Читать книгу The Days of Auld Lang Syne - Ian Maclaren - Страница 5

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No man was better liked or more respected than Burnbrae, but the parish was not able to take more than a languid interest in the renewal of his lease, because it was understood that he would get it on his own terms.

Drumsheugh indeed stated the situation admirably one Sabbath in the kirkyard.

“Whatever is a fair rent atween man an' man Burnbrae 'ill offer, and what he canna gie is no worth hevin' frae anither man.

“As for buildings, he 'ill juist tell the factor onything that's needfu', an' his lordship 'ill be content.

“Noo, here's Hillocks; he'd argle-bargle wi' the factor for a summer, an' a'm no blamin' him, for it 's a fine ploy an' rael interestin' tae the pairish, but it's doonricht wark wi' Burnbrae.

“A 've kent him since he wes a laddie, and a tell ye there's nae dukery-packery (trickery) aboot Burnbrae; he's a straicht man an' a gude neebur. He 'ill be settlin' wi' the new factor this week, a' wes hearin'.”

Next Sabbath the kirkyard was thrown into a state approaching excitement by Jamie Soutar, who, in the course of some remarks on the prospects of harvest, casually mentioned that Burnbrae had been refused his lease, and would be leaving Drumtochty at Martinmas.

“What for?” said Drumsheugh sharply; while Hillocks, who had been offering his box to Whinnie, remained with outstretched arm.

“Naethin' that ye wud expeck, but juist some bit differ wi' the new factor aboot leavin' his kirk an' jining the lave o' us in the Auld Kirk. Noo, if it hed been ower a cattle reed ye cud hae understude it, but for a man——”

“Nae mair o' yir havers, Jamie,” broke in Drumsheugh, “and keep yir tongue aff Burnbrae; man, ye gied me a fricht.”

“Weel, weel, ye dinna believe me, but it wes the gude wife hersel' that said it tae me, and she wes terrible cast doon. They 've been a' their merried life in the place, an' weemen tak ill wi' changes when they're gettin' up in years.”

“A' canna believe it, Jamie”—although Drumsheugh was plainly alarmed; “a 'll grant ye that the new factor is little better than a waufie, an' a peetifu' dooncome frae Maister Leslie, but he daurna meddle wi' a man's releegion.

“Bigger men than the factors tried that trade in the auld days, and they didna come oot verra weel. Eh, Jamie, ye ken thae stories better than ony o' us.”

“Some o' them cam oot withoot their heads,” said Jamie, with marked satisfaction.

“Forby that,” continued Drumsheugh, gaining conviction. “What dis the wratch ken aither aboot the Auld Kirk or Free Kirk? if he didna ask me laist month hoo mony P. and O.'s we hed in the glen, meanin' U.P.'s, a'm jidgin'.

“He's an Esculopian (Episcopalian) himsel', if he gaes onywhere, an' it wud be a scannal for the like o' him tae mention the word kirk tae Burnbrae.”

“Ye never ken what a factor 'ill dae,” answered Jamie, whose prejudices were invincible, “but the chances are that it 'ill be mischief, setting the tenant against the landlord and the landlord against the tenant; tyrannising ower the ane till he daurna lift his head, an' pushioning the mind o' the ither till he disna ken a true man when he sees him.”

“Preserve 's!” exclaimed Hillocks, amazed at Jamie's eloquence, for the wrong of Burnbrae had roused our cynic to genuine passion, and his little affectations had melted in the white heat.

“What richt hes ony man to hand ower the families that hev been on his estate afore he wes born tae be harried an' insulted by some domineering upstart of a factor, an' then tae spend the money wrung frae the land by honest fouks amang strangers and foreigners?

“What ails the landlords that they wunna live amang their ain people and oversee their ain affairs, so that laird and farmer can mak their bargain wi' nae time-serving interloper atween, an' the puirest cottar on an estate hae the richt tae see the man on whose lands he lives, as did his fathers before him?

