by John Buchan
They sat down in the roadside heather, and David brought up to date the tale which he had first told him in the deeps of the Wood. To unburden himself to this man was a greater comfort than his talk at Cauldshaw, for this was one accustomed to desperate straits and chances, and of a spirit more akin to his own. The soldier whistled and looked grave.
“Faith, you’ve stirred up the hornets, and it’s not easy to see where you will get the sulphur to smoor them. There’s much in common between you and my Lord Marquis. You see the ills of the land and make haste to redd them, but you have no great notion of what is possible.”
“You would not have had me do otherwise?”
“No, no. I like your spirit fine, and beyond doubt you’ve taken the honest road. But we live in a pitiful world, where honesty is an ill-requited trade; and you’ve let yourself be forced into defence, whilk is an unpleasant position for a campaigner. . . . Count me on your side, but let me take my own gait. It winna do for you and me to appear to be chief [friendly] in public. I’ll make haste to conciliate the mammon of unrighteousness — whilk I take to be Chasehope — so dinna wonder if you hear that the two of us are like brothers. But it’s the Kirk I fear, your own sacred calling, Mr. David. One shilpit body in bands and a Geneva gown, the way things are guided now, is more powerful than a troop of horse, and less easy to get upsides with. . . . Still and on, I’m at hand across the glebe, and we’ll no be beat for lack of good contriving. The night’s the time, when we can step across and collogue at our ease.”
To have the soldier at Crossbasket gave a lift to David’s spirit. But at first he saw him rarely, for it was wise to let the man settle down in the place before appearing in his company, lest people should suspect a previous friendship. Mark Riddel appeared to be for ever on the move, and the minister met him oftenest on the Rood road — generally in the early darkness. It pleased him to think that his neighbour was visiting Calidon, for it seemed to bring Katrine nearer. But he made no effort to see the girl himself. With the fall of the leaf the season for Paradise had gone, and he could not seek her at home till he had unravelled the tangle of his own perplexities.
The chief of them was the approach of Hallowmass. He was determined not for one moment to forgo his charge against Chasehope and his coven, whatever the counter-charge against himself might be, and if necessary to go in person again to the Wood. But his chief ally, Reiverslaw, spent his days drinking soddenly in the clachan, and when he sought him out at the ale-house he got nothing but fuddled laughter. Then one morning he found him on the hill, and apparently in a better mind.
“My ran-dan is bye,” said Reiverslaw sullenly. “Ye’ve cause to upbraid me, sir, and no words o’ yours can be waur than what I gie mysel’. It’s apt to take me that way at this time o’ year, and I think black burnin’ shame that I should be sae thirled to the fauts o’ the flesh — drinking like a swine in a stye among folk that, when sober, I wadna touch wi’ a graip’s end. I’m no better than the beasts that perish. But I’ve fand out ae thing in these humblin’ days. There’ll be nae Wud at Hallowmass. The folk we ken o’ dinna fancy the Wud aince the Lammas is bye, and it’s the clachan itsel’ that will see their next cantrips.”
“But there is no place that could contain them—” David began.
“I ken, but they maybe follow some ither gait. I’ll be in the kirkton that nicht — na, na, ye needna fear for me, I’ll no gang near the hostler-wife — the verra thocht o’ yill and usquebagh staws [sickens] me. But I’ll be there, and you maun be in the manse, and we’ll guide our gait according to what the nicht brings forth. I’ll wager Chasehope will no be long out o’ my sicht, and if he meddles wi’ me he’ll find me waur than the Deil’s oxter. . . . Keep a watch on yoursel’ that day, sir, for there’s mony will wish ye out o’ the clachan.”
The last day of October came, and David rose to find that the rain had gone, and that over the drenched hills had dawned a morning as bright as April. He spent the forenoon in distracted study, striving to keep his mind on printed pages, but his restlessness was such that after dinner it sent him to the moors. He took his old road for the Rood tops, and by three o’clock had reached the pass from Clyde, where in July he had had his talk with Reiverslaw.
The earth was soaked with the October rains, and as the sun’s power declined in the afternoon a mist began to creep out of the glens. Insensibly the horizon shortened, the bold summit of Herstane Craig became a blur and then was hidden in clouds, the light wind of the morning died away, and over the land crept a blind eerie stillness. David turned for home, and long before he had reached the crest above Reiverslaw the fog was down on him. It was still a gossamer covering through which it was possible to see a hundred yards ahead, but objects stood up in it in unfamiliar outlines — a sheepfold like a city wall, a scrag of rowan like a forest tree.
A monstrous figure appeared in the dimness, which presently revealed itself as a man on horseback. David saw that it was Mark on his chestnut.
“Well met,” the man cried. “I’m pushing for home, for I’m getting the yowes to the infield, but I saw you before the mist dropped and I guessed I would find you here. There’s a friend of yours up bye that would be blithe to see you — up the rig from the auld aik on the road to the Greenshiel.” With no further word Mark touched his mare and went off at a canter.
