FOR CONSCIENCE SAKE (continued 2)

“Ask Drumsheugh,” was all that could be got out of him as he backed his horse first one way and then the other.

“Ma opeenion,” said Jamie solemnly, “is that Drumtochty's gaen geit (crazy). Did ye ever see the like o' that?”

The farmhouse and other buildings made a square, and Burnbrae stood beyond speech or motion at the sight which met his eyes. The “ports” of the cart-shed, that had been a yawning void when he left, were filled once more with two carts in each—his own well-mended carts—the one behind, with the trams on the ground and the one before, suspended from the roof by the chain saddle; and if Piggie Walker was not unharnessing a pony from the old dogcart in the turnip-shed. 'The greys that made the second pair—but they were really white—and which he had grudged selling far more than the young horses, came up from the water and went sedately into the stable. Through the door he could see that Jean's byre was nearly full, and outside two calves had settled down to supper upon a guano bag with much relish. Saunders, Baxter and Tammas Mitchell were shouldering the fanners into the corn room, while the servant lassies, quite off their heads with excitement, were carrying in the dairy dishes that some cart had left. The courtyard was strewn with implements, and in the centre stood Drumsheugh full of power and forcible speech, a sight never to be forgotten.

“Hurry up wi' the fanners, lads, and yoke on the ploos, pit the harrows in the cairt-shed, an' hang thae saidles in the stable; ye micht gie the horses a feed, and see the coos hae a bite o' grass.

“Cairry that harness into the hoose, Piggie, the wife keeps it hersel; man, a' forgot tae gie ye a word; hoo did ye hear? onywy, it wes neeburly tae gie back the auld dogcairt.

“Jamie Soutar hes wiled the gude man oot o' the road, but he 'ill sune be back, an' we maun hae the place snod afore he comes.”

Then he saw Burnbrae and Jamie, and raged furiously.

“It's maist aggravatin' that some fouk 'ill come when they 're no wantit, an' stan' glowerin' till ye wud think they hed never seen a fairm toon redd (cleaned) up in their life.

“The fac is,” and Drumsheugh relapsed into private life, “the neeburs thocht ye micht be the better of some o' yir plenishin' back tae begin wi', an' the maist o' what's in the Glen 'ill be here afore nicht.

“Dinna say a word aboot it; it wud hae been a disgrace tae see ye buyin' in the Muirtown market, an' yir goods on oor fairms. We're hard, but we 're no sae mean as that. Whup that reapin' machine oot o' the road, Tammas,” shouted Drumsheugh, creating a skilful diversion for Burnbrae's benefit.

Two cows came round the corner, and made for their byre with the air of persons glad to find themselves in familiar surroundings after discomposing adventures in foreign parts. Hawkie stepped aside at the door to allow Queenie to enter first, for there is a strict order of precedence among cows, and however it might have been disregarded in strange byres, good manners must be observed at home.

Three minutes later Hillocks sauntered in with explanations.

“They kent their ain road as sune as we got sicht o' the hooses; it 's a fine hairst day, Drumsheugh; is the byre fillin'?”

“It's full, man; the laist coo 's in, and Burnbrae 's aff tae tell the gude wife; naebody hes failed, Hillocks, an' a'm expectin' the ministers up every minute.”

Jean was utterly dazed, and Burnbrae knew not what to do with her. Between the going and the coming her strength had given, and she could only sit motionless except when she wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“If Doctor Davidson isna comin' up the near road wi' Maister Cunningham. Drumsheugh's telt them, a'll wager, and they're comin' tae wush us weel.

“It's a terrible peety, Jean, ye 're no able tae see them,” continued Burnbrae, with great cunning; “they wud nearly need tae get their tea comin' sae far, an' Drumsheugh tae, for he's hed an aifternune.

“But it canna be helpit noo, an' of coorse the'ill be naethin' for them; a 'll juist say ye 're no yersel the day, an' tell the lassies tae bring in a jug o' milk,” and Burnbrae made for the door.

