man’s a man for a’ that".

Mr. Menzies did not feel comfortable.

"I dinna wunner, Mrs. Mercer," at last he said, "at you and Adam likin’
that bird!  He is really enticing, and by ordinar, I maun confess."

"There’s naething wrang wi’ the bird," said Katie, examining the seam of
her apron, adding in an indifferent tone of voice, "If folk wad only let
it alane, it’s discreet, and wad hairm naebody."

"I’m sure, Mrs. Mercer," he said, "I’m real sorry about the hale
business; and I’m resolved, if possible, to get Adam oot o’ the han’s o’
the Session, and bring peace atween a’ parties."

Katie shook her foot, twirled her thumbs, but said nothing.

"It’s a pity indeed," the elder continued, "that a _bird_ should come
atween an office-bearer like Adam and his minister and the Session!
It’s no richt--it’s no richt; and yet neither you nor Adam could pit it
awa, e’en at the request o’ the Session, wi’ yer ain haun’s.  Na,
na--that _was_ askin’ ower muckle."

"Ye ken best, nae doot," said Katie, with a touch of sarcasm in her
voice.  "You and the Session hae made a bonnie job o’ the guidman noo!"

"I’m real vexed he’s no’ weel," said Menzies; "but to be candid, Mrs.
Mercer, it wasna a’ the faut o’ the Session at the warst, but pairtly
his ain. He was ower stiff, and was neither to haud nor bin’."

"A bairn could haud him noo, and bin’ him tae," said Katie.

"There’s a chasteesement in ’t," remarked Menzies, becoming slightly
annoyed at Katie’s cool reception of him.  "He should hear the voice in
the rod. Afflictions dinna come wi’oot a reason.  They spring not from
the grun’.  They’re sent for a purpose; and ye should examine and search
yer heart, Mrs. Mercer, in a’ sincerity and humility, to ken _why_ this
affliction has come, and _at this time_," emphatically added Mr.
Menzies.

"Nae doot," said Katie, returning to the hem of her apron.

The way seemed marvellously opened to Mr. Menzies, as he thought he saw
Katie humbled and alive to the Sergeant’s greater share of wrong in
causing the schism.  He began to feel the starling in his hand,--a fact
of which the bird seemed ignorant, as he whistled, "Wha’ll be king but
Charlie?"

Mr. Menzies continued--"If I could be ony help to ye, Mrs. Mercer, I wad
be prood and thankfu’ to bring aboot freen’ship atween Adam and Mr.
Porteous; and thus gie peace to puir Adam."

"Peace tae Adam?" exclaimed Katie, looking up to the elder’s face.

"Ay, peace tae Adam," said Mr. Menzies, encouraged to open up his plan;
"but, I fear, as lang as that bird is in the cage, peace wull never be."

Katie dropped her apron, and stared at Mr. Menzies as if she was
petrified, and asked what he meant.

"Dinna think, dinna think," said Mr. Menzies, "that I propose killin’
the bit thing"--Katie dropped her eyes again on her apron--"but," he
continued, "I canna see what hairm it wad do, and I think it wad do a
hantle o’ guid, if ye wad let me tak’ oot the cage, and let the bird
flee awa’ tae sing wi’ the lave o’ birds.  In this way, ye see----"

Katie rose up, her face pale with--dare we say it?--suppressed passion.
This call of Menzies was to give strength and comfort, forsooth, to her
in her affliction!  She seized the elder by his arm, drew him gently to
the door of the bedroom, which was so far open as to enable him to see
Adam asleep. One arm of the Sergeant was extended over the bed, his face
was towards them, his grey locks escaped from under his night-cap, and
his expression was calm and composed.  Katie said nothing, but pointed
to her husband and looked sternly at Menzies.  She then led him to the
street door, and whispered in his ear--

"Ae word afore we pairt:--I wadna gie that man, in health or sickness,
life or death, for a’ the Session! If _he’s_ no’ a Christian, an’ if
_he_ hasna God’s blessing, wae’s me for the warl’!  I daur ony o’ ye to
come here again, and speak ill o’ him, as if he was in a faut!  I daur
ony o’ ye to touch his bird!  Tell that to Smellie--tell’t to the
parish, and lee me alane wi’ my ain heart, wi’ my ain guidman, and wi’
my ain Saviour, to live or dee as the Almighty wills!"

Katie turned back into her kitchen, while poor Menzies walked out into
the street, feeling no anger but much pain, and more than ever convinced
that he had been made a tool of by Smellie, contrary to his own
common-sense and better feeling.

Menzies made a very short report of the scene to the draper, saying that
he would wash his hands clean of the whole business; to which Smellie
only said to himself thoughtfully, as Menzies left his shop, "I wish I
could do the same--but I’ll try!"




                             CHAPTER XXVII

               THE SERGEANT’S SICKNESS AND HIS SICK-NURSE


Dr. Scott, as the reader knows, had visited Adam, and felt a great
interest in his patient.  The Doctor was a man of few words, very shy,
and, as has been indicated, even abrupt and gruff, his only affectation
being his desire to appear devoid of any feeling which might seem to
interfere with severe medical treatment or a surgical operation.  He
liked to be thought stern and decided.  The fact was that his intense
sympathy pained him, and he tried to steel himself against it.  When he
scolded his patients, it was because they made him suffer so much, and
because, moreover, he was angry with himself for being angry with them.
He therefore affected unconcern at the very time when his anxiety for a
patient made him sleepless, and compelled him often, when in bed, to
read medical journals with the aid of a long yellow candle, instead of
spending in sleep such portions of his night-life as the sick permitted
him to enjoy.  He had watched Adam’s whole conduct as an elder--had
heard much about his labours from his village patients--and, as the
result of his observations, had come to the conclusion that he was a man
of a rare and right stamp.  When the "disturbance", as it was called,
about the starling agitated the community, few ever heard the Doctor
express his opinion on the great question; but many listened to his loud
laugh--wondering as to its meaning--when the case was mentioned, and how
oddly he stroked his chin, as if to calm his merriment.  Some friends
who were more in his confidence heard him utter such phrases, in
alluding to the matter, as "only ministerial indigestion",
"ecclesiastical hysteria",--forms of evil, by the way, which are rarely
dealt with in Church courts.

His attendance on the Sergeant was, therefore, a duty which was
personally agreeable to him.  He was not very hopeful of success,
however, from the time when the fever developed into typhoid of a
malignant and extremely infectious type.

The first thing which the Doctor advised, as being necessary for the
Sergeant’s recovery, was the procuring of a sick-nurse.  Poor Katie
protested against the proposal.  What could any one do, she argued, that
she herself was not fit for?  What cared she for sleep?  She never
indeed at any time slept soundly--so she alleged--and could do with very
little sleep at all times; she was easily wakened up--the scratch of a
mouse would do it; and Adam would do _her_ bidding, for he was always so
good and kind: a stranger, moreover, would but irritate him, and "put
hersel’ aboot".  And who could be got to assist? Who would risk their
life?  Had not others their own family to attend to?  Would they bring
the fever into their own house? &c.  "Na, na," she concluded, "lee Adam
tae me, and God will provide!"

