"Mark the local colour, the wool and the dirty water of the Dee--without
doubt a name applied to one of their bigger ditches down there. Mark
also the over-fervency of the touching line,

     "'And loudly mourned their woolly dams,'

"Which, but for the sex of the writer and her evident genius, might be
taken for an expression of a strength hardly permissible even in the
metropolis."

The junior reporter filled his two columns and enjoyed himself in the
doing of it. He concluded with the words: "The authoress will make a
great success. If she will come to the capital, where genius is always
appreciated, she will, without doubt, make her fortune. Nay, if Miss
Bal--but again we cannot proceed for the want of an interpreter--if Miss
B., we say, will only accept a position at Cleary's Waxworks and give
readings from her poetry, or exhibit herself in the act of pronouncing
her own name, she will be a greater draw in this city than Punch and
Judy, or even the latest American advertising evangelist, who preaches
standing on his head."

The junior reporter ceased here from very admiration at his own
cleverness in so exactly hitting the tone of the masters of his craft,
and handed his manuscript in to the editor.

It was the gloaming of a long June day when Rob Affleck, the woodman
over at Barbrax, having been at New Dalry with a cart of wood, left his
horse on the roadside and ran over through Gavin's old short cut, now
seldom used, to Janet's cottage with a paper in a yellow wrapper.

"Leave it on the step, and thank you kindly, Rob," said a weak voice
within; and Rob, anxious about his horse and his bed, did so without
another word. In a moment or two Janet crawled to the door, listened
to make sure that Rob was really gone, opened the door, and protruded a
hand wasted to the hard, flat bone--an arm that ought for years to have
been full of flesh and noble curves.

When Janet got back to bed it was too dark to see anything except the
big printing at the top of the paper.

"Two columns of it!" said Janet, with great thankfulness in her heart,
lifting up her soul to God who had given her the power to sing. She
strained her prematurely old and weary eyes to make out the sense. "A
genuine source of pride to every native of the ancient province," she
read.

"The Lord be praised!" said Janet, in a rapture of devout thankfulness;
"though I never really doubted it," she added, as though asking pardon
for a moment's distrust. "But I tried to write these poems to the glory
of God and not to my own praise, and He will accept them and keep me
humble under the praise of men as well as under their neglect."

So clutching the precious paper close to her breast, and letting tears
of thankfulness fall on the article, which, had they fallen on the
head of the junior reporter, would have burned like fire, she patiently
awaited the coming dawn.

"I can wait till the morning now to read the rest," she said.

So hour after hour, with her eyes wide, staring hard at the gray
window-squares, she waited the dawn from the east. About half-past two
there was a stirring and a moaning among the pines, and the roar of the
sudden gust came with the breaking day through the dark arches. In the
whirlwind there came a strange expectancy and tremor into the heart of
the poetess, and she pressed the wet sheet of crumpled paper closer to
her bosom, and turned to face the light. Through the spaces of the Long
Wood of Barbrax there came a shining visitor, the Angel of the Presence,
he who comes but once and stands a moment with a beckoning finger. Him
she followed up through the wood.


They found Janet on the morning of the second day after, with a look
so glad on her face, and so natural an expectation in the unclosed eye,
that Rob Affleck spoke to her and expected an answer. The "Night Hawk"
was clasped to her breast with a hand that they could not loosen. It
went to the grave with her body. The ink had run a little here and
there, where the tears had fallen thickest.

God is more merciful than man.




A DOCTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL, By Ian Maclaren

[See also the illustrated html version: #9320]

I A GENERAL PRACTITIONER

Drumtochty was accustomed to break every law of health, except wholesome
food and fresh air, and yet had reduced the psalmist's furthest limit
to an average life-rate. Our men made no difference in their clothes
for summer or winter, Drumsheugh and one or two of the larger farmers
condescending to a top-coat on Sabbath, as a penalty of their position,
and without regard to temperature. They wore their blacks at a funeral,
refusing to cover them with anything, out of respect to the deceased,
and standing longest in the kirkyard when the north wind was blowing
across a hundred miles of snow. If the rain was pouring at the junction,
then Drumtochty stood two minutes longer through sheer native dourness
till each man had a cascade from the tail of his coat, and hazarded the
suggestion, half-way to Kildrummie, that it had been "a bit scrowie,"
and "scrowie" being as far short of a "shoor" as a "shoor" fell below
"weet."

This sustained defiance of the elements provoked occasional judgments
in the shape of a "hoast" (cough), and the head of the house was then
exhorted by his women folk to "change his feet" if he had happened to
walk through a burn on his way home, and was pestered generally with
sanitary precautions. It is right to add that the gudeman treated such
advice with contempt, regarding it as suitable for the effeminacy of
towns, but not seriously intended for Drumtochty. Sandy Stewart "napped"
stones on the road in his shirt-sleeves, wet or fair, summer and winter,
till he was persuaded to retire from active duty at eighty-five, and
he spent ten years more in regretting his hastiness and criticising
his successor. The ordinary course of life, with fine air and contented
minds, was to do a full share of work till seventy, and then to look
after "orra" jobs well into the eighties, and to "slip awa'" within
sight of ninety. Persons above ninety were understood to be acquitting
themselves with credit, and assumed airs of authority, brushing aside
the opinions of seventy as immature, and confirming their conclusions
with illustrations drawn from the end of last century.

When Hillocks's brother so far forgot himself as to "slip awa'"
at sixty, that worthy man was scandalised, and offered laboured
explanations at the "beerial."

"It's an awfu' business ony wy ye look at it, an' a sair trial tae us
a'. A' never heard tell of sic a thing in oor family afore, an' it 's no
easy accoontin' for 't.

"The gudewife was sayin' he wes never the same sin' a weet nicht he lost
himsel' on the muir and slept below a bush; but that's neither here nor
there. A' 'm thinkin' he sappit his constitution thae twa years he wes
grieve aboot England. That wes thirty years syne, but ye're never the
same after thae foreign climates."

Drumtochty listened patiently to Hillocks's apologia, but was not
satisfied.

