Part 3

The road they had walked since childhood, unchanged save for the gap where the old beech fell in the great storm, and the growth of the slowly maturing oaks; the burns that ran beneath the bridges with the same gurgling sound while generations came and went; the fields that had gone twelve times through the rotation of grass, oats, turnips, barley, grass since they remembered; the farmhouses looking down upon the road with familiar kindly faces--Gormack had a new window, and Claywhat another room above the kitchen--awoke sleeping memories and appealed against their leaving.

When they came below Woodhead, the two old people halted and looked up the track where the hawthorn hedges, now bright with dog-roses, almost met, and a cart had to force its way through the sweet-smelling greenery. It was in Woodhead that Jean had been reared, and a brother was still living there with her only sister.

“Div ye mind the nicht, Jean, that ye cam doon the road wi' me and a' askit ye tae be ma wife? it wes aboot this time.”

“It 'ill be forty-five year the mornin's nicht, John, and a' see the verra place fra here. It wes at the turn o' the road, and there's a rosebush yonder still.

“Ye pluckit me a rose afore we pairtit, an' a' hae the leaves o't in the cover of ma Bible, an' the rose at oor gairden gate is a cuttin' that a' took.”

The old school-house was not visible from the road, but on sight of the path that turned upwards to its wood, Jean looked at Burnbrae with the inextinguishable roguery of a woman in her eyes, and he understood.

“Aye, ye were a hempie o' a lassie, Jean, making faces at me as often as a' lookit at ye, an' crying, 'Douce John Baxter.' till a' wes near the greetin' on the wy hame.”

“But a' likit ye a' the time better than ony laddie in the schule; a' think a' luved ye frae the beginnin', John.”

“Wes't luve gared ye dad ma ears wi' yir bukes at the corner, and shute me in amang the whins? but ye'll hae forgotten that, wumman.”

“Fient a bit o' me; it wes the day ye took Meg Mitchell's pairt, when we fell oot ower oor places in the class. A' didna mind her bein' abune me, but a' cudna thole ye turnin' against me.”

“Hoo lang is that ago, Jean?”

“Sax and fifty year ago laist summer.”

The auld kirk stood on a bluff overlooking the Tochty, with the dead of the Glen round it; and at the look on Jean's face, Burnbrae turned up the kirk road along which every family went some day in sorrow.

The Baxters' ground lay in a corner, where the sun fell pleasantly through the branches of a beech in the afternoon, and not far from the place where afterwards we laid Dom-sie to rest. The gravestone was covered on both sides with names, going back a century, and still unable to commemorate all the Baxters that had lived and died after an honest fashion in Drumtochty. The last name was that of a child:

Jean, the daughter of John Baxter,

Farmer of Burnbrae,

Aged 7 years.

There was no “beloved” nor any text, but each spring the primroses came out below, and all summer a bunch of pinks touched the “Jean” with their fragrant blossoms.

Her mother stooped to pluck a weed from among the flowers and wipe the letters of the name where the moss was gathering, then she bent her head on the grey, worn stone, and cried, “Jeannie, Jeannie, ma bonnie lassie.”

“Dinna greet, Jean, as though we hed nae lassie,” said Burnbrae, “for there's naethin' here but the dust. Ye mind what the minister read that day, 'He shall gather the lambs with His arm, and carry them in His bosom.'

“Be thankfu' we have the fower laddies spared, a' daein' weel, an' ane near ready for a kirk, an' you an' me thegither still. We 've hed mony mercies, Jean.”

“A 'm no denyin' that, John, an' a'm prood o' the laddies; but there 's no' a day a' dinna miss ma lassie, an' a' can hear her sayin' 'mither' still when ye 're a' in the fields and a'm alane.”

“Wae 's me, wha will care for her grave when we 're far awa an' no a Baxter left in the Glen? It's no lichtsome to leave the hoose whar we 've livit sae lang, an' the fields ye 've lookit at a' yir days, but it 's sairest tae leave yir dead.” The past with the tender associations that make a woman's life was tightening its hold on Jean, and when they looked down on the Glen from the height of Burnbrae, her voice broke again:

“It's a bonnie sicht, John, an' kindly tae oor eyes; we 'ill never see anither tae sateesfy oor auld age.”