“Wud ye daur tae send onybody awa frae oor hoose this day withoot brakin' bread, tae say naethin'o' the ministers?” and Jean was already hunting for her best dress. “Gae doon this meenut an' show them ower the place, an', John, man, keep them awa for an 'oor.”

When the party returned from their round all things were ready, and Jean received the company in her black silk and a cap that called forth the warm congratulations of the doctor.

It was a meal to be remembered, and remained a date for calculation while the old people lived. Twenty times at least did Jean apologise for its imperfection—the scones which wanted more firing and the butter that was soft through heat—and as many times did the doctor declare with solemnity that he never expected to taste the like again till he returned to Burnbrae. Seven times exactly did Jean go out to supplement the table with forgotten dainties, and once she was so long away that Drumsheugh accused her of visiting the byre.

“No likely wi' this goon on. It's plain ye ken little o' women fouk, Drumsheugh.”

“Ye juist keekit in, a'm thinking tae see that the hale aucht were in their sta's, eh, gude wife?” and when Jean's face pled guilty, Burnbrae laughed joyfully, and declared that “the elder wes comin' on,” and that “they micht see a mistress in Drumsheugh yet.”

They all did their part, but it was agreed that the doctor excelled beyond competition. He told his best stories in a way that amazed even his faithful elder, while Drumsheugh and Burnbrae watched for the coming point to honour it with vociferous applause, and again would deploy in front to draw forth another favourite. No one could have felt happy if Mr. Cunningham had taken to anecdotage, but his honest effort to follow the lead and be in at the death with each story was delightful. Once also he threw in a quotation from the Georgies, which the doctor declared the cleverest thing he had ever heard, and the abashed man became the object of silent admiration for sixty seconds. One of the lassies, specially dressed for the occasion, was continually bringing in hot water and reserve tea-pots, till the doctor accused Drumsheugh of seven cups, and threatened him with the session for immoderate drinking; and Drumsheugh hinted that the doctor was only one short himself. Simple fooling of country folk, that would sound very poor beside the wit of the city, but who shall estimate the love in Burnbrae's homely room that evening?

When at last the doctor rose to go, in spite of Jean's last remonstrance that he had eaten nothing, Burnbrae said he would like the ministers to take the reading that night, and then they all went into the kitchen, which had been made ready. A long table stood in the centre, and at one end lay the old family Bible; round the table gathered Burnbrae's sons and the serving lads and women. Doctor Davidson motioned to the Free Church minister to take his place at the head.

“This is your family, and your elder's house.” But Cunningham spoke out instantly with a clear voice:

“Doctor Davidson, there is neither Established nor Free Church here this night; we are all one in faith and love, and you were ordained before I was born.”

“I thank you, sir, for this honour,” said the doctor, and Drumsheugh said that he had never seen him look so pleased.

He was already selecting the psalm, when Burnbrae asked leave to say a word, and there was such a stillness that the ticking of the clock in the lobby was heard over the kitchen.

“It isna needfu' for me tae tell ye, freends, that my mind is wi' the Free Kirk in her contention, and a' houp for grace tae obey ma licht as lang as a' live.

“Nae man's conscience, hooever, is a law tae his neebur, but every man maun follow the guidance o' the Speerit; an' gin a' hev said a hasty or bitter word against the Auld Kirk, or called her ony unworthy name thae past years, a' want tae say that nane regrets it mair than a' dae masel, and it becomes me, this nicht, tae ask yir pardon.”

“You never did anything of the kind, Burnbrae,” said the doctor huskily. “I wish to God we were all as good men,” and the Free Kirk elder and the Moderate minister clasped hands across the open Bible. Then the doctor cleared his throat with great majesty, and gave out the Hundred-and-thirty-third Psalm:

And the sweet sound of Eastgate floated out on the peaceful air of the Glen, where the harvest moon was shining upon fields of gold.