"It's clean havers aboot the muir. Losh keep's, we've a' sleepit oot and
never been a hair the waur.

"A' admit that England micht hae dune the job; it's no canny stravagin'
yon wy frae place tae place, but Drums never complained tae me as if he
hed been nippit in the Sooth."

The parish had, in fact, lost confidence in Drums after his wayward
experiment with a potato-digging machine, which turned out a lamentable
failure, and his premature departure confirmed our vague impression of
his character.

"He's awa' noo," Drumsheugh summed up, after opinion had time to form;
"an' there were waur fouk than Drums, but there's nae doot he wes a wee
flichty."

When illness had the audacity to attack a Drumtochty man, it was
described as a "whup," and was treated by the men with a fine
negligence. Hillocks was sitting in the post-office one afternoon when
I looked in for my letters, and the right side of his face was blazing
red. His subject of discourse was the prospects of the turnip "breer,"
but he casually explained that he was waiting for medical advice.

"The gudewife is keepin' up a ding-dong frae mornin' till nicht aboot
ma face, and a' 'm fair deaved (deafened), so a' 'm watchin' for MacLure
tae get a bottle as he comes wast; yon's him noo."

The doctor made his diagnosis from horseback on sight, and stated the
result with that admirable clearness which endeared him to Drumtochty:

"Confound ye, Hillocks, what are ye ploiterin' aboot here for in the
weet wi' a face like a boiled beer? Div ye no ken that ye've a tetch
o' the rose (erysipelas), and ocht tae be in the hoose? Gae hame wi'
ye afore a' leave the bit, and send a halflin' for some medicine. Ye
donnerd idiot, are ye ettlin tae follow Drums afore yir time?" And the
medical attendant of Drumtochty continued his invective till Hillocks
started, and still pursued his retreating figure with medical directions
of a simple and practical character:

"A' 'm watchin', an' peety ye if ye pit aff time. Keep yir bed the
mornin', and dinna show yir face in the fields till a' see ye. A'll gie
ye a cry on Monday,--sic an auld fule,--but there's no ane o' them tae
mind anither in the hale pairish."

Hillocks's wife informed the kirkyard that the doctor "gied the gudeman
an awful' clearin'," and that Hillocks "wes keepin' the hoose," which
meant that the patient had tea breakfast, and at that time was wandering
about the farm buildings in an easy undress, with his head in a plaid.

It was impossible for a doctor to earn even the most modest competence
from a people of such scandalous health, and so MacLure had annexed
neighbouring parishes. His house--little more than a cottage--stood on
the roadside among the pines toward the head of our Glen, and from this
base of operations he dominated the wild glen that broke the wall of the
Grampians above Drumtochty--where the snow-drifts were twelve feet deep
in winter, and the only way of passage at times was the channel of the
river--and the moorland district westward till he came to the Dunleith
sphere of influence, where there were four doctors and a hydropathic.
Drumtochty in its length, which was eight miles, and its breadth, which
was four, lay in his hand; besides a glen behind, unknown to the world,
which in the night-time he visited at the risk of life, for the way
thereto was across the big moor with its peat-holes and treacherous
bogs. And he held the land eastward toward Muirtown so far as Geordie.
The Drumtochty post travelled every day, and could carry word that the
doctor was wanted. He did his best for the need of every man, woman, and
child in this wild, straggling district, year in, year out, in the snow
and in the heat, in the dark and in the light, without rest, and without
holiday for forty years.

One horse could not do the work of this man, but we liked best to see
him on his old white mare, who died the week after her master, and
the passing of the two did our hearts good. It was not that he rode
beautifully, for he broke every canon of art, flying with his arms,
stooping till he seemed to be speaking into Jess's ears, and rising in
the saddle beyond all necessity. But he could ride faster, stay longer
in the saddle, and had a firmer grip with his knees than any one I ever
met, and it was all for mercy's sake. When the reapers in harvest-time
saw a figure whirling past in a cloud of dust, or the family at the foot
of Glen Urtach, gathered round the fire on a winter's night, heard the
rattle of a horse's hoofs on the road, or the shepherds, out after the
sheep, traced a black speck moving across the snow to the upper glen,
they knew it was the doctor, and, without being conscious of it, wished
him God-speed.

Before and behind his saddle were strapped the instruments and medicines
the doctor might want, for he never knew what was before him. There were
no specialists in Drumtochty, so this man had to do everything as best
he could, and as quickly. He was chest doctor, and doctor for every
other organ as well; he was accoucheur and surgeon; he was oculist and
aurist; he was dentist and chloroformist, besides being chemist and
druggist. It was often told how he was far up Glen Urtach when the
feeders of the threshing-mill caught young Burnbrae, and how he only
stopped to change horses at his house, and galloped all the way to
Burnbrae, and flung himself off his horse, and amputated the arm, and
saved the lad's life.

"You wud hae thocht that every meenut was an hour," said Jamie Soutar,
who had been at the threshing, "an' a' 'll never forget the puir lad
lyin' as white as deith on the floor o' the loft, wi' his head on a
sheaf, and Burnbrae haudin' the bandage ticht an' prayin' a' the while,
and the mither greetin' in the corner.

"'Will he never come?' she cries, an' a' heard the soond o' the horse's
feet on the road a mile awa' in the frosty air.

"'The Lord be praised!' said Burnbrae, and a' slipped doon the ladder
as the doctor came skelpin' intae the close, the foam fleein' frae his
horse's mooth.

"'Whar is he?' wes a' that passed his lips, an' in five meenuts he hed
him on the feedin' board, and wes at his wark--sic wark, neeburs! but he
did it weel. An' ae thing a' thocht rael thochtfu' o' him: he first sent
aff the laddie's mither tae get a bed ready.

"'Noo that's feenished, and his constitution 'ill dae the rest,' and he
carried the lad doon the ladder in his airms like a bairn, and laid him
in his bed, and waits aside him till he wes sleepin', and then says he,
'Burnbrae, yir a gey lad never tae say, "Collie, will ye lick?" for a'
hevna tasted meat for saxteen hoors.'