So she reasoned, as one taught by observation and experience; for most
people in country villages--now as then--are apt to be seized with panic
in the presence of any disease pronounced to be dangerous and
contagious.  Its mystery affects their imagination. It looks like a doom
that cannot be averted; very purpose of God, to oppose which is vain. To
procure, therefore, a nurse for the sick, except among near relations,
is extremely difficult; unless it be some worthless creature who will
drink the wine intended for the patient, or consume the delicacies left
for his nourishment.  We have known, when cholera broke out in a county
town in Scotland, a stranger nurse refused even lodgings in any house
within it, lest she should spread the disease!

It was a chill and gusty evening, and Katie sat beside the fire in the
Sergeant’s room, her mind full of "hows" and "whens", and tossed to and
fro by anxiety about her Adam, and questionings as to what she should or
could do for his comfort. The rising wind shook the bushes and tree-tops
in the little garden.  The dust in clouds hurried along the street of
the village.  The sky was dark with gathering signs of rain.  There was
a depressing sadness in the world without, and little cheer in the room
within.  The Sergeant lay in a sort of uneasy restless doze, sometimes
tossing his hands, starting up and asking where he was, and then falling
back again on his pillow with a heavy sigh.  Although his wife was not
seriously alarmed, she was nevertheless very miserable at heart, and
felt utterly lonely. But for her quiet faith in God, and the demand made
upon her for active exertion, she would have yielded to passionate
grief, or fallen into sullen despair.

Her thoughts were suddenly disturbed by little Mary telling her that
someone was at the street door.  Bidding Mary take her place, she
hastened to the kitchen and opened the door.  Jock Hall entered in his
usual unceremonious way.

"Ye needna speak, Mrs. Mercer," he said as he sat down on a chair near
the door; "I ken a’ aboot it!"

Katie was as much startled as she was the first time he entered her
house.  His appearance as to dress and respectability was, however,
unquestionably improved.

"Jock Hall, as I declare!" exclaimed Katie in a whisper.

"The same, at yer service; and yet no’ jist the same," replied Jock, in
as low a voice.

"Ye may say sae," said Katie.  "What’s come ower ye?  Whaur hae ye been?
Whaur got ye thae claes?  Ye’re like a gentleman, Jock!"

"I houp sae," replied Hall; "I oucht to be sae; I gat a’ this frae
Adam."

"The guidman?" inquired Katie; "that’s impossible!  He never had claes
like thae!"

"Claes or no claes," said Jock, "it’s him I got them frae."

"I dinna understan’ hoo that could be," said Katie.

"Nor me," said Jock, "but _sae_ it is, and never speer the noo _hoo_ it
is.  I’m come, as usual, on business."

"Say awa’," said Katie, "but speak laigh.  It’s no’ shoon ye’re needin’,
I houp?"

But we must here explain that Jock had previously called upon Dr. Scott,
and thrusting his head into the surgery--his body and its new dress
being concealed by the half-opened door--asked--

"Is’t true that Sergeant Mercer has got a smittal fivver?"

The Doctor, who was writing some prescription, on discovering who the
person was who put this question, said no more in reply than--"Deadly!
deadly! so ye need not trouble them, Jock, by begging at their door--be
off!"

"Mrs. Mercer," replied Jock, "wull need a nurse--wull she?"

"You had better go and get your friend Mrs. Craigie for her, if that’s
what you are after.  She’ll help Mary," replied the Doctor, in derision.

"Thank ye!" said Jock, and disappeared.

But to return to his interview with Mrs. Mercer--"I’m telt, Mrs.
Mercer," he said, "that the Sergeant is awfu’ ill wi’ a smittal fivver,
and that he needs some nurse--that is, as I understan’, some ane that
wad watch him day and nicht, and keep their een open like a whitrat;
somebody that wadna heed haein’ muckle tae do, and that could haud a
guid but freen’ly grip o’ Mr. Mercer gif his nerves rise.  An’ I hae
been thinkin’ ye’ll fin’t a bother tae get sic a bodie in
Drumsylie--unless, maybe, ane that wad wark for a hantle o’ siller; some
decent woman like Luckie Craigie, wha micht--

"Dinna bother me the noo, Jock, wi’ ony nonsense," said Katie, "I’m no
fit for’t.  If ye need onything yersel’, tell me what it is, and, if
possible, I’ll gie ye’t.  But I maun gang back tae the room."

"Ay," said Jock, "I want something frae ye, nae doot, and I houp I’ll
get it.  I want an extraordinar’ favour o’ ye; for, as I was sayin’,
ye’ll fin’t ill tae get ony ane to watch Mr. Mercer.  But if _I_ get ane
that doesna care for their life--that respecs and loes Adam--that wadna
take a bawbee o’ siller----"

"As for that o’t, I’ll pay them decently," interrupted Katie.

"And ane that," continued Jock, as if not interrupted, "has strength tae
watch wi’ leevin’ man or woman,--what wad ye say tae sic a canny nurse
as that?"

"If there’s sic a bodie in the toon," replied Katie, "I wad be blythe
tae _try_ them; no’ tae fix them, maybe, but to _try_, as the Doctor
insists on’t."

"Weel," said Jock, "the favour I hae to ax, altho’ it’s ower muckle
maybe for you tae gie, is to let _me_ try my han’--let me speak, and
dinna lauch at me!  I’m no’ feered for death, as I hae been mony a time
feered for life: I hae had by ordinar’ experience watchin’, ye ken, as a
poacher, fisher, and a’ that kin’ o’ thing, sin’ I was a bairn; sae I
can sleep wi’ my een open; and I’m strong, for I hae thrashed keepers,
and teylors, and a’ sorts o’ folk; fac’, I was tempted tae gie a blue ee
tae Smellie!--but let sleepin’ dogs lie--I’ll mak’ a braw nurse for the
gudeman."

Katie was taken so much aback by this speech as to let Jock go on
without interruption; but she at last exclaimed--"Ye’re a kind cratur,
Jock, and I’m muckle obleeged to you; but I really canna think o’t.
It’ll no’ work; it wad pit ye aboot, an’ mak’ a cleish-me-claver in the
toon; an’--an’----"

"I care as little for the toon," said Jock, "as the toon cares for me!
Ye’ll no be bothered wi’ me, mind, gif ye let me help ye.  I hae got
clean pease strae for a bed frae Geordie Miller the carrier, and a
sackfu’ for a bowster; and I ken ye hae a sort o’ laft, and I’ll pit up
there; and it’s no’ aften I hae sic a bed; and cauld parritch or cauld
praties wull dae for my meat, an’ I need nae mair; an’ I hae braw thick
stockin’s--I can pit on twa pair if necessar’, tae walk as quiet as a
cat stealin’ cream; sae gif ye’ll let me, I’ll do my best endeevour tae
help ye."

"Oh, Jock, man!" said Mrs. Mercer, "ye’re unco guid.  I’ll think
o’t--I’ll think o’t, and speer at the Doctor--I wull, indeed; and if sae
be he needs--Whisht! What’s that?" ejaculated Katie, starting from her
chair, as little Mary entered the kitchen hurriedly, saying--

"Come ben fast, mither!"

Katie was in a moment beside her husband, who for the first time
manifested symptoms of violent excitement, declaring that he must rise
and dress for church, as he heard the eight o’clock bells ringing.  In
vain she expostulated with him in the tenderest manner.  He ought to
rise, he said, and would rise.  Was he not an elder? and had he not to
stand at the plate? and would he, for any consideration, be late?  What
did she mean?  Had she lost her senses?  And so on.