The friend, thought David, would be Richie Smail, who might have some message to him from Reiverslaw. So he turned as directed past the root of oak towards the ridge of the hill. In twenty yards a figure loomed before him, a figure on a horse. He fancied it was Mark returning, till as he drew nearer he saw that it was no man that sat the black gelding and peered into the thick weather.
It flashed through his mind that Mark had sent him here on purpose. And then something came into his soul which he had never known before, a reckless boldness, a wild joy which caught at his heart. The girl was looking away from him, and did not turn her head till he was close on her and had spoken.
“Mistress Katrine,” he cried breathlessly.
She looked down on him, her face rosy, her hair bedabbled with the mist jewels. She did not start at his approach. Was it possible that she was expecting him?
“What does the minister on the hill?” she asked.
“What does Mistress Katrine? It will be a thick night and you are still far from Calidon.”
She was dressed all in green, with a kirtle which scarcely reached her ankles and left her foot in the stirrup clear. The feather from her green hat hung low over her curls. David had never seen a woman gloved and booted for the hunt, and in that hour and in that wild place the apparition was as strange and as beautiful as a dream.
“I took out the hawks this morning with Edie the falconer, for the mallards were flighting over from Clyde. Edie went back an hour ago with the birds, and I lingered to watch the mist creep up. Maybe I have lingered too long.”
“That was good fortune for me,” he said. “I have not dared to come seeking you, but now that we are met I will convoy you to Calidon. Presently the world will be like the inside of a feather bed.”
She made no protest, when he laid his hand on her bridle to turn her horse, and as he stole a look at her he saw that she was smiling. That smile sent a tremor through him so that he forgot every care and duty. He and she were enclosed in a magical world — together and alone as they had never been before. . . . He felt that he could bring her safely through raging rivers and across mountains of stone, that for her he could scale the air and plough the hills, that nothing was impossible which she commanded. They two could make of the world a song and a rapture. So deep was his transport that he scarcely heard her voice when she spoke.
“I have been hearing of your troubles, Mr. David. He whom we must call Mark Riddel has told me.”
“I have no troubles,” he cried. “Now that I see you the world is altogether good.”
“Will you tell that to the Presbytery?” she asked, laughing.
“I will tell it t
o the broad earth — if you give me leave.”
A momentary confusion came over her. She slightly checked her horse, and as the ground shelved the beast stumbled. The slip brought her in contact with David’s shoulder, and before she knew his hand was laid on hers.
“Oh, my dear, my dear,” he cried. “Katrine, I must say it . . . I am daft for love of you. . . . Since I first saw you down in the greenwood your two eyes have been sun and moon to me. Your face — God forgive me — comes between me and the Word. There are times when I cannot pray for thinking of you. . . . It’s nothing I ask of you, Katrine, but just leave to tell you. What was it your song said?—’There’s nane for me but you, my love’ — and oh! it’s the gospel truth.”
She did not reply, but her hand did not move under his. They were descending the hill towards Rood, and the fog had grown so thick that each to the other was only a shadow. Before it had enclosed them in a visible encirclement; now it seemed to have crept so near that it dislimned the outlines of horse and rider. He held her by touch rather than by sight, and this disembodiment seemed to give him courage.
“I seek nothing,” he said, “but that you should know my love. I am perplexed with coming battles, but so long as you’re in life there’s nothing can daunt me. I would not have you smirched with the stour of them, but if you’ll let me think of you and mind of you and whiles see you I’ll be as strong as Samson. The papist cries on his saints, and you are the saint whose name is written on my heart.”
Still she did not speak, and he cried out in alarm.
“Have I angered you? Forgive me — forgive me — but I had to speak. Not one other word more will I say till we are at Calidon door.”
Her answer, when it came, was strange, for it was a song crooned very softly:
“It’s love for love that I have got,
And love for love again.”
A great awe came over David and checked his breath — the awe of one who sees and yet does not believe, the answer to a hopeless prayer. His hand tightened on hers, but she slipped it away. “So turn,” she sang:
“So turn your high horse heid about
And we will ride for hame, my love,
And we will ride for hame.”
The hand which had moved from under his was laid on his head. Suddenly a face bent down towards him and a kiss as light as a bird’s wing brushed his forehead. He caught her to him from the saddle.
CHAPTER XVI. THE WITCH HUNT
David awoke next morning to a world which had been suddenly re-created. That Katrine should return his love upheaved for him the foundations of the globe. Nothing could be the same again, in face of this tremendous fact; his troubles lifted like mist in the sun, for what ill could befall one whom Katrine loved? Even the incubus of sin in Woodilee seemed to lighten, for evil could not prevail with such a lady walking the earth. He felt that he had come anew into the land of the living, and every fibre of him sang praises.
His new fortitude was proof against even the news which Reiverslaw brought. That worthy arrived at the manse with a long face. The coven in Woodilee had held their Hallowmass rites, and to the best of his belief they had held them in the kirk. . . . He had lost sight of Chasehope early in the evening, and had gone to Mirehope on a false scent. . . . They had been watching the manse and knew that the minister was from home. . . . He had hastened up the road seeking David and had been overtaken by the fog, and when he got back to Woodilee the place had been under a blanket. Doubtless the Devil was protecting his own. . . . There had been no cruisies lit in the cottages, even of those who were known to be of the coven. But, as luck would have it, he had entered the kirkyard and had seen a speck of light in the kirk. The door was locked, but he was clear that there were folk inside. . . . He had roused Robb to get the key, but no key was to be found. He had gone for Amos Ritchie to break open the door, and though Amos had refused to stir, he had borrowed a mell and a crowbar; but when he reached the kirk, the place was quiet and dark again, and the keys were lying on Robb’s doorstep.