"It was michty tae see him come intae the yaird that day, neeburs; the
verra look o' him wes victory."

Jamie's cynicism slipped off in the enthusiasm of this reminiscence, and
he expressed the feeling of Drumtochty. No one sent for MacLure save in
great straits, and the sight of him put courage in sinking hearts. But
this was not by the grace of his appearance, or the advantage of a good
bedside manner. A tall, gaunt, loosely made man, without an ounce of
superfluous flesh on his body, his face burned a dark brick colour
by constant exposure to the weather, red hair and beard turning gray,
honest blue eyes that look you ever in the face, huge hands with
wrist-bones like the shank of a ham, and a voice that hurled his
salutations across two fields, he suggested the moor rather than the
drawing-room. But what a clever hand it was in an operation--as delicate
as a woman's! and what a kindly voice it was in the humble room where
the shepherd's wife was weeping by her man's bedside! He was "ill pitten
thegither" to begin with, but many of his physical defects were the
penalties of his work, and endeared him to the Glen. That ugly scar,
that cut into his right eyebrow and gave him such a sinister expression,
was got one night Jess slipped on the ice and laid him insensible eight
miles from home. His limp marked the big snowstorm in the fifties, when
his horse missed the road in Glen Urtach, and they rolled together in a
drift. MacLure escaped with a broken leg and the fracture of three ribs,
but he never walked like other men again. He could not swing himself
into the saddle without making two attempts and holding Jess's mane.
Neither can you "warstle" through the peat-bogs and snow-drifts for
forty winters without a touch of rheumatism. But they were honourable
scars, and for such risks of life men get the Victoria Cross in other
fields. MacLure got nothing but the secret affection of the Glen, which
knew that none had ever done one tenth as much for it as this ungainly,
twisted, battered figure, and I have seen a Drumtochty face soften at
the sight of MacLure limping to his horse.

Mr. Hopps earned the ill-will of the Glen for ever by criticising
the doctor's dress, but indeed it would have filled any townsman with
amazement. Black he wore once a year, on sacrament Sunday, and, if
possible, at a funeral; top-coat or water-proof never. His jacket and
waistcoat were rough homespun of Glen Urtach wool, which threw off
the wet like a duck's back, and below he was clad in shepherd's tartan
trousers, which disappeared into unpolished riding-boots. His shirt was
gray flannel, and he was uncertain about a collar, but certain as to a
tie,--which he never had, his beard doing instead,--and his hat was
soft felt of four colours and seven different shapes. His point of
distinction in dress was the trousers, and they were the subject of
unending speculation.

"Some threep that he's worn thae eedentical pair the last twenty year,
an' a mind masel' him getting' a tear ahint, when he was crossin' oor
palin', an the mend's still veesible.

"Ithers declare 'at he's got a wab o' claith, and hes a new pair made in
Muirtown aince in the twa year maybe, and keeps them in the garden till
the new look wears aff.

"For ma ain pairt," Soutar used to declare, "a' canna mak' up my mind,
but there's ae thing sure: the Glen wudna like tae see him withoot them;
it wud be a shock tae confidence. There's no muckle o' the check left,
but ye can aye tell it, and when ye see thae breeks comin' in ye ken
that if human pooer can save yir bairn's life it 'ill be dune."

The confidence of the Glen--and the tributary states--was unbounded, and
rested partly on long experience of the doctor's resources, and partly
on his hereditary connection.

"His father was here afore him," Mrs. Macfadyen used to explain; "atween
them they've hed the country-side for weel on tae a century; if MacLure
disna understand oor constitution, wha dis, a' wud like tae ask?"

For Drumtochty had its own constitution and a special throat disease, as
became a parish which was quite self-contained between the woods and the
hills, and not dependent on the lowlands either for its diseases or its
doctors.

"He's a skilly man, Dr. MacLure," continued my friend Mrs. Macfadyen,
whose judgment on sermons or anything else was seldom at fault; "an'
a kind-hearted, though o' coorse he hes his faults like us a', an' he
disna tribble the kirk often.

"He aye can tell what's wrong wi' a body, an' maistly he can put ye
richt, and there's nae new-fangled wys wi' him; a blister for the
ootside an' Epsom salts for the inside dis his wark, an' they say
there's no an herb on the hills he disna ken.

"If we're tae dee, we're tae dee; an' if we're tae live, we're tae
live," concluded Elspeth, with sound Calvinistic logic; "but a' 'll say
this for the doctor, that, whether yir tae live or dee, he can aye keep
up a sharp meisture on the skin.

"But he's no verra ceevil gin ye bring him when there's naethin' wrang,"
and Mrs. Macfadyen's face reflected another of Mr. Hopps's misadventures
of which Hillocks held the copyright.

"Hopps's laddie ate grosarts (gooseberries) till they hed to sit up a'
nicht wi' him, an' naethin' wud do but they maum hae the doctor, an' he
writes 'immediately' on a slip o' paper.

"Weel, MacLure had been awa' a' nicht wi' a shepherd's wife Dunleith wy,
and he comes here withoot drawin' bridle, mud up tae the een.

"'What's adae here, Hillocks?' he cries; 'it's no an accident, is 't?'
and when he got aff his horse he cud hardly stand wi' stiffness and
tire.

"'It's nane o' us, doctor; it's Hopps's laddie; he's been eatin'
ower-mony berries.'

"If he didna turn on me like a tiger!

"'Div ye mean tae say--'

"'Weesht, weesht,' an' I tried tae quiet him, for Hopps wes coomin'
oot.

"'Well, doctor,' begins he, as brisk as a magpie, 'you're here at last;
there's no hurry with you Scotchmen. My boy has been sick all night, and
I've never had a wink of sleep. You might have come a little quicker,
that's all I've got to say.'

"'We've mair tae dae in Drumtochty than attend tae every bairn that hes
a sair stomach,' and a' saw MacLure was roosed.