This was the climax of a weary and terribly anxious time for Katie.  For
some nights she had, as she said, hardly "booed an ee", and every day
her lonely sorrow was becoming truly "too deep for tears".  The
unexpected visit of even Jock Hall had helped for a moment to cause a
reaction and to take her out of herself; and now that she perceived
beyond doubt, what she was slow hitherto to believe, that her husband
"wasna himsel’"--nay, that even _she_ was strange to him, and was
addressed by him in accents and with expressions betokening irritation
towards her, and with words which were, for the first time, wanting in
love, she became bewildered, and felt as if God had indeed sent her a
terrible chastisement.  It was fortunate that Hall had called--for
neither her arguments nor her strength could avail on the present
occasion.  She immediately summoned Jock to her assistance.  He was
already behind her, for he had quickly cast off his boots, and
approached the bed softly and gently, on perceiving the Sergeant’s
state. With a strong hand he laid the Sergeant back on his pillow,
saying, "Ye will gang to the kirk, Sergeant, but I maun tell ye
something afore ye gang.  Ye’ll mind Jock Hall? him that ye gied the
boots to?  An’ ye’ll mind Mr. Spence the keeper? I hae got an erran’
frae him for you.  He said ye wad be glad tae hear aboot him."

The Sergeant stared at Jock with a half-excited, half-stupid gaze.  But
the chain of his associations had for a moment been broken, and he was
quiet as a child, the bells ringing no more as he paused to hear about
his old friend Spence.

Jock’s first experiment at nursing had proved successful.  He was
permitted, therefore, for that night only, as Katie said, to occupy the
loft, to which he brought his straw bed and straw bolster; and his
presence proved, more than once during the night, an invaluable aid.

The Doctor called next morning.  Among his other causes for anxiety,
one, and not the least, had been the impossibility of finding a
respectable nurse.  He was therefore not a little astonished to discover
Jock Hall, the "ne’er-do-weel", well dressed, and attending the
Sergeant.  He did not at first ask any explanations of so unexpected a
phenomenon, but at once admitted that he was better than none.  But
before leaving, and after questioning Jock, and studying his whole
demeanour, and, moreover, after hearing something about him from Mrs.
Mercer, he smiled and said, "Keep him by all means--I think I can answer
for him;" and muttering to himself, "Peculiar temperament--hysterical,
but curable with diet--a character--will take fancies--seems fond of the
Sergeant--contagious fever--we shall try him by all means."

"Don’t drink?" he abruptly asked Jock.

"Like a beast," Jock replied; "for a beast drinks jist when he needs it,
Doctor, and sae div I; but I dinna need it noo, and winna need it, I
think, a’ my days."

"You’ll do," said the Doctor; and so Jock was officially appointed to be
Adam’s nurse.

Adam Mercer lay many weary days with the fever heavy upon him--like a
ship lying to in a hurricane, when the only question is, which will last
longest, the storm or the ship?  Those who have watched beside a
lingering case of fever can alone comprehend the effect which intense
anxiety, during a few weeks only, caused by the hourly conflict of
"hopes and fears that kindle hope, an undistinguishable throng" produces
on the whole nervous system.

Katie was brought into deep waters.  She had never taken it home to
herself that Adam might die. Their life had hitherto been quiet and
even--so like, so very like, was day to day, that no storm was
anticipated to disturb the blessed calm.  And now at the prospect of
losing him, and being left alone in the wide, wide wilderness, without
her companion and guide; her earthly all--in spite of the unearthly
links of faith and love that bound them--lost to her; no one who has
thus suffered will wonder that her whole flesh shrunk as from the
approach of a terrible enemy.  Then it was that old truths lying in her
heart were summoned to her aid to become practical powers in this her
hour of need.  She recalled all she had learned as to God’s ends in
sending affliction, with the corresponding duties of a Christian in
receiving it.  She was made to realize in her experience the gulf which
separates _knowing_ from _being_ and _doing_--the right theory from the
right practice.  And thus it was that during a night of watching she
fought a great battle in her soul between her own will and God’s will,
in her endeavour to say, not with her lips, for that was easy, but from
her heart, "Thy will be done!"  Often did she exclaim to herself, "Na,
God forgie me, but I _canna_ say’t!" and as often resolved, that "say’t
she wad, or dee". At early morn, when she opened the shutters, after
this long mental struggle, and saw the golden dawn spreading its
effulgence of glory along the eastern sky, steeping the clouds with
splendours of every hue from the rising sun of heaven, himself as yet
unseen; and heard the birds salute his coming--the piping thrush and
blackbird beginning their morning hymn of praise, with the lark "singing
like an angel in the clouds"--a gush of holy love and confidence filled
her heart, as if through earth and sky she heard the echo of her
Father’s name.  Meekly losing herself in the universal peace, she sank
down on her knees, beside the old arm-chair, and with a flood of quiet
tears, that eased her burning heart, she said, "Father!  Thy will be
done!"

In a short time she rose with such a feeling of peace and freedom as she
had never hitherto experienced in her best and happiest hours.  A great
weight of care seemed lifted off as if by some mighty hand; and though
she dared not affirm that she was now prepared for whatever might
happen, she had yet an assured confidence in the goodness of One who
_would_ prepare her when the time came, and whose grace would be
sufficient for her in any hour of need.

The interest felt by the parish generally, on the Sergeant’s dangerous
state becoming known, was great and sincere.  In the presence of his
sufferings, with which all could more or less sympathise--whether from
their personal experience of sorrow, from family bereavements, or from
the consciousness of their own liability to be at any moment visited
with dangerous sickness--his real or supposed failings were for the time
covered with a mantle of charity.  It was not for them to strike a
sorely wounded man.

Alas! for one that will rejoice with those who rejoice, many will weep
with those who weep. Sympathy with another’s joy is always an unselfish
feeling; but pity only for another’s suffering may but express the
condescension of pride towards dependent weakness.

But it is neither gracious nor comforting to scrutinise too narrowly the
motives which influence human nature in its mixture of good and evil,
its weakness and strength.  We know that we cannot stand such
microscopic examination ourselves, and ought not, therefore, to apply it
to others.  Enough that much real sympathy was felt for Adam.  Some of
its manifestations at an earlier stage of his illness were alluded to by
Miss Thomasina in her conversation with Mr. Smellie.  It was true that
Mrs. Gordon had called in her carriage, and that repeatedly, to inquire
for him--a fact which greatly impressed those in the neighbourhood who
had treated him as a man far beneath them.  Mr. Gordon, too, had been
unremitting in quiet attentions; and Mrs. Mercer was greatly softened,
and her heart delivered from its hard thoughts of many of her old
acquaintances, by the kind and constant inquiries which day by day were
made for her husband.  Little Mary had to act as a sort of daily
bulletin as she opened the door to reply to those who "speered for the
Sergeant"; but no one entered the dwelling, from the natural fears
entertained by all of the fever.

Many, too, spoke well of the Sergeant when he was "despaired of", who
would have been silent respecting his merits had he been in health.
Others also, no doubt, would have waxed eloquent about him after his
burial.  But would it not be well if those who act on the principle of
saying all that is good about the dead, were to spend some portion of
their charity upon the living?  Their _post-mortem_ store would not be
diminished by such previous expenditure.  No doubt it is "better late
than never"; but would it not be still better if never so late? Perhaps
not!  So far as the good man himself is concerned, it may be as well
that the world should not learn, nor praise him for, the many premiums
he has paid day by day for the good of posterity until these are
returned, like an insurance policy, in gratitude after he is screwed
down in his coffin.