“A've seen nae ither a' ma days,” said Burnbrae, “an' there can be nane sae dear tae me noo in this warld; but it can be boucht ower dear, lass,” and when she looked at him, “wi' oor souls, Jean, wi' oor souls.”

No Drumtochty man felt at ease on Sabbath, or spoke quite like himself at home, till he had escaped from his blacks and had his tea. Then he stretched himself with an air of negligence, and started on a survey of his farm, which allowed of endless meditation, and lasted in summer time unto the going down of the sun. It was a leisurely progress, in which time was of no importance, from field to field and into every corner of each field, and from beast to beast and round every beast to the completion of as many circles as there were beasts. The rate was about one and a half miles an hour, excluding halts, and the thumbs were never removed from the armholes except for experimental observations. No one forgot that it was Sabbath, and there were things no right-thinking man would do. Drumsheugh might sample a head of oats in his hand, in sheer absence of mind, but he would have been ashamed to lift a shaw of potatoes; and although Hillocks usually settled the price he would ask for his fat cattle in the midst of these reveries, he always felt their ribs on a Saturday. When the gudeman came in, he had taken stock with considerable accuracy, but he was justly horrified to find his wife asleep, with her head uncomfortably pillowed on the open family Bible.

With the more religious men these Sabbath evening walks had in them less of this world and more of that which is to come. Donald Menzies had seen strange things in the fading light as he wandered among the cattle, and this evening the years that were gone came back to Burnbrae. For a townsman may be born in one city and educated in a second, and married in a third, and work in a fourth. His houses are but inns, which he uses and forgets; he has no roots, and is a vagrant on the face of the earth. But the countryman is born and bred, and marries and toils and dies on one farm, and the scene he looks at in his old age is the same he saw in his boyhood. His roots are struck deep into the soil, and if you tear them up, his heart withers and dies. When some townsman therefore reads of a peasant being cast out of his little holding, he must not consider that it is the same as a tenant going from one street to another, for it is not a house this farmer leaves: it is his life.

Burnbrae passed through the kitchen on his way out, and an old chair by the fireside made him a laddie again, gathered with the family on a winter Sabbath evening, and he heard his father asking the “chief end of man.” The first gate on the farm swung open at a touch, and he remembered this was his father's idea, and he found the wedge that changed the elevation of the hinge. That was a dyke he built in his youth, and there was the stone he blasted out of the field, for the hole was still open. Down in that meadow there used to be a pond where he was almost drowned nearly seventy years ago, but he had drained it, and the corn upon the place was growing rank. This was the little bridge he had mended for the homecoming of his bride, and from that rock his old father had directed him with keen interest, and in that clump of trees, alone before the Eternal, the great event of his soul had come to pass. He had often thought that some day he would be carried over that bridge, and trusted he was ready, but he hoped he might be spared to see the Black Watch come home, and to hear his youngest son preach in Drumtochty Free Kirk. The agony of leaving came upon him, and Burnbrae turned aside among the trees.

He sought out Jean on his return, and found her in a little summer-house, which he had made the first year of their marriage. As they sat together in silence, each feeling for the other, Burnbrae's eyes fell on a patch of annuals, and it seemed to him as if they made some letters.

Burnbrae looked at his wife.

“Is that oor lassie's name?”

“Aye, it is. A 've sown it mony a year, but this is the first summer a' cud read it plain, and the last a 'll sow it in oor gairden; an' yon's the apple tree we planted the year she wes born, an' the blossom never wes sae bonnie as this year.

“Oh, John, a' ken we oucht tae dae what's richt, an' no deny oor principles; but a' canna leave, a' canna leave.

“It 's no siller or plenishing a'm thinkin' aboot; it's the hoose ye brocht me tae that day, an' the room ma bairns were born in, an' the gairden she played in, an' whar a' think o' her in the gloamin'.

“It 's mair than a' can bear tae pairt wi' ma hame, an' the kirkyaird, an' gang into a strange place where a' ken naebody and naebody kens us. It 'ill brak ma hert.

“Are ye fixed aboot this maitter, John?... there's no muckle difference aifter a'.... Dr. Davidson's a fine man, an' a've herd ye praise him yersel... if ye promised tae gang at a time, maybe....” And Jean touched Burnbrae timidly with her hand.