"'I'm astonished to hear you speak. Our doctor at home always says to
Mrs. 'Opps, "Look on me as a family friend, Mrs. 'Opps, and send for me
though it be only a headache."'

"'He'd be mair spairin' o' his offers if he hed four and twenty mile
tae look aifter. There's naethin' wrang wi' yir laddie but greed. Gie
him a gud dose o' castor-oil and stop his meat for a day, an' he 'ill be
a'richt the morn.'

"'He 'ill not take castor-oil, doctor. We have given up those barbarous
medicines.'

"'Whatna kind o' medicines hae ye noo in the Sooth?'

"'Well, you see Dr. MacLure, we're homoeopathists, and I've my little
chest here,' and oot Hopps comes wi' his boxy.

"'Let's see 't,' an' MacLure sits doon and tak's oot the bit bottles,
and he reads the names wi' a lauch every time.

"'Belladonna; did ye ever hear the like? Aconite; it cowes a'. Nux
vomica. What next? Weel, ma mannie,' he says tae Hopps, 'it's a fine
ploy, and ye 'ill better gang on wi' the nux till it's dune, and gie him
ony ither o' the sweeties he fancies.

"'Noo, Hillocks, a' maun be aff tae see Drumsheugh's grieve, for he's
doon wi' the fever, and it's tae be a teuch fecht. A' hinna time tae
wait for dinner; gie me some cheese an' cake in ma haund, and Jess 'ill
take a pail o' meal an' water.

"'Fee? A' 'm no wantin' yir fees, man; wi' that boxy ye dinna need a
doctor; na, na, gie yir siller tae some puir body, Maister Hopps,' an'
he was doon the road as hard as he cud lick."

His fees were pretty much what the folk chose to give him, and he
collected them once a year at Kildrummie fair.

"Weel, doctor, what am a' awin' ye for the wife and bairn? Ye 'ill need
three notes for that nicht ye stayed in the hoose an' a' the vessits."

"Havers," MacLure would answer, "prices are low, a' 'm hearin'; gie 's
thirty shillin's."

"No, a' 'll no, or the wife 'ill tak' ma ears aff," and it was settled
for two pounds.

Lord Kilspindie gave him a free house and fields, and one way or other,
Drumsheugh told me the doctor might get in about one hundred and fifty
pounds a year, out of which he had to pay his old housekeeper's wages
and a boy's, and keep two horses, besides the cost of instruments and
books, which he bought through a friend in Edinburgh with much judgment.

There was only one man who ever complained of the doctor's charges, and
that was the new farmer of Milton, who was so good that he was above
both churches, and held a meeting in his barn. (It was Milton the Glen
supposed at first to be a Mormon, but I can't go into that now.) He
offered MacLure a pound less than he asked, and two tracts, whereupon
MacLure expressed his opinion of Milton, both from a theological and
social standpoint, with such vigour and frankness that an attentive
audience of Drumtochty men could hardly contain themselves.

Jamie Soutar was selling his pig at the time, and missed the meeting,
but he hastened to condole with Milton, who was complaining everywhere
of the doctor's language.

"Ye did richt tae resist him; it 'ill maybe roose the Glen tae mak' a
stand; he fair hands them in bondage.

"Thirty shillin's for twal' vessits, and him no mair than seeven mile
awa', an' a' 'm telt there werena mair than four at nicht.

"Ye 'ill hae the sympathy o' the Glen, for a'body kens yir as free wi'
yir siller as yir tracts.

"Wes 't 'Beware o' Gude Warks' ye offered him? Man, ye chose it weel,
for he's been colleckin' sae mony thae forty years, a' 'm feared for
him.

"A' 've often thocht oor doctor's little better than the Gude Samaritan,
an' the Pharisees didna think muckle o' his chance aither in this warld
or that which is tae come."


II THROUGH THE FLOOD

Dr. MacLure did not lead a solemn procession from the sick-bed to the
dining-room, and give his opinion from the hearth-rug with an air of
wisdom bordering on the supernatural, because neither the Drumtochty
houses nor his manners were on that large scale. He was accustomed to
deliver himself in the yard, and to conclude his directions with one
foot in the stirrup; but when he left the room where the life of Annie
Mitchell was ebbing slowly away, our doctor said not one word, and at
the sight of his face her husband's heart was troubled.

He was a dull man, Tammas, who could not read the meaning of a sign, and
laboured under a perpetual disability of speech; but love was eyes to
him that day, and a mouth.

"Is 't as bad as yir lookin', doctor? Tell 's the truth. Wull Annie no
come through?" and Tammas looked MacLure straight in the face, who never
flinched his duty or said smooth things.

"A' wud gie onythin' tae say Annie has a chance, but a' daurna; a' doot
yir gaein' to lose her, Tammas."

MacLure was in the saddle, and, as he gave his judgment, he laid his
hand on Tammas's shoulder with one of the rare caresses that pass
between men.

"It's a sair business, but ye 'ill play the man and no vex Annie; she
'ill dae her best, a' 'll warrant."

"And a' 'll dae mine," and Tammas gave MacLure's hand a grip that would
have crushed the bones of a weakling. Drumtochty felt in such moments
the brotherliness of this rough-looking man, and loved him.

Tammas hid his face in Jess's mane, who looked round with sorrow in
her beautiful eyes, for she had seen many tragedies; and in this silent
sympathy the stricken man drank his cup, drop by drop.

"A' wesna prepared for this, for a' aye thocht she wud live the langest.
. . . She's younger than me by ten year, and never was ill. . . . We've
been mairit twal' year last Martinmas, but it's juist like a year the
day. . . . A' wes never worthy o' her, the bonniest, snoddest (neatest),
kindliest lass in the Glen. . . . A' never cud mak' oot hoo she
ever lookit at me, 'at hesna hed ae word tae say about her till it's
ower-late. . . . She didna cuist up to me that a' wesna worthy o'
her--no her; but aye she said, 'Yir ma ain gudeman, and nane cud be
kinder tae me.' . . . An' a' wes minded tae be kind, but a' see noo mony
little trokes a' micht hae dune for her, and noo the time is by. . . .
Naebody kens hoo patient she wes wi' me, and aye made the best o' me,
an' never pit me tae shame afore the fouk. . . . An' we never hed
ae cross word, no ane in twal' year. . . . We were mair nor man and
wife--we were sweethearts a' the time. . . . Oh, ma bonnie lass, what
'ill the bairnies an' me dae without ye, Annie?"