                             CHAPTER XXVIII

                    MR. PORTEOUS VISITS THE SERGEANT


But what was the minister thinking about during the Sergeant’s illness?
Miss Thomasina had told him what had taken place during her interview
with Smellie.  Mr. Porteous could not comprehend the sudden revolution
in the mind of his elder.  But his own resolution was as yet unshaken;
for there is a glory often experienced by some men when placed in
circumstances where they stand alone, that of recognising themselves as
being thereby sufferers for conscience’ sake--as being above all earthly
influences, and firm, consistent, fearless, true to their principles,
when others prove weak, cowardly, or compromising.  Doubts and
difficulties, from whatever source they come, are then looked upon as so
many temptations; and the repeated resistance of them, as so many
evidences of unswerving loyalty to truth.

"I can never yield one jot of my principles," Mr. Porteous said to Miss
Thomasina.  "The Sergeant ought to acknowledge his sin before the Kirk
Session, before I can in consistency be reconciled to him!"  And yet all
this sturdy profession was in no small degree occasioned by the
intrusion of better thoughts, which because they rebuked him were
unpleasant. His irritation measured on the whole very fairly his
disbelief in the thorough soundness of his own position, and made him
more willing than he had any idea of to be reconciled to Adam.

We need not report the conversation which immediately after this took
place in the Manse between Smellie and Mr. Porteous.  The draper was
calm, smiling, and circumspect.  He repeated all he had said to Miss
Thomasina as to the necessity and advantage of leniency, forgiveness,
and mercy; dwelling on the Sergeant’s sufferings and the sympathy of the
parish with him, the noble testimony which the minister had already
borne to truth and principle; and urged Mr. Porteous to gratify the Kirk
Session by letting the case "tak’ end": but all his pleadings were
apparently in vain.  The minister was not verily "given to change!"  The
case, he said, had been settled by the Session, and the Session alone
could deal with it.  They were at perfect liberty to reconsider the
question as put by Mr. Smellie, and which he had perfect liberty to
bring before the court.  For himself he would act as principle and
consistency dictated.  And so Smellie returned to his room above the
shop, and went to bed, wishing he had left the Sergeant and his bird to
their own devices; and Mr. Porteous retired to his room above the study
with very much the same feelings.

In the meantime one duty was clear to Mr. Porteous, and that was to
visit the Sergeant.  He was made aware of the highly contagious
character of the fever, but this only quickened his resolution to
minister as far as possible to the sick man and his family.  He was not
a man to flinch from what he saw to be his duty.  Cowardice was not
among his weaknesses. It would be unjust not to say that he was too
real, too decided, too stern for that.  Yielding to feelings of any
kind, whether from fear of consequences to himself, physically,
socially, or ecclesiastically, was not his habit.  He did not
suspect--nor would he perhaps have been pleased with the discovery had
he made it--that there was in him a softer portion of his being by which
he could be influenced, and which could, in favourable circumstances,
dominate over him.  There were in him, as in every man, holy instincts,
stronger than his strongest logic, though they had not been cultivated
so carefully.  He had been disposed rather to attribute any mere _sense_
or feeling of what was right or wrong to his carnal human nature, and to
rely on some clearly defined rule either precisely revealed in
Scripture, or given in ecclesiastical law, for his guidance.  But that
door into his being which he had often barred as if against an enemy
could nevertheless be forced open by the hand of love, that love itself
might enter in and take possession.

Mr. Porteous had many mingled thoughts as one Saturday evening--in spite
of his "preparations"--he knocked at the cottage door.  As usual, it was
opened by Mary.  Recognising the minister, she went to summon Mrs.
Mercer from the Sergeant’s room; while Mr. Porteous entered, and,
standing with his back to the kitchen fire, once more gazed at the
starling, who again returned his gaze as calmly as on the memorable
morning when they were first introduced.

Mrs. Mercer did not appear immediately, as she was disrobing herself of
some of her nursing-gear--her flannel cap and large shawl--and making
herself more tidy.  When she emerged from the room, from which no sound
came save an occasional heavy sigh and mutterings from Adam in his
distress, her hair was dishevelled, her face pale, her step tottering,
and years seemed to have been added to her age.  Her eyes had no tear to
dim their earnest and half-abstracted gaze.  This visit of the minister,
which she instinctively interpreted as one of sympathy and
good-will--how could it be else?--at once surprised and delighted her.
It was like a sudden burst of sunshine, which began to thaw her heart,
and also to brighten the future.  She sat down beside Mr. Porteous, who
had advanced to meet her; and holding his proffered hand with a firm
grasp, she gazed into his face with a look of silent but unutterable
sorrow.  He turned his face away.  "Oh! sir," at last she said, "God
bless you!--God bless you for comin’!  I’m lanely, lanely, and my heart
is like tae break.  It’s kind, kind o’ ye, this;" and still holding his
hand, while she covered her eyes with her apron as she rocked to and fro
in the anguish of her spirit, "the loss," she said, "o’ my wee pet was
sair--ye ken what it was tae us baith," and she looked at the empty cot
opposite, "when ye used tae sit here, and he was lyin’ there--but oh! it
was naething tae this, naething tae this misfortun’!"

The minister was not prepared for such a welcome, nor for such
indications of unbounded confidence on Katie’s part, her words revealing
her heart, which poured itself out.  He had expected to find her much
displeased with him, even proud and sullen, and had prepared in his own
mind a quiet pastoral rebuke for her want of meekness and submissiveness
to Providence and to himself.

"Be comforted, Mrs. Mercer!  It is the Lord! He alone, not man, can
aid," said Mr. Porteous kindly, and feelingly returning the pressure of
her hand.

Katie gently withdrew her hand from his, as if she felt that she was
taking too great a liberty, and as if for a moment the cloud of the last
few weeks had returned and shadowed her confidence in his good-will to
her.  The minister, too, could not at once dismiss a feeling of
awkwardness from his mind, though he sincerely wished to do so.  He had
seldom come into immediate contact, and never in circumstances like the
present, with such simple and unfeigned sorrow.  Love began to knock at
the door!

"Oh, sir," she said, "ye little ken hoo Adam respeckit and lo’ed ye.  He
never, never booed his knee at the chair ye’re sittin’ on wi’oot prayin’
for a blessin’ on yersel’, on yer wark, an’ on yer preaching.  I’m sure,
if ye had only heard him the last time he cam’ frae the kirk"--the
minister recollected that this was after Adam’s deposition by the
Session--"hoo he wrastled for the grace o’ God tae be wi’ ye, it wad hae
dune yer heart guid, and greatly encouraged ye.  Forgie me, forgie me
for sayin’ this: but eh, he was, and is, a precious man tae me; tho’
he’ll no’ be lang wi’ us noo, I fear!"  And Katie, without weeping,
again rocked to and fro.

"He is a good man," he replied; "yes, a very good man is Adam; and I
pray God his life may be spared."

"O thank ye, thank ye!" said Katie.  "Ay, pray God his life may be
spared--and mine too, for I’ll no’ survive him; I canna do’t! nae mair
could wee Mary!"

Mary was all the while eagerly listening at the door, which was not
quite closed, and as she heard those words and the low cry from her
"mother" beseeching the minister to pray, she ran out, and falling down
before him, with muffled sobs hid her face in the folds of his
great-coat, and said, "Oh, minister, dinna let faither dee! dinna let
him dee!"  And she clasped and clapped the knees of him who she thought
had mysterious power with God.