“A' want tae dee here and be beeried wi' Jeannie.”

“Dinna try me like this,” Burnbrae cried, with agony in his voice, “for the cross is heavy eneuch already withoot the wecht o' yir plead-in'.

“Ye dinna see the nicht what ye are askin', for yir een are blind wi' tears. If a' gied in tae ye and did what ye ask, ye wud be the sorriest o' the twa, for nane hes a truer hert than ma ain' wife.

“If it wes onything else ye askit, ye wud hae it, Jean, though it cost me a' my gear, but a' daurna deny my Lord, no even for yir dear sake.... He died for us... an' this is a' He asks....

“A' maun sae no tae the factor the mornin', an' if ye 're against me it 'ill be hard on flesh and blood.... Say yir wullin', an' a' fear nae evil, Jean.”

“A'm tryin' hard, John,” and they spoke together with a low voice, while the kindly darkness fell as a sacred cover round about them; and when they came into the light of the kitchen, where the family was waiting, there was victory on the face of Burnbrae and Jean his wife.

“Well, Baxter,” said the factor in his room next day, “your offer is all right in money, and we 'ill soon settle the building. By the way, I suppose you 've thought over that kirk affair, and will give your word to attend the Established Church, eh?”

“Ye may be sure that a've gien a' ye said ma best judgment, an' there's naething I wudna dae to be left in Burnbrae, but this thing ye ask a' canna grant.”

“Why not?” and the factor, lounging in his chair, eyed Burnbrae contemptuously as he stood erect before him. “My groom tells me that there is not a grain of difference between all those kirks in Scotland, and that the whole affair is just down-right bad temper, and I believe he 's right.”

“A' wudna say onything disrespectfu', sir, but it's juist possible that naither you nor your groom ken the history o' the Free Church; but ye may be sure sensible men and puir fouk dinna mak sic sacrifices for bad temper.”

“Come along, then,” and the factor allowed himself to be merry, “let's hear a sermon. You Scotchmen are desperate fellows for that kind of thing. Does the Free Kirk sing Psalms one way and the Established Kirk another? It's some stark nonsense, I know.”

“It may be to you, but it is not to us; and at ony rate, it is the truth accordin' tae ma licht, an' ilka man maun gae by that as he sall answer at the Judgment.”

“Don't stand canting here. Do you mean to say that you will lose your farm, and see your family at the door for a kirk? You can't be such a drivelling fool; and a fellow of your age too! Yes or no?”

“A' hae nae choice, then, but tae say No; an' that's ma laist word.”

“Then you and the rest of your friends will march, d' you understand? You may take this for notice at once--and I 'll get some tenants that have respect for--ah--for--in fact, for law and order.”

“Ye may clear the Free Kirk fouk oot o' Drumtochty, an' get new tenants o' some kind; but when ye hae filled the Glen wi' greedy time-servers his lordship 'ill miss the men that coonted their conscience mair than their fairms.”

“If you have quite finished, you may go,” said the factor; “leaving your farm does not seem to touch you much.”

“Sir,” replied Burnbrae with great solemnity, “I pray God you may never have such sorrow as you have sent on my house this day.” Jean was waiting at the top of the brae for her man, and his face told her the event.

“Ye maunna be cast doon, Jean,” and his voice was very tender, “an' a' ken weel ye 'ill no be angry wi' me.”

“Angry?” said Jean; “ma hert failed last nicht for a whilie, but that 's ower noo an' for ever. John a' lu vit ye frae the time we sat in the schule thegither, an' a' wes a happy wumman when ye mairried me.

“A 've been lifted mony a time when a' saw how fouk respeckit ye, and abune a' when ye gaed doon the kirk with the cups in yir hands at the Saicrament, for a' kent ye were worthy.

“Ye 're dearer tae me ilka year that comes and gaes, but a' never lu vit ye as a' dae this nicht, an' a' coont sic a husband better than onything God cud gie me on earth.”

And then Jean did what was a strange thing in Drumtochty--she flung her arms round Burnbrae's neck and kissed him.