The winter night was falling fast, the snow lay deep upon the ground,
and the merciless north wind moaned through the close as Tammas wrestled
with his sorrow dry-eyed, for tears were denied Drumtochty men. Neither
the doctor nor Jess moved hand or foot, but their hearts were with their
fellow-creature, and at length the doctor made a sign to Marget Howe,
who had come out in search of Tammas, and now stood by his side.

"Dinna mourn tae the brakin' o' yir hert, Tammas," she said, "as if
Annie an' you hed never luved. Neither death nor time can pairt them
that luve; there's naethin' in a' the warld sae strong as luve. If Annie
gaes frae the sicht o' yir een she 'ill come the nearer tae yir hert.
She wants tae see ye, and tae hear ye say that ye 'ill never forget her
nicht nor day till ye meet in the land where there's nae pairtin'. Oh,
a' ken what a' 'm sayin', for it's five year noo sin' George gied awa',
an' he's mair wi me noo than when he was in Edinboro' and I wes in
Drumtochty."

"Thank ye kindly, Marget; thae are gude words an' true, an' ye hev the
richt tae say them; but a' canna dae without seein' Annie comin' tae
meet me in the gloamin', an' gaein' in an' oot the hoose, an' hearin'
her ca' me by ma name; an' a' 'll no can tell her that a' luve her when
there's nae Annie in the hoose.

"Can naethin' be dune, doctor? Ye savit Flora Cammil, and young
Burnbrae, an' yon shepherd's wife Dunleith wy; an' we were a' sae prood
o' ye, an' pleased tae think that ye hed keepit deith frae anither hame.
Can ye no think o' somethin' tae help Annie, and gie her back her man
and bairnies?" and Tammas searched the doctor's face in the cold, weird
light.

"There's nae pooer in heaven or airth like luve," Marget said to me
afterward; "it mak's the weak strong and the dumb tae speak. Oor herts
were as water afore Tammas's words, an' a' saw the doctor shake in his
saddle. A' never kent till that meenut hoo he hed a share in a'body's
grief, an' carried the heaviest wecht o' a' the Glen. A' peetied him wi'
Tammas lookin' at him sae wistfully, as if he hed the keys o' life an'
deith in his hands. But he wes honest, and wudna hold oot a false houp
tae deceive a sore hert or win escape for himsel'."

"Ye needna plead wi' me, Tammas, to dae the best a' can for yir wife.
Man, a' kent her lang afore ye ever luved her; a' brocht her intae the
warld, and a' saw her through the fever when she wes a bit lassikie;
a' closed her mither's een, and it wes me hed tae tell her she wes an
orphan; an' nae man wes better pleased when she got a gude husband, and
a' helpit her wi' her fower bairns. A' 've naither wife nor bairns o'
ma own, an' a' coont a' the fouk o' the Glen ma family. Div ye think a'
wudna save Annie if I cud? If there wes a man in Muirtown 'at cud dae
mair for her, a' 'd have him this verra nicht; but a' the doctors in
Perthshire are helpless for this tribble.

"Tammas, ma puir fallow, if it could avail, a' tell ye a' wud lay doon
this auld worn-oot ruckle o' a body o' mine juist tae see ye baith
sittin' at the fireside, an' the bairns round ye, couthy an' canty
again; but it's nae tae be, Tammas, it's nae tae be."

"When a' lookit at the doctor's face," Marget said, "a' thocht him the
winsomest man a' ever saw. He wes transfigured that nicht, for a' 'm
judgin' there's nae transfiguration like luve."

"It's God's wull an' maun be borne, but it's a sair wull fur me, an' a'
'm no ungratefu' tae you, doctor, for a' ye've dune and what ye said the
nicht," and Tammas went back to sit with Annie for the last time.

Jess picked her way through the deep snow to the main road, with a skill
that came of long experience, and the doctor held converse with her
according to his wont.

"Eh, Jess, wumman, yon wes the hardest wark a' hae tae face, and a' wud
raither hae taen ma chance o' anither row in a Glen Urtach drift than
tell Tammas Mitchell his wife wes deein'.

"A' said she cudna be cured, and it was true, for there's juist ae man
in the land fit for 't, and they micht as weel try tae get the mune oot
o' heaven. Sae a' said naethin' tae vex Tammas's hert, for it's heavy
eneuch withoot regrets.

"But it's hard, Jess, that money will buy life after a', an' if Annie
wes a duchess her man wudna lose her; but bein' only a puir cotter's
wife, she maun dee afore the week 's oot.

"Gin we hed him the morn there's little doot she wud be saved, for he
hesna lost mair than five per cent. o' his cases, and they 'ill be puir
toons-craturs, no strappin' women like Annie.

"It's oot o' the question, Jess, sae hurry up, lass, for we've hed a
heavy day. But it wud be the grandest thing that wes ever done in the
Glen in oor time if it could be managed by hook or crook.

"We'll gang and see Drumsheugh, Jess; he's anither man sin' Geordie
Hoo's deith, and he was aye kinder than fouk kent." And the doctor
passed at a gallop through the village, whose lights shone across the
white frost-bound road.

"Come in by, doctor; a' heard ye on the road; ye 'ill hae been at Tammas
Mitchell's; hoo's the gudewife? A' doot she's sober."

"Annie's deein', Drumsheugh, an' Tammas is like tae brak his hert."

"That's no lichtsome, doctor, no lichtsome, ava, for a' dinna ken ony
man in Drumtochty sae bund up in his wife as Tammas, and there's no
a bonnier wumman o' her age crosses oor kirk door than Annie, nor a
cleverer at her work. Man ye 'ill need tae pit yir brains in steep. Is
she clean beyond ye?"