“A'm no sayin' a word, mind ye, against Maister Leslie, wha's dead and gaen, or ony factor like him; he aye made the maist he cud for his lordship, an' that wes what he wes paid for; but he wes a fair-dealin' and gude-hearted man, an' he 'ill be sairly missed an' murned afore we 're dune wi' his successor.

“Gin ony man hes sae muckle land that he disna know the fouk that sow an' reap it, then a'm judgin' that he hes ower muckle for the gude o' the commonwealth; an' gin ony landlord needs help, let him get some man o' oor ain flesh an' bluid tae guide his affairs.

“But div ye ken, neeburs, what his lordship hes dune, and what sort o' man he's set ower us, tae meddle wi' affairs he kens naethin' aboot, an' tae trample on the conscience o' the best man in the Glen? Hae ye heard the history o' oor new ruler?”

Drumtochty was in no mood to interrupt Jamie, who was full of power that day.

“A 'll tell ye, then, what a've got frae a sure hand, an' it's the story o' mony a factor that is hauding the stick ower the heids o' freeborn Scottish men.

“He's the cousin of an English lord, whose forbears got a title by rouping their votes, an' ony conscience they hed, tae the highest bidder in the bad auld days o' the Georges—that's the kind o' bluid that 's in his veins, an' it 's no clean.

“His fouk started him in the airmy, but he hed tae leave—cairds or drink, or baith. He wes a wine-merchant for a whilie an' failed, and then he wes agent for a manure company, till they sent him aboot his business.

“Aifterwards he sorned on his freends and gambled at the races, till his cousin got roond Lord Kilspindie, and noo he 's left wi' the poor o' life an' death ower fower pairishes while his lordship's awa' traivellin' for his health in the East.

“It may be that he hes little releegion, as Drumsheugh says, an' we a' ken he hes nae intelligence, but he hes plenty o' deevilry, an' he 's made a beginnin' wi' persecutin' Burnbrae.

“A'm an Auld Kirk man,” concluded Jamie, “an' an Auld Kirk man a 'll dee unless some misleared body tries tae drive me, an' then a' wud jine the Free Kirk. Burnbrae is the stiffest Free Kirker in Drumtochty, an' mony an argument a've hed wi' him, but that maks nae maitter the day.

“Ilka man hes a richt tae his ain thochts, an' is bund tae obey his conscience accordin' tae his lichts, an' gin the best man that ever lived is tae dictate oor releegion tae us, then oor fathers focht an' deed in vain.”

Scottish reserve conceals a rich vein of heroic sentiment, and this unexpected outburst of Jamie Soutar had an amazing effect on the fathers, changing the fashion of their countenances and making them appear as new men. When he began, they were a group of working farmers, of slouching gait and hesitating speech and sordid habits, quickened for the moment by curiosity to get a bit of parish news fresh from Jamie's sarcastic tongue; as Jamie's fierce indignation rose to flame, a “dour” look came into their faces, turning their eyes into steel, and tightening their lips like a vice, and before he had finished every man stood straight at his full height, with his shoulders set back and his head erect, while Drumsheugh looked as if he saw an army in battle array, and even Whinnie grasped his snuff-box in a closed fist as if it had been a drawn sword. It was the danger signal of Scottish men, and ancient persecutors who gave no heed to it in the past went crashing to their doom.

“Div ye mean tae say, James Soutar,” said Drumsheugh in another voice than his wont, quieter and sterner, “ye ken this thing for certain, that the new factor hes offered Burnbrae the choice atween his kirk an' his fairm?”

“That is sae, Drumsheugh, as a 'm stannin' in this kirkyaird—although Burnbrae himsel', honest man, hes said naething as yet—an' a' thocht the suner the pairish kent the better.”

“Ye did weel, Jamie, an' a' tak back what a' said aboot jokin'; this 'ill be nae jokin' maitter aither for the factor or Drumtochty.”

There was silence for a full minute, for Whinnie himself knew that it was a crisis in Drumtochty, and the fathers waited for Drumsheugh to speak.

People admired him for his sharpness in bargaining, and laughed at a time about his meanness in money affairs, but they knew that there was a stiff backbone in Drumsheugh, and that in any straits of principle he would play the man.