III.--A DISPLENISHING SALE

DRUMTOCHTY, hoeing the turnips for the second time on a glorious day in early August, saw the Kildrummie auctioneer go up the left side of the Glen and down the right like one charged with high affairs. It was understood that Jock Constable could ride anything in the shape of a horse, and that afternoon he had got ten miles an hour out of an animal which had been down times without number, and whose roaring could be heard from afar. Jock was in such haste that he only smacked his lips as he passed our public-house, and waved his hand when Hillocks shouted, “Hoo's a' wi' ye?” from a neighbouring field. But he dismounted whenever he saw a shapely gate-post, and spent five minutes at the outer precincts of the two churches.

“It 'ill be a roup,” and Hillocks nodded to his foreman with an air of certitude; “a' wun-ner wha 's it is; some Kildrummie man, maist likely.”

When the advertising disease first broke out in the country, a Muirtown grocer with local connections disfigured our main road with his list of prices, till in a moment of incredible audacity he affixed a cheap tea advertisement to the Parish Kirk door, and was understood to have escaped penal servitude by offering an abject apology to Doctor Davidson, and contributing ten pounds for the poor of the parish. Constable's announcements were the only mural literature afterwards allowed in the Glen, and Jock prided himself on their grandeur. They were headed in large type “Displenishing Sale,” and those imposing words, which had never been heard in the ordinary speech of the Glen within the memory of man, were supported in the body of the document by “heifers,” “fat oxen,” “draught horses,” “agricultural implements,” and “dairy apparatus.” Jock had “cereals” in one bill, but yielded to public feeling, and returned to “oats and barley” as a concession to the condition of a semieducated people.

Persons, without imagination, used to carp at the grand style and demand explanations, but short of “cereals,” Jock carried the community.

“What gars Jock aye say 'Displenishing Sale'?” inquired Hillocks one day, after he had given ten minutes to a bill and done the more ambitious words in syllables. “An' what dis he mean by 'heifer'? A' ken the beasts on Milton as weel as ma ain, an' a' never heard tell o' 'heifer' ootside o' the Bible.”

“Ye're a doited (stupid) body, Hillocks,” said Jamie Soutar, who was always much tickled by Jock's efforts; “ye wudna surely expeck an unctioneer tae speak aboot roups, and div ye think yersel that quey soonds as weel as heifer? Gin ye hed naething but oor ain words on a post, naebody wud look twice at it, but this kind o' langidge solemnises ye an' maks ye think.”

“Man Jamie, a' never thocht o' that,” for this argument touched Hillocks closely, “an' a'm no sayin' but ye 're richt. Jock 's a gabby body an' no feared o' words.”

Constable made a point of publishing on Saturday as late as light would allow, so that his literature might burst upon the Glen on Sabbath morning with all the charm of a surprise. Whether a man came east or west, he had the benefit of three bills before he reached the kirk and settled down quietly to the one on the right hand pillar of the kirkyard gate. Less than this number of wayside editions would not have served the purpose, because there was a severe etiquette in reading. When Whinnie emerged on the main road and caught sight of “Displenishing Sale,” he would have been ashamed to cross or show any indecent curiosity. He only nodded and proceeded to settle the farm in his mind. The second bill, whose geography he mastered without stopping, verified his conclusion and left him free to run over in his mind the stock and crops that would be offered. A pause not exceeding one minute was allowed for the head of the house at the third bill to detect any gross mistake in his general review, but the examination of minute details was reserved for the large paper edition at the kirkyard. This was studied from the first word to the last in profound silence, but was rigidly excluded from direct quotation on Sabbath. When Whinnie joined the fathers he only referred to Milton's roup as a rumour that had reached his ears, and might have been discussed at length on any other day.

Drumsheugh, waking, as it were, from a reverie:

“A' wudna wunner gin the Milton roup did come aff sune... there's twa acre mair neeps than a' expeckit.”

Then Hillocks would casually remark, as one forced into a distasteful conversation, “The gude wife keeps ae coo, a' hear; she 'ill be taking a pendicle at Kildrummie, a'm judg-in',” but any thorough treatment was hindered by circumstances.

The kirkyard was only once carried beyond itself by Jock's bills, and that was when he announced Burnbrae's sale.