"Beyond me and every ither in the land but ane, and it wud cost a
hundred guineas tae bring him tae Drumtochty."

"Certes, he's no blate; it's a fell chairge for a short day's work; but
hundred or no hundred we 'ill hae him, and no let Annie gang, and her no
half her years."

"Are ye meanin' it, Drumsheugh?" and MacLure turned white below the tan.

"William MacLure," said Drumsheugh, in one of the few confidences that
ever broke the Drumtochty reserve, "a' 'm a lonely man, wi' naebody o'
ma ain blude tae care for me livin', or tae lift me intae ma coffin when
a' 'm deid.

"A' fecht awa' at Muirtown market for an extra pund on a beast, or a
shillin' on the quarter o' barley, an' what's the gude o' 't? Burnbrae
gaes aff tae get a goon for his wife or a buke for his college laddie,
an' Lachlan Campbell 'ill no leave the place noo without a ribbon for
Flora.

"Ilka man in the Kildrummie train has some bit fairin' in his pooch for
the fouk at hame that he's bocht wi' the siller he won.

"But there's naebody tae be lookin' oot for me, an' comin' doon the road
tae meet me, and daffin' (joking) wi' me aboot their fairin', or feelin'
ma pockets. Ou, ay! A' 've seen it a' at ither hooses, though they tried
tae hide it frae me for fear a' wud lauch at them. Me lauch, wi' ma
cauld, empty hame!

"Yir the only man kens, Weelum, that I aince luved the noblest wumman in
the Glen or onywhere, an' a' luve her still, but wi' anither luve noo.

"She hed given her hert tae anither, or a' 've thocht a' micht hae
won her, though nae man be worthy o' sic a gift. Ma hert turned tae
bitterness, but that passed awa' beside the brier-bush what George Hoo
lay yon sad simmer-time. Some day a' 'll tell ye ma story, Weelum, for
you an' me are auld freends, and will be till we dee."

MacLure felt beneath the table for Drumsheugh's hand, but neither man
looked at the other.

"Weel, a' we can dae noo, Weelum, gin we haena mickle brightness in oor
ain hames, is tae keep the licht frae gaein' oot in anither hoose. Write
the telegram, man, and Sandy 'ill send it aff frae Kildrummie this verra
nicht, and ye 'ill hae yir man the morn."

"Yir the man a' coonted ye, Drumsheugh, but ye 'ill grant me a favour.
Ye 'ill lat me pay the half, bit by bit. A' ken yir wullin' tae dae 't
a'; but a' haena mony pleasures, an' a' wud like tae hae ma ain share in
savin' Annie's life."

Next morning a figure received Sir George on the Kildrummie platform,
whom that famous surgeon took for a gillie, but who introduced himself
as "MacLure of Drumtochty." It seemed as if the East had come to meet
the West when these two stood together, the one in travelling furs,
handsome and distinguished, with his strong, cultured face and carriage
of authority, a characteristic type of his profession; and the other
more marvellously dressed than ever, for Drumsheugh's top-coat had been
forced upon him for the occasion, his face and neck one redness with the
bitter cold, rough and ungainly, yet not without some signs of power in
his eye and voice, the most heroic type of his noble profession. MacLure
compassed the precious arrival with observances till he was securely
seated in Drumsheugh's dog-cart,--a vehicle that lent itself to
history,--with two full-sized plaids added to his equipment--Drumsheugh
and Hillocks had both been requisitioned; and MacLure wrapped another
plaid round a leather case, which was placed below the seat with such
reverence as might be given to the Queen's regalia. Peter attended their
departure full of interest, and as soon as they were in the fir woods
MacLure explained that it would be an eventful journey.

"It's a'richt in here, for the wind disna get at the snow; but the
drifts are deep in the Glen, and th' 'ill be some engineerin' afore we
get tae oor destination."

Four times they left the road and took their way over fields; twice they
forced a passage through a slap in a dyke; thrice they used gaps in the
paling which MacLure had made on his downward journey.

"A' seleckit the road this mornin', an' a' ken the depth tae an inch; we
'ill get through this steadin' here tae the main road, but our worst job
'ill be crossin' the Tochty.

"Ye see, the bridge hes been shakin' wi' this winter's flood, and we
daurna venture on it, sae we hev tae ford, and the snaw's been
meltin' up Urtach way. There's nae doot the water's gey big, and it's
threatenin' tae rise, but we 'ill win through wi' a warstle.

"It micht be safer tae lift the instruments oot o' reach o' the water;
wud ye mind haddin' them on yir knee till we're ower, an' keep firm in
yir seat in case we come on a stane in the bed o' the river."

By this time they had come to the edge, and it was not a cheering sight.
The Tochty had spread out over the meadows, and while they waited they
could see it cover another two inches on the trunk of a tree. There are
summer floods, when the water is brown and flecked with foam, but this
was a winter flood, which is black and sullen, and runs in the centre
with a strong, fierce, silent current. Upon the opposite side Hillocks
stood to give directions by word and hand, as the ford was on his land,
and none knew the Tochty better in all its ways.

They passed through the shallow water without mishap, save when the
wheel struck a hidden stone or fell suddenly into a rut; but when they
neared the body of the river MacLure halted, to give Jess a minute's
breathing.

"It 'ill tak' ye a' yir time, lass, an' a' wud raither be on yir back;
but ye never failed me yet, and a wumman's life is hangin' on the
crossin'."

With the first plunge into the bed of the stream the water rose to the
axles, and then it crept up to the shafts, so that the surgeon could
feel it lapping in about his feet, while the dog-cart began to quiver,
and it seemed as if it were to be carried away. Sir George was as brave
as most men, but he had never forded a Highland river in flood, and the
mass of black water racing past beneath, before, behind him, affected
his imagination and shook his nerves. He rose from his seat and ordered
MacLure to turn back, declaring that he would be condemned utterly and
eternally if he allowed himself to be drowned for any person.

"Sit doon!" thundered MacLure. "Condemned ye will be, suner or later,
gin ye shirk yir duty, but through the water ye gang the day."