“This is a black beesiness, neeburs, an' nae man among us can see the end o't, for gin they begin by tryin' tae harry the Frees intae the Auld Kirk, the next thing they 'ill dae wull be tae drive us a' doon tae the English Chaipel at Kildrummie.”

“There's juist ae mind, a' tak' it, wi' richt-thinkin' men,” and Drumsheugh's glance settled on Hillocks, whose scheming ways had somewhat sapped his manhood, and the unfortunate land-steward, whose position was suddenly invested with associations of treachery. “We 'ill pay oor rent and dae oor duty by the land like honest men, but we 'ill no tak oor releegion, no, nor oor politics, frae ony livin' man, naither lord nor factor.

“We 're a' sorry for Burnbrae, for the brunt o' the battle 'ill fa' on him, an' he's been a gude neebur ta a' body, but there's nae fear o' him buying his lease wi' his kirk. Ma certes, the factor chose the worst man in the Glen for an aff go. Burnbrae wud raither see his hale plenishing gae doon the Tochty than play Judas to his kirk.

“It's an awfu' peety that oor auld Scotch kirk wes split, and it wud be a heartsome sicht tae see the Glen a' aneath ae roof aince a week. But ae thing we maun grant, the Disruption lat the warld ken there wes some spunk in Scotland.

“There 's nae man a' wud raither welcome tae oor kirk than Burnbrae, gin he cam o' his ain free will, but it wud be better that the kirk sud stand empty than be filled wi' a factor's hirelings.”

Domsie took Drumsheugh by the hand, and said something in Latin that escaped the fathers, and then they went into kirk in single file with the air of a regiment of soldiers.

Drumsheugh set in the “briest o' the laft,” as became a ruling elder, and had such confidence in the minister's orthodoxy that he was accustomed to meditate during the sermon, but on this memorable day he sat upright and glared at the pulpit with a ferocious expression. The doctor was disturbed by this unusual attention, and during his mid-sermon snuff sought in vain for a reason, since the sermon, “On the Certainty of Harvest, proved by the Laws of Nature and the Promises of Revelation,” was an annual event, and Drumsheugh, walking by faith, had often given it his warm approval. He had only once before seen the same look—after the great potato calamity; and when the elder came to the manse, and they had agreed as to the filling quality of the weather, the doctor inquired anxiously how Drumsheygh had done with his potatoes.

“Weel eneuch,” with quite unaffected indifference. “Weel eneuch, as prices are gaein', auchteen pund, 'Piggie' liftin' an' me cairtin'; but hevye heard aboot Burnbrae?” and Drumsheugh announced that the factor, being left unto the freedom of his own will, had opened a religious war in Drumtochty.

His voice vibrated with a new note as he stated the alternative offered to Burnbrae, and the doctor, a man well fed and richly coloured, as became a beneficed clergyman, turned purple.

“I told Kilspindie, the day before he left,” burst out the doctor, “that he had made a mistake in bringing a stranger in John Leslie's place, who was a cautious, sensible man, and never made a drop of bad blood all the time he was factor.

“'Tomkyns is a very agreeable fellow, Davidson,' his lordship said to me, 'and a first-rate shot in the cover; besides, he has seen a good deal of life, and knows how to manage men.'

“It's all bad life he's seen,' I said, 'and it's not dining and shooting make a factor. That man 'ill stir up mischief on the estate before you come back, as sure 's your name's Kilspin-die,' but I never expected it would take this turn.

“Fool of a man,” and the doctor raged through the study, “does he not know that it would be safer for him to turn the rotation of crops upside down and to double every rent than to meddle with a man's religion in Drum-tochty?

“Drumsheugh,” said the doctor, coming to a stand, “I've been minister of this parish when there was only one church, and I've been minister since the Free Church began. I saw half my people leave me, and there were hot words going in '43; but nothing so base as this has been done during the forty years of my office, and I call God to witness I have lived at peace with all men.

“I would rather cut off my right hand than do an injury to Burnbrae or any man for his faith, and it would break my heart if the Free Kirk supposed I had anything to do with this deed.

