THE STARLING (continued 4)

CHAPTER XXV

MR. SMELLIE'S DIPLOMACY

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.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE STARLING AGAIN IN DANGER

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!"

CHAPTER XXVII

THE SERGEANT'S SICKNESS AND HIS SICK-NURSE

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.

CHAPTER XXVIII

MR. PORTEOUS VISITS THE SERGEANT

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.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE MINISTER PURE AND PEACEABLE

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.

CHAPTER XXX

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

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!'"

* * * * *

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--

"I'M CHARLIE'S BAIRN".

* * * * * * * *

Blackie's Library of Famous Books for Boys and Girls

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.

W. H. G. KINGSTON--

Mark Seaworth. Peter the Whaler. The Three Midshipmen. Manco, the Peruvian Chief.

J. FENIMORE COOPER--

The Pathfinder. Deerslayer. The Last of the Mohicans.

CAPTAIN MARRYAT--

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

LOUISA M. ALCOTT--

A Garland for Girls. Little Women. Good Wives.

HANS ANDERSEN--

Favourite Fairy Tales. Popular Fairy Tales.

CAROLINE AUSTIN--

Marie's Home.

S. BARING-GOULD--

Grettir the Outlaw.

JOHN BUNYAN--

The Pilgrim's Progress.

HON. JOHN BYRON--

The Wreck of the "Wager".

SUSAN COOLIDGE--

What Katy Did. What Katy Did at School. What Katy Did Next.

MISS CUMMINS--

The Lamplighter.

R. H. DANA--

Two Years before the Mast.

G. W. DASENT--

Tales from the Norse.

DANIEL DEFOE--

Robinson Crusoe.

G. MANVILLE FENN--

Nat the Naturalist.

EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN--

Little Lady Clare.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH--

The Vicar of Wakefield.

THE BROTHERS GRIMM--

Grimm's Fairy Tales.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE--

Tanglewood Tales.

G. A. HENTY--

A Chapter of Adventures. Tales from Henty.

THOMAS HUGHES--

Tom Brown's School Days.

RICHARD JOHNSON--

The Seven Champions of Christendom.

CHARLES KINGSLEY--

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

CHARLES and MARY LAMB--

Tales from Shakspeare.

EMMA LESLIE--

Gytha's Message.

GEORGE MAC DONALD--

The Light Princess.

NORMAN MACLEOD--

The Starling.

BESSIE MARCHANT--

Greta's Domain.

HARRIET MARTINEAU--

Feats on the Fiord.

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD--

Our Village.

ROSA MULHOLLAND--

Hetty Gray. Four Little Mischiefs.

CAPTAIN MAYNE REID--

The Rifle Rangers.

MARY C. ROWSELL--

Thorndyke Manor.

CHRISTOPH VON SCHMID--

The Basket of Flowers.

MICHAEL SCOTT--

The Cruise of the "Midge".

SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART.--

From Tales of a Grandfather.

CATHERINE SINCLAIR--

Holiday House.

R. STEAD--

The Lads of Little Clayton.

R. L. STEVENSON--

Treasure Island. Kidnapped.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE--

Uncle Tom's Cabin.

DEAN SWIFT--

Gulliver's Travels.

SARAH TYTLER--

Girl Neighbours. A Loyal Little Maid.

JULES VERNE--

A Journey to the Centre of the Earth.

LEW WALLACE--

Ben Hur.

MRS. WHITNEY--

Faith Gartney's Girlhood.

M. WYSS--

The Swiss Family Robinson.

CHARLOTTE M. YONGE--

The Lances of Lynwood. A Book of Golden Deeds. The Little Duke.