Both men spoke much more strongly and shortly, but this is what they
intended to say, and it was MacLure that prevailed.

Jess trailed her feet along the ground with cunning art, and held her
shoulder against the stream; MacLure leaned forward in his seat, a rein
in each hand, and his eyes fixed on Hillocks, who was now standing up
to the waist in the water, shouting directions and cheering on horse and
driver:

"Haud tae the richt, doctor; there's a hole yonder. Keep oot o' 't for
ony sake. That's it; yir daein' fine. Steady, man, steady. Yir at the
deepest; sit heavy in yir seats. Up the channel noo, and ye 'ill be oot
o' the swirl. Weel dune, Jess! Weel dune, auld mare! Mak' straicht for
me, doctor, an' a' 'll gie ye the road oot. Ma word, ye've dune yir
best, baith o' ye, this mornin'," cried Hillocks, splashing up to the
dog-cart, now in the shallows.

"Sall, it wes titch an' go for a meenut in the middle; a Hielan' ford is
a kittle (hazardous) road in the snaw-time, but ye 're safe noo.

"Gude luck tae ye up at Westerton, sir; nane but a richt-hearted man wud
hae riskit the Tochty in flood. Ye 're boond tae succeed aifter sic a
graund beginnin'," for it had spread already that a famous surgeon had
come to do his best for Annie, Tammas Mitchell's wife.

Two hours later MacLure came out from Annie's room and laid hold of
Tammas, a heap of speechless misery by the kitchen fire, and carried him
off to the barn, and spread some corn on the threshing-floor, and thrust
a flail into his hands.

"Noo we 've tae begin, an' we 'ill no be dune for an' 'oor, and ye 've
tae lay on without stoppin' till a' come for ye; an' a' 'll shut the
door tae haud in the noise, an' keep yir dog beside ye, for there maunna
be a cheep aboot the house for Annie's sake."

"A' 'll dae onythin' ye want me, but if--if----"

"A' 'll come for ye, Tammas, gin there be danger; but what are ye feard
for wi' the Queen's ain surgeon here?"

Fifty minutes did the flair rise and fall, save twice, when Tammas crept
to the door and listened, the dog lifting his head and whining.

It seemed twelve hours instead of one when the door swung back, and
MacLure filled the doorway, preceded by a great burst of light, for the
sun had arisen on the snow.

His face was as tidings of great joy, and Elspeth told me that there was
nothing like it to be seen that afternoon for glory, save the sun itself
in the heavens.

"A' never saw the marrow o' 't, Tammas, an' a' 'll never see the like
again; it's a' ower, man, withoot a hitch frae beginnin' tae end, and
she's fa'in' asleep as fine as ye like."

"Dis he think Annie--'ill live?"

"Of course he dis, and be aboot the hoose inside a month; that's the
gude o' bein' a clean-bluided, weel-livin'--

"Preserve ye, man, what's wrang wi' ye? It's a mercy a' keppit ye, or we
wud hev hed anither job for Sir George.

"Ye 're a'richt noo; sit doon on the strae. A' 'll come back in a while,
an' ye 'ill see Annie, juist for a meenut, but ye maunna say a word."

Marget took him in and let him kneel by Annie's bedside.

He said nothing then or afterward for speech came only once in his
lifetime to Tammas, but Annie whispered, "Ma ain dear man."

When the doctor placed the precious bag beside Sir George in our
solitary first next morning, he laid a check beside it and was about to
leave.

"No, no!" said the great man. "Mrs. Macfadyen and I were on the gossip
last night, and I know the whole story about you and your friend.

"You have some right to call me a coward, but I 'll never let you count
me a mean, miserly rascal," and the check with Drumsheugh's painful
writing fell in fifty pieces on the floor.

As the train began to move, a voice from the first called so that all
the station heard:

"Give 's another shake of your hand, MacLure; I'm proud to have met you;
your are an honour to our profession. Mind the antiseptic dressings."

It was market-day, but only Jamie Soutar and Hillocks had ventured down.

"Did ye hear yon, Hillocks? Hoo dae ye feel? A' 'll no deny a' 'm
lifted."

Half-way to the Junction Hillocks had recovered, and began to grasp the
situation.

"Tell 'us what he said. A' wud like to hae it exact for Drumsheugh."

"Thae's the eedentical words, an' they're true; there's no a man in
Drumtochty disna ken that, except ane."

"An' wha's that Jamie?"

"It's Weelum MacLure himsel'. Man, a' 've often girned that he sud fecht
awa' for us a', and maybe dee before he kent that he had githered mair
luve than ony man in the Glen.

"'A' 'm prood tae hae met ye,' says Sir George, an' him the greatest
doctor in the land. 'Yir an honour tae oor profession.'

"Hillocks, a' wudna hae missed it for twenty notes," said James Soutar,
cynic in ordinary to the parish of Drumtochty.




WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE, By Sir Walter Scott

"Honest folks like me! How do ye ken whether I am honest, or what I am?
I may be the deevil himsell for what ye ken, for he has power to come
disguised like an angel of light; and, besides, he is a prime fiddler.
He played a sonata to Corelli, ye ken."

There was something odd in this speech, and the tone in which it was
said. It seemed as if my companion was not always in his constant mind,
or that he was willing to try if he could frighten me. I laughed at the
extravagance of his language, however, and asked him in reply if he
was fool enough to believe that the foul fiend would play so silly a
masquerade.

"Ye ken little about it--little about it," said the old man, shaking his
head and beard, and knitting his brows. "I could tell ye something about
that."

What his wife mentioned of his being a tale-teller as well as a musician
now occurred to me; and as, you know, I like tales of superstition, I
begged to have a specimen of his talent as we went along.

