The Dew of Their Youth - Samuel Rutherford Crockett (chromebook ebook reader TXT) 📗

"All hands on deck to worship with the Doctor! He hath kept his watch with us--let us do the like by him!"
And so the astonishing thing was seen. The great Spence gallery of Eden Valley Parish Kirk was filled with such a mixed assembly as had never been seen there before. Smugglers, privateersmen, the sweepings of ports, home and foreign, some who had blood on their hands--though with the distinction that it had been shed in encounters with excisemen. But the blessing had come upon some of them--others a new spirit had touched, lighted at the fire of an almost apostolic enthusiasm.
It was the proudest moment in Israel Kinmont's life when he heard the Doctor, in all the panoply of his gown and bands, hold up his hands and ask for a blessing upon "the new shoot of Thy Vine, planted by an aged servant of Thine in this parish. Make it strong for Thyself, that the hills may be covered with the shadow of it, and that, like the goodly cedar, many homeless and wayfaring men under it may rest and find shelter."
And in the Spence gallery these sea- and wayfaring men nudged each other, not perhaps finding the meaning so clear as they did at the Tabernacle, but convinced, nevertheless, that "He means us--and our old Israel!"
And so in faith, if not wholly in understanding, they listened to the sermon in which the Doctor, all unprepared for such an invasion, inculcated with much learning the doctrine of submission to the civil magistrate with the leading cases of Saint Paul and Saint Augustine illustrated by copious quotations from the original.
They sat with fixed attention, never flinching even when the Doctor, doing his duty, as he said, both as a magistrate and as a Christian man, gave the Free Traders many a word to make their ears sing. They were in his place, and every man had the right to speak as he chose in his own house. But when Israel led them back to the old Tabernacle, with its pleasant smell of tar obscuring the more ancient bilge, and had told them that they were all "a lot of hell-deserving sinners who, if they missed eternal damnation, it would be with their rags badly singed," they sighed a blissful sigh and felt themselves once more at home, sitting under a man who understood them and their needs.
Nevertheless, when Israel gave out the closing hymn it was one which, as he explained, "prays for the Church of God visible upon the earth, as well in the Parish Kirk as in their own little Tabernacle." "Now then, men," he concluded, "let us have it with a will. Put all that you have got between your beards and your shoulder-blades into it. If I see a man hanging in stays, he shall sing it by himself!"
So the Ranters sang till the sound went from the little dissenting Bethel on the shore up to the stately Kirk of the parish cinctured with its double acre of ancient grave-stones--
"I love Thy Kingdom, Lord,
The house of Thine abode:
The Church our blest Redeemer saved
With His own precious blood.
For her my tears shall fall,
For her my prayers ascend:
To her my cares and toils be given
Till toils and cares shall end!"
"_And_ three cheers for the Doctor!" shouted swearing Imrie, who had been worked up by the events of the day to such a pitch of excitement that only the sound of his own thunderous voice had power to calm him.
And douce Cameronians coming over Eden Valley hill stood still and wondered at the profanation of the holy day, not knowing. Even sober pillars of the Kirk Erastian going homeward smiled and shook their heads pityingly.
"It was doubtless a good thing," said my father to a fellow elder, a certain McMinn of the Croft, "to see so many of the wild and regardless at the Kirk, but I'm sore mistaken if there's not some of the old Adam left in the best of them yet, to judge by the noise they are making down yonder."
"Except Israel himsel'!" said McMinn of the Croft, "man, dominie, since he converted Jock, my ploughman, he hasna been drunk yince, and I get twice the work oot o' the craitur for the same wage."
Which, being the proof of the pudding, settled the question.


CHAPTER XLI
IN THE WOOD PARLOUR
On the 19th of October the sky overhead was clear as sapphire, but all round the circle of the horizon the mists of autumn blurred the landscape. The hills stood no more in their places. Gone were the Kips, with their waving lines. Of the Cruives, with the heather thick and purple upon them, not a trace. Gone the graceful swirl of the Cooran Hill, which curls over like a wave just feathering to break.
To Irma it had been a heavy and a sorrowful day. She had actually wept, and even gone on her knees to her brother to beg him tell her what strange thing had come between them. He would only answer, "You have chosen your path without consulting me. Now I choose mine."
She charged him with listening to one who had always been an enemy of all who had been good to him ever since he was a little child--of setting himself against those on whose bounty they had lived.
He replied, "If I have lived on their bounty, they know very well that they will not lose by it."