The minister lifted up the agonised child, patted her fondly on the
head, and then gazed on her thin but sweet face.  She was pale from her
self-denying labours in the sick room.

"Ye maun excuse the bairn," said Katie, "for she haesna been oot o’ the
hoose except for an errand sin’ Adam grew ill.  I canna get her tae
sleep or eat as she used to do--she’s sae fond o’ the guidman.  I’m
awfu’ behadden till her.  Come here, my wee wifie."  And Katie pressed
the child’s head and tearful face to her bosom, where Mary’s sobs were
smothered in a large brown shawl.  "She’s no’ strong, but extraordinar’
speerity," continued Katie in a low voice and apologetically to Mr.
Porteous; "and ye maun just excuse us baith."

"I think," said the minister, in a tremulous voice, "it would be good
for us all to engage in prayer."

They did so.

Just as they rose from their knees, the slight noise which the movement
occasioned--for hitherto the conversation had been conducted in
whispers--caused the starling to leap up on his perch.  Then with clear
accents, that rung over the silent house, he said, "I’m Charlie’s
bairn!"

Katie looked up to the cage, and for the first time in her life felt
something akin to downright anger at the bird.  His words seemed to her
to be a most unseasonable interruption--a text for a dispute--a
reminiscence of what she did not wish then to have recalled.

"Whisht, ye impudent cratur!" she exclaimed; adding, as if to correct
his rudeness, "ye’ll disturb yer maister."

The bird looked down at her with his head askance, and scratched it as
if puzzled and asking "What’s wrong?"

"Oh," said Katie, turning to the minister as if caught in some
delinquency, "it’s no’ my faut, sir; ye maun forgie the bird; the silly
thing doesna ken better."

"Never mind, never mind," said Mr. Porteous, kindly, "it’s but a trifle,
and not worthy of our notice at such a solemn moment; it must not
distract our minds from higher things."

"I’m muckle obleeged to ye, sir," said Katie, rising and making a
curtsy.  Feeling, however, that a crisis had come from which she could
not escape if she would, she bid Mary "gang ben and watch, and shut the
door".  When Mary had obeyed, she turned to Mr. Porteous and said, "Ye
maun excuse me, sir, but I canna thole ye to be angry aboot the bird.
It’s been a sore affliction, I do assure you, sir."

"Pray say nothing more of that business, I implore you, Mrs. Mercer,
just now," said Mr. Porteous, looking uneasy, but putting his hand
kindly on her arm; "there is no need for it."

This did not deter Katie from uttering what was now oppressing her heart
more than ever, but rather encouraged her to go on.

"Ye maun let me speak, or I’ll brust," she said. "Oh, sir, it has indeed
been an awfu’ grief this--just awfu’ tae us baith.  But dinna, dinna
think Adam was to blame as muckle as me.  I’m in faut, no’ him.  It
wasna frae want o’ respec’ tae you, sir; na, na, that couldna be; but a’
frae love tae our bairn, that was sae uncommon ta’en up wi’ yersel’."

"I remember the lovely boy well," said Mr. Porteous, not wishing to open
up the question of the Sergeant’s conduct.

"Naebody that ever see’d him," continued Katie, "but wad mind him--his
bonnie een like blabs o’ dew, and his bit mooth that was sae sweet tae
kiss. An’ ye mind the nicht he dee’d, hoo he clapped yer head when ye
were prayin’ there at his bedside, and hoo he said his ain wee prayer;
and hoo----"  Here Katie rose in rather an excited manner, and opened a
press, and taking from it several articles, approached the minister and
said--"See, there’s his shoon, and there’s his frock; and this is the
clean cap and frills that was on his bonnie head when he lay a corp; and
that was the whistle he had when he signed tae the bird tae come for a
bit o’ his piece; and it was the last thing he did, when he couldna eat,
to insist on me giein’ a wee bit tae his bairn, as he ca’ed it, ye ken;
and he grat when he was sae waik that he couldna whistle till’t.  O my
bairn, my bonnie bairn!" she went on, in low accents of profound sorrow,
as she returned to the press these small memorials of a too cherished
grief.

"You must not mourn as those who have no hope, my friend," said the
minister; "your dear child is with Jesus."

"Thank ye, sir, for that," said Katie; who resolved, however, to press
towards the point she had in view. "An’ it was me hindered Adam frae
killin’ my bairn’s pet," she continued, resuming her seat beside the
minister.  "He said he wad throttle it, or cast it into the fire."

The minister shook his head, remarking, "Tut, tut! that would never have
done!  No human being wished that."

"That’s what I said," continued Katie; "an’ whan he rowed up the sleeves
o’ his sark, and took haud o’ the bit thing tae thraw its neck, I wadna
let him, but daured him to do it, that did I; and I ken’t ye wad hae
dune the same, fur the sake o’ wee Charlie, that was sae fond o’ you.
Oh, forgie me, forgie him, if I was wrang!  A mither’s feelings are no
easy hauden doon!"

Was this account the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?
Perhaps not.  But then, good brother or sister, if you are disposed to
blame Katie, we defend not even this weary mourner from thee. Take the
first stone and cast it at her!  Yet we think, as you do so, we see the
Perfect One writing on the ground; and if He is writing her
condemnation, ’tis in the dust of earth, and the kindly rain or winds of
heaven will soon obliterate the record.

"No more about this painful affair, I beseech of you," said the
minister, taking a very large and long pinch of snuff; "let us rather
try and comfort Adam. This is our present duty."

"God Himsel’ bless ye!" said Katie, kissing the back of his hand; "but
ye maunna gang near him; dinna risk yer valuable life; the fivver is
awfu’ smittal. Dr. Scott wull let naebody in."

"And have you no nurse?" inquired Mr. Porteous, not thinking of himself.

This question recalled to her mind what seemed another mysterious
stumbling-block.  She knew not what to say in reply.  Jock Hall was at
that moment seated like a statue beside the bed, and what would the
minister think when he saw this representative of parish wickedness in
an elder’s house?

She had no time for lengthened explanations; all she said, therefore,
was, "The only nurse Dr. Scott and me could get was nae doot a puir
bodie, yet awfu’ strang and fit tae haud Adam doon, whan aside himsel’;
and he had nae fear o’ his ain life--and was a gratefu’ cratur--and had
ta’en a great notion o’ Adam, and is kin’ o’ reformed--that--that I
thocht--weel, I maun jist confess, the nurse is Jock Hall!"

"Jock Hall!" exclaimed the minister, lifting his eyebrows with an
expression of astonishment; "is it possible?  But I leave to you and the
Doctor the selection of a nurse.  It is a secular matter, with which
officially I have nothing to do.  My business is with spiritual things;
let me therefore see the Sergeant.  I have no fear.  I’m in God’s hands.
All I have to do is my duty.  That is my principle."

"Jist let me ben a minute first," asked Katie.

She went accordingly to the room and whispered to Jock, "Gang to the
laft; the minister is comin’ ben--Aff!’

"Mind what ye’re baith aboot!" said Jock, pointing to his patient.  "Be
canny wi’ him--be canny--nae preachin’ e’enoo, mind, or flytin’, or
ye’ll rue’t.  Losh, I’ll no stan’t!"

As the minister entered the room he saw Jock Hall rapidly vanishing like
a spectre, as he stole to his den among the straw.