"It is very true," said the blind man, "that when I am tired of scraping
thairm or singing ballants I whiles make a tale serve the turn among
the country bodies; and I have some fearsome anes, that make the auld
carlines shake on the settle, and the bits o' bairns skirl on their
minnies out frae their beds. But this that I am going to tell you was
a thing that befell in our ain house in my father's time--that is, my
father was then a hafflins callant; and I tell it to you, that it may
be a lesson to you that are but a young thoughtless chap, wha ye draw up
wi' on a lonely road; for muckle was the dool and care that came o' 't
to my gudesire."

He commenced his tale accordingly, in a distinct narrative tone of
voice, which he raised and depressed with considerable skill; at times
sinking almost into a whisper, and turning his clear but sightless
eyeballs upon my face, as if it had been possible for him to witness the
impression which his narrative made upon my features. I will not spare
a syllable of it, although it be of the longest; so I make a dash--and
begin:


Ye maun have heard of Sir Robert Redgauntlet of that ilk, who lived in
these parts before the dear years. The country will lang mind him; and
our fathers used to draw breath thick if ever they heard him named. He
was out wi' the Hielandmen in Montrose's time; and again he was in the
hills wi' Glencairn in the saxteen hundred and fifty-twa; and sae when
King Charles the Second came in, wha was in sic favour as the laird of
Redgauntlet? He was knighted at Lonon Court, wi' the king's ain sword;
and being a red-hot prelatist, he came down here, rampauging like a
lion, with commission of lieutenancy (and of lunacy, for what I ken),
to put down a' the Whigs and Covenanters in the country. Wild wark they
made of it; for the Whigs were as dour as the Cavaliers were fierce, and
it was which should first tire the other. Redgauntlet was aye for
the strong hand; and his name is kend as wide in the country as
Claverhouse's or Tam Dalyell's. Glen, nor dargle, nor mountain, nor cave
could hide the puir hill-folk when Redgauntlet was out with bugle and
bloodhound after them, as if they had been sae mony deer. And, troth,
when they fand them, they didna make muckle mair ceremony than a
Hielandman wi' a roebuck. It was just, "Will ye tak' the test?" If
not--"Make ready--present--fire!" and there lay the recusant.

Far and wide was Sir Robert hated and feared. Men thought he had a
direct compact with Satan; that he was proof against steel, and that
bullets happed aff his buff-coat like hailstanes from a hearth; that
he had a mear that would turn a hare on the side of Carrifra-gauns (a
precipitous side of a mountain in Moffatdale); and muckle to the same
purpose, of whilk mair anon. The best blessing they wared on him was,
"Deil scowp wi' Redgauntlet!" He wasna a bad master to his ain folk,
though, and was weel aneugh liked by his tenants; and as for the lackeys
and troopers that rade out wi' him to the persecutions, as the Whigs
caa'd those killing-times, they wad hae drunken themsells blind to his
health at ony time.

Now you are to ken that my gudesire lived on Redgauntlet's grund--they
ca' the place Primrose Knowe. We had lived on the grund, and under the
Redgauntlets, since the riding-days, and lang before. It was a pleasant
bit; and, I think the air is callerer and fresher there than onywhere
else in the country. It's a' deserted now; and I sat on the broken
door-cheek three days since, and was glad I couldna see the plight the
place was in--but that's a' wide o' the mark. There dwelt my gudesire,
Steenie Steenson; a rambling, rattling chiel' he had been in his young
days, and could play weel on the pipes; he was famous at "hoopers and
girders," a' Cumberland couldna touch him at "Jockie Lattin," and he had
the finest finger for the back-lilt between Berwick and Carlisle. The
like o' Steenie wasna the sort that they made Whigs o'. And so he became
a Tory, as they ca' it, which we now ca' Jacobites, just out of a kind
of needcessity, that he might belang to some side or other. He had nae
ill-will to the Whig bodies, and liked little to see the blude rin,
though, being obliged to follow Sir Robert in hunting and hoisting,
watching and warding, he saw muckle mischief, and maybe did some that he
couldna avoid.

Now Steenie was a kind of favourite with his master, and kend a' the
folk about the castle, and was often sent for to play the pipes when
they were at their merriment. Auld Dougal MacCallum, the butler, that
had followed Sir Robert through gude and ill, thick and thin, pool and
stream, was specially fond of the pipes, and aye gae my gudesire his
gude word wi' the laird; for Dougal could turn his master round his
finger.

Weel, round came the Revolution, and it had like to hae broken
the hearts baith of Dougal and his master. But the change was not
a'thegether sae great as they feared and other folk thought for. The
Whigs made an unco crawing what they wad do with their auld enemies, and
in special wi' Sir Robert Redgauntlet. But there were ower-mony great
folks dipped in the same doings to make a spick-and-span new warld. So
Parliament passed it a' ower easy; and Sir Robert, bating that he was
held to hunting foxes instead of Covenanters, remained just the man he
was. His revel was as loud, and his hall as weel lighted, as ever it had
been, though maybe he lacked the fines of the nonconformists, that used
to come to stock his larder and cellar; for it is certain he began to
be keener about the rents than his tenants used to find him before,
and they behooved to be prompt to the rent-day, or else the laird wasna
pleased. And he was sic an awsome body that naebody cared to anger him;
for the oaths he swore, and the rage that he used to get into, and the
looks that he put on made men sometimes think him a devil incarnate.

Weel, my gudesire was nae manager--no that he was a very great
misguider--but he hadna the saving gift, and he got twa terms' rent in
arrear. He got the first brash at Whitsunday put ower wi' fair word
and piping; but when Martinmas came there was a summons from the grund
officer to come wi' the rent on a day preceese, or else Steenie behooved
to flit. Sair wark he had to get the siller; but he was weel freended,
and at last he got the haill scraped thegether--a thousand merks. The
maist of it was from a neighbour they caa'd Laurie Lapraik--a sly tod.
Laurie had wealth o' gear, could hunt wi' the hound and rin wi' the
hare, and be Whig or Tory, saunt or sinner, as the wind stood. He was
a professor in the Revolution warld, but he liked an orra sough of the
warld, and a tune on the pipes weel aneugh at a by-time; and, bune a',
he thought he had gude security for the siller he len my gudesire ower
the stocking at Primrose Knowe.