.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 41989
   :PG.Title: The Starling
   :PG.Released: 2013-02-12
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Norman Macleod
   :DC.Title: The Starling
              A Scottish Story
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1909
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

============
THE STARLING
============

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   .. _`Cover`:

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      Cover

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   .. _`"HERE HE IS!  TAK' HIM AND FINISH HIM"`:

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      :alt: "HERE HE IS!  TAK' HIM AND FINISH HIM"  Page 44

      "HERE HE IS!  TAK' HIM AND FINISH HIM"  Page `44`_

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      The Starling

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      A Scottish Story

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      BY
      NORMAN MACLEOD

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

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      BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
      LONDON AND GLASGOW

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      BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
      \  50 Old Bailey, London
      \  17 Stanhope Street, Glasgow

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      BLACKIE & SON (INDIA) LIMITED
      \  Warwick House, Fort Street, Bombay

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      BLACKIE & SON (CANADA) LIMITED
      \  1118 Bay Street, Toronto

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

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   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).

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   Contents

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  CHAP.

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   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"`_

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   List of Illustrations

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   `"Here he is!  Tak' him and finish him"`_  *Frontispiece*

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

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   `"I'll keep Mary"`_

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   `"I was but axin' a ceevil question, Mr. Spence"`_

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.. _`ANTECEDENTS`:

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   THE STARLING

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   CHAPTER I

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   ANTECEDENTS

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"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.

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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.





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.. _`THE ELDER AND HIS STARLING`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   THE ELDER AND HIS STARLING

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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.

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   [#] 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.

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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.





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.. _`THE STARLING A DISTURBER OF THE PEACE`:

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   CHAPTER III


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   THE STARLING A DISTURBER OF THE PEACE

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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.





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.. _`THE REV. DANIEL PORTEOUS`:

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   CHAPTER IV


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   THE REV. DANIEL PORTEOUS

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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.





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.. _`THE SERGEANT AND HIS STARLING IN TROUBLE`:

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   CHAPTER V


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   THE SERGEANT AND HIS STARLING IN TROUBLE

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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.

.. _`"ARE YOU AWARE, MR. MERCER, OF WHAT HAS JUST HAPPENED?"`:

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

   "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.





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.. _`THE STARLING ON HIS TRIAL`:

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   CHAPTER VI


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   THE STARLING ON HIS TRIAL

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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.

.. _`44`:

"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.





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.. _`THE SERGEANT ON HIS TRIAL`:

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   CHAPTER VII


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   THE SERGEANT ON HIS TRIAL

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`THE CONFERENCE IN THE MANSE`:

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   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center medium

   THE CONFERENCE IN THE MANSE

.. vspace:: 2

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."





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.. _`CHARLIE'S COT ONCE MORE OCCUPIED`:

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   CHAPTER IX


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   CHARLIE'S COT ONCE MORE OCCUPIED

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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.

.. _`"I'll keep Mary"`:

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   :alt: 'I'LL KEEP MARY'  Page 66

   '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.





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.. _`THE SERGEANT ALONE WITH THE STARLING`:

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   CHAPTER X


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   THE SERGEANT ALONE WITH THE STARLING

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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!"





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.. _`THE OLD SOLDIER AND HIS YOUNG PUPIL ON SUNDAY EVENING`:

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   CHAPTER XI


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   THE OLD SOLDIER AND HIS YOUNG PUPIL ON SUNDAY EVENING

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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.





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.. _`ADAM MERCER, SERGEANT, BUT NOT ELDER`:

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   CHAPTER XII


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   ADAM MERCER, SERGEANT, BUT NOT ELDER

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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."





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.. _`JOCK HALL, THE NE'ER-DO-WEEL`:

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   CHAPTER XIII


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   JOCK HALL, THE NE'ER-DO-WEEL

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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!"





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.. _`JOCK HALL'S CONSPIRACY`:

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   CHAPTER XIV


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   JOCK HALL'S CONSPIRACY

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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'."





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.. _`JOCK HALL'S JOURNEY`:

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   CHAPTER XV


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   JOCK HALL'S JOURNEY

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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?"

.. _`"I WAS BUT AXIN' A CEEVIL QUESTION, MR. SPENCE"`:

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   :alt: "I WAS BUT AXIN' A CEEVIL QUESTION, MR. SPENCE"  Page 117

   "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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FISHERS AND FISHING`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XVI


.. class:: center medium

   FISHERS AND FISHING

.. vspace:: 2

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!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE KEEPER'S HOME`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XVII


.. class:: center medium

   THE KEEPER'S HOME

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE KEEPER'S LETTER`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XVIII


.. class:: center medium

   THE KEEPER'S LETTER

.. vspace:: 2

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:--

.. vspace:: 2

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

.. vspace:: 1

"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!

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent: white-space-pre-line

"Your servt.,
    "JOHN SPENCE."

.. vspace:: 2

"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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`EXTREMES MEET`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XIX


.. class:: center medium

   EXTREMES MEET

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`JOCK HALL'S RETURN`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XX


.. class:: center medium

   JOCK HALL'S RETURN

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE QUACK`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXI


.. class:: center medium

   THE QUACK

.. vspace:: 2

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.[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] 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.