Mr. Porteous stood beside the Sergeant’s bed, and Katie said to her
husband, bending over him--

"This is the minister, Adam, come tae see you, my bonnie man."

"God bless you and give you his peace!" said Mr. Porteous, in a low
voice, drawing near the bed as Katie retired from it.

The Sergeant opened his eyes, and slowly turned his head, breathing
hard, and gazing with a vacant stare at his pastor.

"Do you know me, Adam?" asked the minister.

The Sergeant gave the military salute and replied, "We are all ready,
Captain!  Lead! we follow! and, please God, to victory!"

He was evidently in the "current of the heady fight", and in his
delirious dreams fancied that he was once more one of a forlorn hope
about to advance to the horrors of the breach of a beleaguered city, or
to mount the ladder to scale its walls.  Closing his eyes and clasping
his hands, he added with a solemn voice, "And now, my God, enable me to
do my duty!  I put my trust in Thee!  If I die, remember my mother.
Amen.  Advance, men!  Up!  Steady!"

The minister did not move or speak for a few seconds, and then said, "It
is peace, my friend, not war.  It is your own minister who is speaking
to you."

Suddenly the Sergeant started and looked upward with an open, excited
eye, as if he saw something. A smile played over his features.  Then in
a tone of voice tremulous with emotion, and with his arms stretched
upwards as if towards some object, he said, "My boy--my darling!  You
there!  Oh, yes, I’m coming to you.  Quick, comrades!  Up!"  A moment’s
silence, and then if possible a steadier gaze, with a look of rapture.
"Oh, my wee Charlie!  I hear ye!  Is the starling leevin’?  Ay, ay--that
it is!  I didna kill’t!  Hoo could ye think that?  It was dear to you,
my pet, an’----"  Then covering his face with his hands he said, "Oh!
whatna licht is that? I canna thole’t, it’s sae bricht!  It’s like the
Son o’ Man!"

He fell back exhausted into what seemed an almost unconscious state.

"He’s gane--he’s gane!" exclaimed Katie.

"He’s no’ gane! gie him the brandy!" said Jock, as he slipped rapidly
into the room from the kitchen; for Jock was too anxious to be far away.
In an instant he had measured out the prescribed quantity of brandy and
milk in a spoon, and, lifting the Sergeant’s head, he said, "Tak’ it,
and drink the king’s health.  The day is oors!"  The Sergeant obeyed as
if he was a child; and then whispering to Katie, Jock said, "The Doctor
telt ye, wumman, to keep him quaet; tak’ care what ye’re aboot!" and
then he slipped again out of the room.

The Sergeant returned to his old state of quiet repose.

Mr. Porteous stood beside the bed in silence, which was broken by his
seizing the fevered hand of the Sergeant, saying fervently, "God bless
and preserve you, dear friend!"  Then turning to Mrs. Mercer, he
motioned her to accompany him to the kitchen.  But for a few seconds he
gazed out of the window blowing his nose.  At length, turning round and
addressing her, he said, "Be assured that I feel deeply for you. Do not
distrust me.  Let me only add that if Mary _must_ be taken out of the
house for a time to escape infection, as I am disposed to think she
should be, I will take her to the Manse, if I cannot find another place
for her as good as this--which would be difficult."

"Oh, Mr. Porteous!  I maun thank ye for----"

"Not a word, not a word of thanks, Mrs. Mercer," interrupted the
minister; "it is my duty.  But rely on my friendship for you and yours.
The Lord has smitten, and it is for us to bear;" and shaking her hand
cordially, he left the house.

"God’s ways are not our ways," said Katie to herself, "and He kens hoo
to mak’ a way o’ escape out o’ every trial."

Love ceased to knock for an entrance into the minister’s heart; for the
door was open and love had entered, bringing in its own light and peace.




                              CHAPTER XXIX

                    THE MINISTER PURE AND PEACEABLE


As the minister walked along the street, with the old umbrella, his
inseparable companion in all kinds of weather, wet or dry, under his
arm, and with his head rather bent as if in thought, he was met by Mrs.
Craigie, who suddenly darted out--for she had been watching his
coming--from the "close" in which she lived, and curtsied humbly before
him.

"Beg pardon, sir," she said, "it’s a fine day--I houp ye’re weel.  Ye’ll
excuse me, sir."

"What is it? what is it?" asked Mr. Porteous, in rather a sharp tone of
voice, disliking the interruption at such a time from such a person.

"Weel," she said, cracking her fingers as if in a puzzle, "I just thocht
if my dear wee Mary was in ony danger frae the fivver at the Sergeant’s,
I wad be willint--oo ay, real willint--for freendship’s sake, ye ken,
tae tak’ her back tae mysel’."

"Very possibly you would," replied Mr. Porteous, drily; "but my decided
opinion at present is, that in all probability she won’t need your
kindness."

"Thank ye, sir," said the meek Craigie, whose expression need not be
analysed as she looked after Mr. Porteous, passing on with his usual
step to Mr. Smellie’s shop.

No sooner had he entered the "mercantile establishment" of this
distinguished draper, than with a nod he asked its worthy master to
follow him up to the sanctum.  The boy was charged to let no one
interrupt them.

When both were seated in the confidential retreat,--the scene of many a
small parish plot and plan,--Mr. Porteous said, "I have just come from
visiting our friend, Adam Mercer."

"Indeed!" replied Smellie, as he looked rather anxious and drew his
chair away.  "I’m tellt the fever is maist dangerous and deadly."

"Are _you_ afraid?  An elder?  Mr. Smellie!"

"Me!  I’m not frightened," replied the elder, drawing his chair back to
its former position near the minister.  "I wasn’t thinking what I was
doing. How did ye find the worthy man? for worthy he is, in spite o’ his
great fauts--in fact, I might say, his sins."

"I need not, Mr. Smellie," said Mr. Porteous, "now tell you all I heard
and witnessed, but I may say in general that I was touched--very much
touched by the sight of that home of deep sorrow. Poor people!" and Mr.
Porteous seemed disposed to fall into a reverie.

If there is anything which can touch the heart and draw it forth into
brotherly sympathy towards one who has from any cause been an object of
suspicion or dislike, it is the coming into personal contact with him
when suffering from causes beyond his will. The sense is awakened of the
presence of a higher power dealing with him, and thus averting our arm
if disposed to strike.  Who dare smite one thus in the hands of God?  It
kindles in us a feeling of our own dependence on the same omnipotent
Power, and quickens the consciousness of our own deserts were we dealt
with according to our sins.  There is in all affliction a shadow of the
cross, which must harden or soften--lead us upward or drag us downward.
If it awakens the feeling of pity only in those who in pride stand afar
off, it opens up the life-springs of sympathy in those who from
good-will draw nigh.

Mr. Smellie was so far off from the Sergeant that he had neither pity
nor sympathy: the minister’s better nature had been suddenly but deeply
touched; and he now possessed both.

"I hope," said Smellie, "ye will condescend to adopt my plan of charity
with him.  Ye ken, sir, I aye stand by you.  I recognise you as my
teacher and guide, and it’s not my part to lead, but to follow. Yet if
ye _could_ see--oh, if ye _could_ see your way, in consistency, of
course, with principle--ye understan’, sir?--to restore Adam afore he
dees, I wad be unco prood--I hope I do not offend.  I’m for peace."