“Keep's a', fouk, this is no lichtsome,” was all Whinnie could say as he joined the group, and the boxes were passed round without speech.

“Weel, weel,” Hillocks said at last, in the tone consecrated to funerals, “he 'ill be sair missed.”

It was felt to be an appropriate note, and the mouths of the fathers were opened.

“A graund fairmer,” continued Hillocks, encouraged by the sympathetic atmosphere; “he kent the verra day tae sow, an' ye cudna find a thistle on Burnbrae, no, nor a docken. Gin we a' keepit oor land as clean it wud set us better,” and Hillocks spoke with the solemnity of one pointing the moral of a good man's life.

“He hed a fine hert tae,” added Whinnie, feeling that Hillocks's eulogy admitted of expansion; “he cam up laist summer when George wes lying in the decline, and he says tae me, 'Whinnie, yir pasture is fair burnt up; pit yir coos in ma second cutting: George maun hae gude milk,' an' they fed a' the summer in Burnbrae's clover. He didna like sic things mentioned, but it disna maitter noo. Marget wes awfu' touched.”

“But ye cudna ca' Burnbrae a shairp business man,” said Jamie Soutar critically; “he keepit Jess Stewart daein' naethin' for five year, and gared her believe she wes that usefu' he cudna want her, because Jess wud suner hae deed than gaen on the pairish.

“As for puir fouk, he wes clean redeeklus; there wesna a weedow in the Glen didna get her seed frae him in a bad year. He hed abeelity in gaitherin', but he wes wastefu' in spendin'.

“Hooever, he 's gone noo, an' we maunna be sayin' ill o' the dead; it's no what he wud hae dune himsel. Whatna day's the beerial?” inquired Jamie, anxiously.

“Beerial? Losh preserve's, Jamie,” began Hillocks, but Drumsheugh understood.

“Jamie hes the richt o't; if Burnbrae hed slippit awa, yir faces cudna be langer. He's no oot o' the Glen yet, and wha kens gin he mayna beat the factor yet?

“It's no muckle we can dae in that quarter but there's ae thing in oor poor. We can see that Burnbrae hes a gude roup, an' gin he maun leave us that he cairries eneuch tae keep him an' the gude wife for the rest o' their days.

“There's a wheen fine fat cattle and some gude young horse; it wud be a sin tae let them gae below their price tae the Muirtown dealers. Na, na, the man that wants tae buy at Burn-brae's roup 'ill need tae pay.”

The countenance of the kirkyard lifted, and as Hillocks followed Drumsheugh into kirk, he stopped twice and wagged his head with marked satisfaction. Three days later it was understood at the “smiddy” that Burnbrae's roup was likely to be a success.

Thursday was the chosen day for roups in our parts, and on Monday morning they began to make ready at Burnbrae. Carts, engrained with the mud of years, were taken down to the burn, and came back blue and red. Burnbrae read the name of his grandfather on one of the shafts, and noticed it was Burnebrae in those days. Ploughs, harrows, rollers were grouped round a turnip sowing machine (much lent to neighbours), and supported by an array of forks, graips, scythes, and other lighter implements. The granary yielded a pair of fanners, half a dozen riddles, measures for corn, a pile of sacks, and some ancient flails. Harness was polished till the brass ornaments on the peaked collars and heavy cart saddles emerged from obscurity, and shone in the sunshine. Jean emptied her dairy, and ranged two churns, one her mother s, a cheese-press, and twenty-four deep earthenware dishes at the head of a field where the roup was to take place.

“Dinna bring oot yir dairy, Jean wumman,” Burnbrae had pleaded in great distress; “we 'ill get some bit placey wi' a field or twa, and ye 'ill hae a coo as lang as ye live. A' canna bear tae see ma wife's kirn sold; ye mind hoo a' tried tae help ye the first year, an' ye splashed me wi' the milk. Keep the auld kirn, lass.”

“Na, na, John, it wud juist fret me tae see it wi' nae milk tae fill it, for it's no an ae-coo-kirn mine like a pendicler's (small farmer's), an' a' wud raither no look back aifter we 've awa',” but Jean's hands were shaking as she laid down the wooden stamp with which she had marked the best butter that went to Muirtown market that generation.