She mentioned Lalor Maitland's name, and told him the history of the early attacks on the house of Marnhoul. Louis answered, "He has explained all that. It was done to save me from these people who were already besetting me, in order to rob me."
When she mentioned all that I had done for him, he put on an air of frigid detachment.
"You are right, no doubt, to stand up for your husband," he said; "but, then, I have not the same reasons. I can judge for myself."
Then she went on to show that there was no motive for the Lyons of Heathknowes showing them any interested kindness. As for me, she had only brought me herself and her love--no money, nor would she ever have any money--I had married her for herself.
"So would Lalor Maitland," he retorted, "and he is a gentleman."
After this Irma discussed no more. She felt it to be useless. Naturally, also, she was hurt to the heart that Louis, once her own little Louis, should compare her husband to Lalor Maitland. Well, for that I do not blame her.
All day long Louis stayed in the Wood Parlour with his books. I was busy with an important article on the "Moors in Spain," suggested by my recent researches into the history of the irrigation of fields and gardens in the south of Europe.
Louis came down to dinner at twelve, or a few minutes after. He seemed somewhat more cheerful than was usual with him, and actually spoke a little to me, asking me lend him my grandfather's shotgun, to put it in order for him, and that powder and ball might be placed in his chamber. He had seen game-birds feeding quite close, and thought that by opening the window he might manage to shoot some of them.
I did as he asked me before going back to my work. Irma smiled at me, being well pleased. For it seemed to her that Louis's ill-temper was wearing away. Now my grandmother and Aunt Jen were inveterate tea-lovers, which was then not so common a drink in the country as it is now. Irma sometimes took a cup with them for company, and, because it also refreshed me in my labours, I also joined them. But with me it was done chiefly for the sake of the pleasant talk, being mostly my grandmother's reminiscences, and sometimes for a sight of my mother, who would run across of a sunny afternoon for a look at baby.
That day we sat and talked rather longer than usual. A certain strain seemed to have departed from the house. I think all of us believed that the humour of Louis, execrable as it had been, was the effect of the insinuations of a wicked man, and that after a time he would be restored to us again the simple, pleasant-faced boy he had been in former years.
He did not come down to tea, but then he seldom did so. Indeed, none of the men-folk except myself had taken to the habit, and I (as I say) chiefly for the sake of the talk, which sharpened my wits and refreshed my working vocabulary. But as I passed back to my writing-den I could hear my brother-in-law moving restlessly about his room, and talking to himself, which was a recently-acquired habit of his. However, I took this as a good sign. Anything in the way of occupation was better than his former chill indifference to all that went forward about Heathknowes.
It was, as it chanced, a busy day at the pirn-mill. The labours of the farm being fairly over for the year, the mill had been shut down for hasty repairs, which Alec McQuhirr had come down from Ironmacannie to superintend. He was, so they said, the best mill-wright in the half-dozen counties of the south and west. He had, however, the one fault common to all his tribe, that of dilatoriness. So my grandfather, who had his "pirn" contracts to be shipped for England on certain days, used to call his sons about him, and devote himself and all of them to the service of repairing. Boyd Connoway, also, usually gave us the benefit of his universal genius for advice, and, when he chose, for handiness also.
After tea some provisions had been carried to the mill by my mother on her way home. "One of the boys"--meaning my uncles--was to bring back the basket.
That night, also, supper was somewhat later than usual. Up in the mill men were still crawling about along the machinery with carefully protected lanterns. Buckets of water stood handy. For a pirn-mill is no place in which to play with fire. The sound of male voices and the thud of wooden mallets did not cease till long after dark. Supper was, therefore, later than usual, and the moon had risen before the sound of their footsteps was heard coming down among the tree-roots in the clearing which they themselves had made. The kitchen, which was also the living-room of Heathknowes, glowed bright, and the supper-table was a-laying. Aunt Jen bustled about. I had laid aside my writing, satisfied with a goodly tale of sheets to my credit. My grandmother was in the milk-house, but every now and then made darts out to the fire on which the precious "het supper" was cooking--roast fowl, bacon, and potatoes--traditional on occasions when the men had been "working late at the mill and had brought home company."
It was a bright and cheerful sight. The high dresser, the kitchen pride of Galloway, was in a state of absolute perfection. Aunt Jen despised men, but she had a way of reproving their congenital untidiness by the shine of her plates and the mirror-like polish of her candlesticks. She had spent a couple of hours over the dresser that afternoon, answering all the taunts of her mother as to her occupation, "It's true, mither, _they_ will never ken the difference; but, then, I will!"
"Go up, Irma, and tell your brother that we are waiting," said