.. vspace:: 2

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





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.. _`CORPORAL DICK`:

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   CHAPTER XXII


.. class:: center medium

   CORPORAL DICK

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`CORPORAL DICK AT THE MANSE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXIII


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   CORPORAL DICK AT THE MANSE

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`DR. SCOTT AND HIS SERVANT`:

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   CHAPTER XXIV


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   DR. SCOTT AND HIS SERVANT

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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.





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.. _`MR. SMELLIE'S DIPLOMACY`:

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   CHAPTER XXV


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   MR. SMELLIE'S DIPLOMACY

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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.





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.. _`THE STARLING AGAIN IN DANGER`:

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   CHAPTER XXVI


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   THE STARLING AGAIN IN DANGER

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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!"





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.. _`THE SERGEANT'S SICKNESS AND HIS SICK-NURSE`:

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   CHAPTER XXVII


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   THE SERGEANT'S SICKNESS AND HIS SICK-NURSE

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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.





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.. _`MR. PORTEOUS VISITS THE SERGEANT`:

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   CHAPTER XXVIII


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   MR. PORTEOUS VISITS THE SERGEANT

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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.





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.. _`THE MINISTER PURE AND PEACEABLE`:

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   CHAPTER XXIX


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   THE MINISTER PURE AND PEACEABLE

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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.





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.. _`"A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT"`:

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   CHAPTER XXX


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   "A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT"

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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!'"

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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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--

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   "I'M CHARLIE'S BAIRN".

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   Blackie's
   Library of Famous Books
   for Boys and Girls

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\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.

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\W. \H. \G. KINGSTON--
  Mark Seaworth.
  Peter the Whaler.
  The Three Midshipmen.
  Manco, the Peruvian Chief.

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.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

\J. FENIMORE COOPER--
  The Pathfinder.
  Deerslayer.
  The Last of the Mohicans.

.. vspace:: 1

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CAPTAIN MARRYAT--
  Masterman Ready.
  Poor Jack.
  The Children of the New Forest.
  The Settlers in Canada.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

LOUISA \M. ALCOTT--
  A Garland for Girls.
  Little Women.
  Good Wives.

.. vspace:: 1

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HANS ANDERSEN--
  Favourite Fairy Tales.
  Popular Fairy Tales.

.. vspace:: 1

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CAROLINE AUSTIN--
  Marie's Home.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

\S. BARING-GOULD--
  Grettir the Outlaw.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

JOHN BUNYAN--
  The Pilgrim's Progress.

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.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

HON. JOHN BYRON--
  The Wreck of the "Wager".

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

SUSAN COOLIDGE--
  What Katy Did.
  What Katy Did at School.
  What Katy Did Next.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

MISS CUMMINS--
  The Lamplighter.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

\R. \H. DANA--
  Two Years before the Mast.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

\G. \W. DASENT--
  Tales from the Norse.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

DANIEL DEFOE--
  Robinson Crusoe.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

\G. MANVILLE FENN--
  Nat the Naturalist.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN--
  Little Lady Clare.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

OLIVER GOLDSMITH--
  The Vicar of Wakefield.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

THE BROTHERS GRIMM--
  Grimm's Fairy Tales.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE--
  Tanglewood Tales.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

\G. \A. HENTY--
  A Chapter of Adventures.
  Tales from Henty.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

THOMAS HUGHES--
  Tom Brown's School Days.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

RICHARD JOHNSON--
  The Seven Champions of Christendom.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHARLES KINGSLEY--
  The Heroes.
  The Water-Babies.
  Hereward the Wake.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHARLES and MARY LAMB--
  Tales from Shakspeare.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

EMMA LESLIE--
  Gytha's Message.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

GEORGE MAC DONALD--
  The Light Princess.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

NORMAN MACLEOD--
  The Starling.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

BESSIE MARCHANT--
  Greta's Domain.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

HARRIET MARTINEAU--
  Feats on the Fiord.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD--
  Our Village.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

ROSA MULHOLLAND--
  Hetty Gray.
  Four Little Mischiefs.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CAPTAIN MAYNE REID--
  The Rifle Rangers.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

MARY \C. ROWSELL--
  Thorndyke Manor.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHRISTOPH VON SCHMID--
  The Basket of Flowers.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

MICHAEL SCOTT--
  The Cruise of the "Midge".

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART.--
  From Tales of a Grandfather.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CATHERINE SINCLAIR--
  Holiday House.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

\R. STEAD--
  The Lads of Little Clayton.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

\R. \L. STEVENSON--
  Treasure Island.
  Kidnapped.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE--
  Uncle Tom's Cabin.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

DEAN SWIFT--
  Gulliver's Travels.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

SARAH TYTLER--
  Girl Neighbours.
  A Loyal Little Maid.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

JULES VERNE--
  A Journey to the Centre of the Earth.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

LEW WALLACE--
  Ben Hur.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

MRS. WHITNEY--
  Faith Gartney's Girlhood.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

\M. WYSS--
  The Swiss Family Robinson.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

CHARLOTTE \M. YONGE--
  The Lances of Lynwood.
  A Book of Golden Deeds.
  The Little Duke.

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.. pgfooter::