“The factor is to be at the inn on Tuesday; I 'll go to him there and then, and let him know that he cannot touch Burnbrae without rousing the whole parish of Drumtochty.”

“Ye 'ill tak me wi' ye, sir, no tae speak, but juist tae let him see hoo the Auld Kirk feels.”

“That I will, Drumsheugh; there's grit in the Glen; and look you, if you meet Burnbrae coming from his kirk ye might just——”

“It wes in ma ain mind, doctor, tae sae a word for's a', an' noo a 'll speak wi' authority. The Auld and the Frees shoother tae shoother for the first time since '43—it 'ill be graund.

“Sall,” said Drumsheugh, as this new aspect of the situation opened, “the factor hes stirred a wasp's byke when he meddled wi' Drumtochty.” The council of the Frees had been somewhat divided that morning—most holding stoutly that Doctor Davidson knew nothing of the factor's action, a few in their bitterness being tempted to suspect every one, but Burnbrae was full of charity.

“Dinna speak that wy, Netherton, for it's no Christian; Doctor Davidson may be a Moderate, but he's a straicht-forward an' honourable gentleman, as his father wes afore him, and hes never said 'kirk' to ane o' us save in the wy o' freendliness a' his days.

“It 's no his blame nor Lord Kilspindie's, ye may lippen (trust) to that; this trial is the wull o' God, an' we maun juist seek grace tae be faithfu'.”

Every Sabbath a company of the Auld Kirk going west met a company of the Frees going east, and nothing passed except a no'd or “a wee saft,” in the case of drenching rain, not through any want of neighbourliness, but because this was the nature God had been pleased to give Drumtochty.

For the first time, the Auld Kirk insisted on a halt and conversation. It did not sound much, being mainly a comparison of crops among the men, and a brief review of the butter market by the women—Jamie Soutar only going the length of saying that he was coming next Sabbath to hear the last of Cunningham's “course”—but it was understood to be a demonstration, and had its due effect.

“A' wes wrang,” said Netherton to Donald Menzies; “they 've hed naething tae dae wi 't; a' kent that the meenute a' saw Jamie Soutar. Yon 's the first time a' ever mind them stop-pin',” and a mile further on Netherton added, “That's ae gude thing, at ony rate.”

Burnbrae and Drumsheugh met later, and alone, and there were no preliminaries.

“Jamie Soutar told us this mornin', Burnbrae, in the kirkyaird, and a 've come straicht the noo frae the doctor's study, and ye never saw a man mair concerned.

“He chairged me tae say, withoot delay, that he wud raither hae cut aff his richt hand than dae ye an ill, an' he 's gaein' this verra week tae gie his mind tae the factor.

“Man, it wud hae dune your hert gude gin ye hed heard Jamie this mornin' in the kirkyaird; he fair set the heather on fire—a'm no settled yet—we 're a' wi' ye, every man o's.

“Na, na, Burnbrae, we 're no tae lose ye yet; ye 'ill hae yir kirk and yir fairm in spite o' a' the factors in Perthshire, but a'm expeckin' a fecht.”

“Thank ye, Drumsheugh, thank ye kindly; and wull ye tell Doctor Davidson that he hesna lived forty years in the Glen for naethin”?

“We said this mornin' that he wud scorn tae fill his kirk with renegades, and sae wud ye a', but a' wesna prepared for sic feelin”.

“There's ae thing maks me prood o' the Glen: nae man, Auld or Free, hes bidden me pit ma fairm afore ma kirk, but a 'body expecks me tae obey ma conscience.

“A 've got till Monday week tae consider ma poseetion, and it 'ill depend on the factor whether a 'll be allowed tae close ma days in the place where ma people hae lived for sax generations, or gae forth tae dee in a strange land.”

“Dinna speak like that, Burnbrae; the doctor hesna hed his say yet; the 'll be somethin' worth hearin' when he faces the factor,” and Drumsheugh waited for the battle between Church and State with a pleasurable anticipation of lively argument, tempered only by a sense of Burnbrae's anxiety.

The factor, who was dressed in the height of sporting fashion and looked as if he had lived hard, received the doctor and his henchman with effusion.