And if Adam should recover, Mr. Smellie, thy charity might induce him to
think well of thee.  Is that thy plan?

"The fever," said Mr. Porteous, with a sigh, "is strong.  He is feeble."

"Maybe, then, it might be as well to say nothing about this business
until, in Providence, it is determined whether he lives or dies?"
inquired the elder.

Did he now think that if the Sergeant died he would be freed from all
difficulty, as far as Adam was concerned?  Ah, thou art an unstable
because a double-minded man, Mr. Smellie!

"I have been thinking," Mr. Porteous went on to say, "that, as it is a
principle of mine to meet as far as possible the wishes of my people--as
far as _possible_, observe, that is, in consistency with higher
principles--I am quite willing to meet _your_ wishes, and those of the
Session, should they agree with yours, and to recognise in the
Sergeant’s great affliction the hand of a chastening Providence, and as
such to accept it.  And instead, therefore, of our demanding, as we had
a full right to do in our then imperfect knowledge of the case, any
personal sacrifice on the part of the poor Sergeant--a sacrifice,
moreover, which I now feel would be----But we need not discuss again the
painful question, or open it up; it is so far _res judicata_.  But if
you feel yourself free at our first meeting of Session to move the
withdrawal of the whole case, for the several reasons I have hinted at,
and which I shall more fully explain to the Session, and if our friend
Mr. Menzies is disposed to second your motion, I won’t object."

Mr. Smellie was thankful, for reasons known to the reader, to accept Mr.
Porteous’s suggestion.  He perceived at once how his being the
originator of of such a well-attested and official movement as was
proposed, on behalf of the Sergeant, would be such a testimonial in his
favour as would satisfy John Spence should the Sergeant die; and also
have the same good results with all parties, as far as his own personal
safety was concerned, should the Sergeant live.

With this understanding they parted.

Next day in church Mr. Porteous offered up a very earnest prayer for
"one of our members, and an office-bearer of the congregation, who is in
great distress", adding the petition that his invaluable life might be
spared, and his wife comforted in her great distress.  One might hear a
pin fall while these words were being uttered; and never did the hearts
of the congregation respond with a truer "Amen" to their minister’s
supplications.

At the next meeting of Session, Mr. Smellie brought forward his motion
in most becoming and feeling terms.  Indeed, no man could have appeared
more feeling, more humble, or more charitable. Mr. Menzies seconded the
motion with real good-will. Mr. Porteous then rose and expressed his
regret that duty, principle, and faithfulness to all parties had
compelled him to act as he had hitherto done; but from the interview he
had had with Mrs. Mercer, and the explanations she had given him,--from
the scene of solemn and afflicting chastisement he had witnessed in the
Sergeant’s house, and from his desire always to meet, as far as
possible, the wishes of the Kirk Session, he was disposed to recommend
Mr. Smellie’s motion to their most favourable consideration.  He also
added that his own feelings had been much touched by all he had seen and
heard, and that it would be a gratification to himself to forget and
forgive the past.

Let us not inquire whether Mr. Porteous was consistent with his former
self, but be thankful rather if he was not.  Harmony with the true
implies discord with the false.  Inconsistency with our past self, when
in the wrong, is a condition of progress, and consistency with what is
right can alone secure it.

The motion was received with equal surprise and pleasure by the
minority.  Mr. Gordon, in his own name, and in the name of those who had
hitherto supported him, thanked their Moderator for the kind and
Christian manner in which he had acted.  All protests and appeals to the
Presbytery were withdrawn, and a minute to that effect was prepared with
care by the minister, in which his "principles" were not compromised,
while his "feelings" were cordially expressed.  And so the matter "took
end" by the restoration of Adam to his position as an elder.

No one was happier at the conclusion come to by the Session than the
watchmaker.  He said:--that he took the leeberty o’ just makin’ a remark
to the effect that he thocht they wad a’ be the better o’ what had
happened; for it was his opinion that even the best Kirk coorts, like
the best toon clocks, whiles gaed wrang.  Stoor dried up the ile and
stopped the wheels till they gaed ower slow and dreich, far ahint the
richt time.  An’ sae it was that baith coorts and clocks were therefore
a hantle the better o’ bein’ scoored.  He was quite sure that the
Session wad gang fine and smooth after this repair.  He also thanked the
minister for his motion, without insinuating that he had caused the
dust, but rather giving him credit for having cleared it away, and for
once more oiling the machine.  In this sense the compliment was
evidently understood and accepted by Mr. Porteous.  Even the solemn Mr.
Smellie smiled graciously.




                              CHAPTER XXX

                      "A MAN’S A MAN FOR A’ THAT"


It would only weary the reader to give a narrative of the events which
happened during the period of the Sergeant’s tedious recovery.  Dr.
Scott watched by him many a night, feeling his pulse, and muttering to
himself about the twitching of the muscles of the fingers, as indicating
the state of the brain. Often did he warn Katie, when too hopeful, that
"he was not yet out of the wood", and often encouraged her, when
desponding, by assuring her that he "had seen brokener ships come to
land". And just as the captain steers his ship in a hurricane, adjusting
every rag of sail, and directing her carefully by the wind and compass,
according to the laws of storms, so did the Doctor guide his patient.
What a quantity of snuff he consumed during those long and dreary days!
What whisky toddy----  No! he had not once taken a single tumbler until
the night when bending over the Sergeant he heard the joyful question
put by him, "Is that you, Dr. Scott?  What are you doing here?" and
when, almost kissing Katie, he said, "He is oot o’ the wood at last,
thank God!"

"The Almighty bless you!" replied Katie, as she, too, bent over her
husband and heard him once more in calmness and with love utter her
name, remarking, "This has surely been a lang and sair fecht!"  He then
asked, "Hoo’s wee Mary?  Is the bird leevin’?"  Seeing Jock Hall at his
bedside, he looked at his wife as if questioning whether he was not
still under the influence of a delirious dream. Katie interpreting his
look said, "It was Jock that nursed ye a’ through."  "I’m yer nurse yet,
Sergeant," said Jock, "an’ ye maun haud yer tongue and sleep."  The
Sergeant gazed around him, turned his face away, and shutting his eyes
passed from silent prayer into refreshing sleep.

One evening soon after this, Adam, pale and weak, was seated, propped up
with pillows, in his old armchair near the window in his kitchen.  The
birds and the streams were singing their old songs, and the trees were
in full glory, bending under the rich foliage of July; white fleecy
clouds were sailing across the blue expanse of the sky; the sun in the
west was displaying its glory, ever varying since creation; and all was
calm and peaceful in the heavens above, and, as far as man could see, on
the earth beneath.

Jock Hall was seated beside Adam, looking up with a smile into his face,
and saying little except such expressions of happiness as, "I’m real
prood to see you this length, Sergeant!  Ye’re lookin’ unco’ braw! It’s
the wifie did it, and maybe the Doctor, wi’ that by ordinar’ lassock,
wee Mary;--but keep in your haun’s, or ye’ll get cauld and be as bad as
ever."  Jock never alluded to the noble part he himself had taken in the
battle between life and death.

Katie was knitting on the other side of her husband. Why interpret her
quiet thoughts of deepest peace? Little Mary sat on her chair by the
fire.

This was the first day in which Adam, weak and tottering, had been
brought, by the Doctor’s advice, out of the sick room.