The man was really shocked, for this was a superfluity of naughtiness for which he had not been prepared. To David, with a memory of his Kirk Session, the sacrilege was less of a surprise; if men and women could defy their Maker by sitting at the communion table and by taking in vain the Gospel words, they would not shrink from polluting God’s house. But it proved the boldness and security of the evildoers. It was Chasehope of whom he chiefly thought, Chasehope, that darling of the Presbytery, the ally of the Kirk in hunting down malignants, the one in all the parish who flaunted most his piety. The man grew in stature as he contemplated him. Here was no feeble sinner, but a very provost in the craft, who turned all the uses of religion to his foul purposes. And at the thought David, fired by his new happiness, almost rejoiced; he was fighting not with human frailty, but against a resolute will to damnation.
That day he received a summons to attend on the following Monday upon a special meeting of Presbytery at Kirk Aller for a preliminary examination. The thing seemed to him now to have lost all terrors. He had no anger against his accusers, for were they not dull old men who knew nothing of the ravishing world that had been opened to him? He would be very meek with them, for he pitied them; if they chose to censure and degrade him he would bear it patiently. His extreme happiness made him feel more than ever in the hands of the Almighty and disposed to walk softly before Him. He had given many hostages to fortune, but he had won something which could never be taken away. Thankful and humble he felt, in love with life and with all humanity, and notably less bellicose. His path of duty was clear, but he would not court antagonisms. He owed much to the less fortunate, he who daily met Katrine in the greenwood or on the hill in the soft noons which make a false summer at autumn’s end.
So on the Sabbath he preached a sermon which was long spoken of in Woodilee. He discoursed of charity — a topic not popular in the Kirk, and commonly left to such as Mr. Fordyce who were afflicted with ill-health. For a young minister, his face ruddy with the hill winds and his figure as well set up as a dragoon’s, to expand on such a matter seemed a mere waste of precious time, when so many more marrowy subjects lay to his hand. Yet there was that in David’s earnestness which impressed his audience almost as much as if his sermon had been on death and judgment. He had a new hearer. A man sat beneath the pulpit whose eyes never moved from the minister’s face — a mere lath of a man, thin to emaciation, with a narrow head and a much-freckled face, a ragged beard, and eyes with red lights in them like a ferret’s. David noticed that, as the kirk emptied, the others seemed to shun the newcomer’s proximity. As he moved to the door, there was a drift away from him, like sheep from a collie.
That night Isobel gave him news of the stranger.
“The pricker has come,” she announced in a solemn voice. “He arrived yestreen and is bidin’ wi’ Chasehope. Yon was him in the kirk the day, yon body wi’ the fernietickles [freckles] and the bleary een. They ca’ him Kincaid — John Kincaid, and he’s frae Newbottle way — anither than a guid ane, if a’ tales be true. Eh, sir, this is a shamefu’ business, routin’ out puir auld bodies and garrin’ them gie daft answers, and syne delatin’ them on what they ca’ their confessions. There’s naebody safe that hasna a power o’ keepin’ a calm sough and giein’ back word for word. I wadna be feared mysel’ o’ ony Kincaid, but if you was to cross-speir me, Mr. David, wi’ your searchin’ een, I daresay ye could get me to own up to ony daftness ye liked to pit to me. I dinna aud wi’ this prickin’ o’ witches, and I can find nae warrant for it in the Word. Belike it’s some device that thae weary Embro lawyers hae howkit out o’ their rotten herts.”
As he rode to Kirk Aller next day David reflected much on Isobel’s tale. Who could have brought a pricker to Woodilee — and lodged him with Chasehope? Was it the work of the Presbytery? Was it a plan to cover up the major sin by hunting out minor sinners? He knew of the pricker class as of the worst repute, knaves and quacks who stirred up popular superstition and were resp
onsible often for hideous brutalities. Even the Law looked askance at them. He did not like to be absent from his parish when such a creature was let loose in it.
The examination of the Presbytery lasted for two days. He had gone lightly to face it, but he found it a formidable affair. Business began with long prayers and prelections delivered to his address. The Moderator constituted the court with the formality of a Lord of Session and the solemnity of a minister fencing the tables at the Communion season. He announced that the matter for examination would be limited to the charge of assisting the Kirk’s enemies. The prior charge of witchcraft preferred by the minister of Woodilee against certain parishioners would be relegated to a later day, since the Privy Council on his motion had issued a commission to inquire into the machinations of the Devil in that parish, naming as its members himself, the minister of Bold, and the Laird of Killiequhair. This, thought David, explains the pricker. Mr. Muirhead added that he had moved in the matter at the request of a godly elder, known to all of them, Ephraim Caird in Chasehope.