“Doctor Davidson, Established Church clergyman of Drumtochty? quite a pleasure to see you; one of our farmers, I think; seen you before, eh? Drum, Drum—can't quite manage your heathenish names yet, d' ye know.

“Splendid grouse moor you 've got up here, and only one poacher in the whole district, the keepers tell me. D' you take a gun yourself, Doctor—ah—Donaldson, or does the kirk not allow that kind of thing?” and the factor's laugh had a fine flavour of contempt for a Scotch country minister.

“My name is Davidson, at your service, Mr. Tomkyns, and I've shot with Lord Kilspindie when we were both young fellows in the 'forties, from Monday to Friday, eight hours a day, and our bag for the week was the largest that has ever been made in Perthshire.

“But I came here on a matter of business, and, if you have no objection, I would like to ask a simple question.”

“Delighted, I'm sure, to tell you anything you wish,” said the factor, considerably sobered.

“Well a very unpleasant rumour is spreading through the parish that you have refused to renew a farmer's lease unless he promised to leave the Free Church?”

“An old fellow, standing very straight, with white hair, called—let me see, Baxter; yes, that's it, Baxter; is that the man?”

“Yes, that is the name,” said the doctor, with growing severity; “John Baxter of Bumbrae, the best man in the parish of Drumtochty; and I want an answer to my question.”

“You will get it,” and Tomkyns fixed his eye-glass with an aggressive air. “I certainly told Baxter that if he wanted to stay on the estate he must give up his dissenting nonsense and go to the kirk.”

“May I ask your reason for this extraordinary condition?” and Drumsheugh could see that the Doctor was getting dangerous.

“Got the wrinkle from my cousin's, Lord De Tomkyns's, land agent. He's cleared all the Methodists off their estate.

“'The fewer the dissenters the better,' he said to me, 'when you come to an election, d' you know.'”

“Are you mad, and worse than mad? Who gave you authority to interfere with any man's religion? You know neither the thing you are doing, nor the men with whom you have to do. Our farmers, thank God, are not ignorant serfs who know nothing and cannot call their souls their own, but men who have learned to think for themselves, and fear no one save Almighty God.”

The factor could hardly find his voice for amazement.

“But, I say, aren't you the Established Kirk minister and a Tory? This seems to me rather strange talk, don't you know.”

“Perhaps it does,” replied the doctor, “but there is nothing a man feels deeper than the disgrace of his own side.”

“Well,” said Tomkyns, stung by the word disgrace, “there are lots of things I could have done for you, but if this is your line it may not be quite so pleasant for yourself in Drumtochty, let me tell you.”

The doctor was never a diplomatic advocate, and now he allowed himself full liberty.

“You make Drumtochty pleasant or unpleasant for me!” with a withering glance at the factor. “There is one man in this parish neither you nor your master nor the Queen herself, God bless her, can touch, and that is the minister of the Established Church.

“I was here before you were born, and I 'll be here when you have been dismissed from your office. There is just one favour I beg of you, and I hope you will grant it”—the doctor was now thundering—“it is that you never dare to speak to me the few times you may yet come to the parish of Drumtochty.”

Drumsheugh went straight to give Burnbrae an account of this interview, and his enthusiasm was still burning.

“Naethin' 'ill daunt the doctor—tae hear him dress the factor wes michty; he hed his gold-headed stick wi' him, 'at wes his father's, an' when he brocht it dune on the table at the end, the eyegless droppit oot o' the waefu' body's 'ee, an' the very rings on his fingers jingled.

“The doctor bade me say 'at he hed pled yir case, but he wes feared he hed dune ye mair ill than gude.”

“Be sure he hesna dune that, Drumsheugh; a' didna expeck that he cud change the factor's mind, an' a'm no disappointed.

“But the doctor hes dune a gude wark this day he never thocht o', and that will bring a blessing beyond mony leases; for as lang as this generation lives an' their children aifter them, it will be remembered that the parish minister, wi' his elder beside him, forgot thae things wherein we differ, and stude by the Free Kirk in the 'oor o' her adversity.”