Mr. Porteous unexpectedly rapped at the door, and, on being admitted,
gazed with a kindly expression on the group before him.  Approaching
them he shook hands with each, not omitting even Jock Hall, and then sat
down.  After saying a few suitable words of comfort and of thanksgiving,
he remarked, pointing to Jock, that "he was snatched as a brand from the
burning".  Jock, as he bent down, and counted his fingers, replied that
the minister "wasna maybe far wrang.  It was him that did it"; but
added, as he pointed his thumb over his shoulder, "an’ though he wasna
frichted for the lowe, I’m thinkin’ he maybe got his fingers burned
takin’ me oot o’t."

"Eh, Mr. Porteous," said Katie, "ye dinna ken what the puir fallow has
been tae us a’ in our affliction!  As lang as I leeve I’ll never
forget----"

"Assure’s I’m leevin’," interrupted Jock, "I’ll rin oot the hoose if ye
gang on that way.  It’s really makin’ a fule o’ a bodie."  And Jock
seemed thoroughly annoyed.

Katie only smiled, and looking at him said, "Ye’re a guid, kind cratur,
Jock."

"Amen," said Adam.

After a minute of silence, Mr. Porteous cleared his throat and said, "I
am glad to tell you, Mr. Mercer, that the Session have unanimously
restored you to the office of elder."

The Sergeant started, and looked puzzled and pained, as if remembering
"a dream within a dream".

"Unanimously and heartily," continued Mr. Porteous; "and when you are
better, we shall talk over this business as friends, though it need
never be mentioned more.  Hitherto, in your weakness, I requested those
who could have communicated the news to you not to do so, in case it
might agitate you: besides, I wished to have the pleasure of telling it
to you myself.  I shall say no more, except that I give you full credit
for acting up to your light, or, let me say, according to the feelings
of your kind heart, which I respect.  Let me give you the right hand of
fellowship."

A few quiet drops trickled down Adam’s pale cheek, as in silence he
stretched out his feeble and trembling hand, accepting that of his
minister.  The minister grasped it cordially, and then gazed up to the
roof, his shaggy eyebrows working up and down as if they were pumping
tears out of his eyes, and sending them back again to his heart.  Katie
sat with covered face, not in sorrow as of yore, but in gratitude too
deep for words.

"Will ye tak’ a snuff, sir?" said Jock Hall, as with flushed face he
offered his tin box to the minister. "When I fish the Eastwater, I’ll
sen’ ye as bonnie a basketfu’ as ever ye seed, for yer kindness to the
Sergeant; and ye needna wunner muckle if ye see me in the kirk wi’ him
sune."

The starling, for some unaccountable reason, was hopping from spar to
spar of his cage, as if leaping for a wager.

Mary, attracted by the bird, and supposing him to be hungry, mounted a
chair, and noiselessly opened the door of the cage.  But in her
eagerness and suppressed excitement she forgot the food.  As she
descended for it, the starling found the door open, and stood at it for
a moment bowing to the company.  He then flew out, and, lighting on the
shoulder of the Sergeant, looked round the happy group, fluttered his
feathers, gazed on the minister steadily, and uttered in his clearest
tones, "I’m Charlie’s bairn--’A man’s a man for a’ that!’"

                     *      *      *      *      *

Perhaps some of the readers of this village story, in their summer
holidays, may have fished the streams flowing through the wide domain of
Castle Bennock, under the guidance of the sedate yet original
underkeeper, John Hall; and may have "put up" at the neat and
comfortable country inn, the "Bennock Arms", kept by John Spence and his
comely wife Mary Semple--the one working the farm, and the other
managing the house and her numerous and happy family.  If so, they
cannot fail to have noticed the glass case in the parlour, enclosing a
stuffed Starling, with this inscription under it--

                         "I’M CHARLIE’S BAIRN".




           *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *




                               Blackie’s
                        Library of Famous Books
                           for Boys and Girls


R. M. BALLANTYNE--
       The Young Fur Traders.
       The Coral Island.
       Martin Rattler.
       Ungava.
       The Dog Crusoe.
       The World of Ice.
       The Gorilla Hunters.
       Deep Down.
       The Lighthouse.
       Erling the Bold.
       The Lifeboat.
       Gascoyne, the Sandalwood Trader.

W. H. G. KINGSTON--
       Mark Seaworth.
       Peter the Whaler.
       The Three Midshipmen.
       Manco, the Peruvian Chief.

J. FENIMORE COOPER--
       The Pathfinder.
       Deerslayer.
       The Last of the Mohicans.

CAPTAIN MARRYAT--
       Masterman Ready.
       Poor Jack.
       The Children of the New Forest.
       The Settlers in Canada.

LOUISA M. ALCOTT--
       A Garland for Girls.
       Little Women.
       Good Wives.

HANS ANDERSEN--
       Favourite Fairy Tales.
       Popular Fairy Tales.

CAROLINE AUSTIN--
       Marie’s Home.

S. BARING-GOULD--
       Grettir the Outlaw.

JOHN BUNYAN--
       The Pilgrim’s Progress.

HON. JOHN BYRON--
       The Wreck of the "Wager".

SUSAN COOLIDGE--
       What Katy Did.
       What Katy Did at School.
       What Katy Did Next.

MISS CUMMINS--
       The Lamplighter.

R. H. DANA--
       Two Years before the Mast.

G. W. DASENT--
       Tales from the Norse.

DANIEL DEFOE--
       Robinson Crusoe.

G. MANVILLE FENN--
       Nat the Naturalist.

EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN--
       Little Lady Clare.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH--
       The Vicar of Wakefield.

THE BROTHERS GRIMM--
       Grimm’s Fairy Tales.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE--
       Tanglewood Tales.

G. A. HENTY--
       A Chapter of Adventures.
       Tales from Henty.

THOMAS HUGHES--
       Tom Brown’s School Days.

RICHARD JOHNSON--
       The Seven Champions of Christendom.

CHARLES KINGSLEY--
       The Heroes.
       The Water-Babies.
       Hereward the Wake.

CHARLES and MARY LAMB--
       Tales from Shakspeare.

EMMA LESLIE--
       Gytha’s Message.

GEORGE MAC DONALD--
       The Light Princess.

NORMAN MACLEOD--
       The Starling.

BESSIE MARCHANT--
       Greta’s Domain.

HARRIET MARTINEAU--
       Feats on the Fiord.

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD--
       Our Village.

ROSA MULHOLLAND--
       Hetty Gray.
       Four Little Mischiefs.

CAPTAIN MAYNE REID--
       The Rifle Rangers.

MARY C. ROWSELL--
       Thorndyke Manor.

CHRISTOPH VON SCHMID--
       The Basket of Flowers.

MICHAEL SCOTT--
       The Cruise of the "Midge".

SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART.--
       From Tales of a Grandfather.

CATHERINE SINCLAIR--
       Holiday House.

R. STEAD--
       The Lads of Little Clayton.

R. L. STEVENSON--
       Treasure Island.
       Kidnapped.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE--
       Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

DEAN SWIFT--
       Gulliver’s Travels.

SARAH TYTLER--
       Girl Neighbours.
       A Loyal Little Maid.

JULES VERNE--
       A Journey to the Centre of the Earth.

LEW WALLACE--
       Ben Hur.

MRS. WHITNEY--
       Faith Gartney’s Girlhood.

M. WYSS--
       The Swiss Family Robinson.

CHARLOTTE M. YONGE--
       The Lances of Lynwood.
       A Book of Golden Deeds.
       The Little Duke.