by John Buchan
The wind was wild in the tree-tops, and rushing down the aisles and corries of the hillside made a sound which was now like a great organ and now like muffled drums. Higher they mounted till they reached a broad shelf of more level ground, where the covert was thick and the speed slow. . . . And then, almost before he was aware of it, David found himself looking at an open space with a dark stone in the midst of it.
The moonlight was faint, but the glade was clear in its outlines, a patch of grey turf in a ring of inky shadow. The altar was no longer white as in the summer midnight, but dark with the drenching winter rains. A bleak, sodden place it now appeared to David, a trivial place, no more than a common howe in a wood.
But the other seemed to look on it with different eyes. When he saw the stone he gave one shrill cry of terror and collapsed on the ground, burying his face in the moss as if to shut out the sight. David seized him and dragged him forward till he lay by the altar, and all the while his screams rose piercingly above the wind.
“There is no need for confession,” the minister said. “You have betrayed yourself. . . . Now I know with the uttermost certainty that it was you I saw here at Beltane and at Lammas.”
The man did not raise his head, but clasped David’s legs and nozzled him like a fawning dog, while, like a dog, he gave short, terrified yelps.
“Your sin is proven and acknowledged,” said David. “Here on the scene of your guilt you will choose your road. I say to you, as Elijah said to the people of Israel, ‘If the Lord be God, follow Him; but if Baal, then follow him.’ This night you renounce Abiron or renounce Christ.”
The man was silent, as if the extremity of fear had frozen his speech. But as David raised him, a shuddering like an epilepsy shook his body. His legs were limp, and David placed him on his knees so that his brow rested on the stone.
“Renounce your master here in his temple . . . I will give you words if you have none of your own. . . . Say after me, ‘I abhor and reject the Devil and all his works, and I fling myself upon the mercy of God.’ Man, man, it is your immortal soul that trembles above the Pit.”
The huddled figure was still silent. Then, after a violent shiver, his voice came back to him. He began to stutter words, words meaningless to David’s ear. It may be that it was the renunciation of his gods; but, whatever it was, it was not completed.
For suddenly energy returned to his limbs, and he sprang violently to his feet. Madness glowed in his eyes; his head was held for a second in a listening posture.
“They come,” he screamed. “The dogs! — the red dogs!”
David seized him, but at that moment the maniac’s strength far exceeded his own. He tore himself free with a rending of his clothes. His face was a limp vacancy of terror in which the eyes glared unseeingly. He leaped into the air, spun round, fell, laid his ear to the earth, and then, with incredible swiftness, ran uphill from the glade. Once he halted to listen, and then, so bent that he appeared to run on all-fours, and yelping like a stricken beast, he vanished into the shades. . . . In a pause of the wind David heard his movements grow fainter, and he thought he heard, too, a murmur of voices as at Beltane and Lammas. It seemed to him that these voices were now like the distant baying of hounds.
Lethargy returned upon David’s soul. He had done his duty, and at the last moment, like Samson, had brought down the false temple; but what signified it to one who had no further hope or purpose? He walked out of the Wood as steeled to its awesomeness as to the other common emotions of man. His heart had dried up within him, and his vitality had run down like an unwound clock. He had but the one thought — to visit Paradise again and Katrine’s grave, and this not for comfort but as a step enjoined by duty to complete the heavy weight of his loneliness. After that nothing mattered. His youth was gone, and he was become very old.
He crossed the barrier glen, brushed through the catkin-laden hazels, and came to his sacred glade. There was the well bubbling darkly, and there beyond it was the fresh-made mound of turf. . . . The sight melted something within him. He flung himself on the grass and his dry heart was loosened in tears. As he wept he prayed, and as he prayed he seemed to live once again the bright days when Katrine had sung to him among the flowers. Fragments of her songs came back to him:
“There’s comfort for the comfortless
And honey for the bee—”
Was there any comfort for a stricken man on this side of eternity? He had a vision of her face with its proud laughing courage, he heard again her voice coming faint and sweet from behind the hills of death. She was smiling, she was saying something too rare for mortal ears to catch, but it seemed to thaw within him the springs of life.
He lay long on the turf, and when at last he raised his head the dawn was breaking. The wind had fallen, and into the air had come the softness of spring. A thrush sang in the covert — he thought he caught the scent of flowers. . . . Of a sudden the world righted itself and youth came back to him. He saw brightness again on the roads of life and a great brightness at the end of them, where Katrine was his for ever among the eternal fields.
Rab Prentice, limping out in the early morning to see to the lambing ewes in his hirsel, had occasion to take a short cut through the hazel shaws. He was surprised to see a man walking with great strides from the coppice, and more surprised to recognize him as the minister. What did Mr. Sempill there at that hour? He watched the figure till it disappeared over the ridge, and then went home much puzzled to his cog of brose.
In after days Rab Prentice searched his memory for every detail of that sight, and often he recounted it to breathless listeners. For his were the last eyes in Woodilee to see the minister on earth.
CHAPTER XXI. THE GOING OF THE MINISTER
Woodilee was early astir, for it was to be a day of portents in the parish. Word had come the night before of the judgment of the Presbytery — that their minister was deposed and excommunicated, and that Mr. Muirhead of Kirk Aller and Mr. Proudfoot of Bold had been deputed to preach the kirk vacant that very day. There was little work on the farms, for the lambing had scarcely begun, the ploughing was finished, and the ground was not yet dry enough for the seedbed; so the whole parish waited at the kirkyard gate.
Resentment was still deep against the minister as the cause — under Heaven — of the pestilence, and for his high-handed dealings during that time of trial. There were also the old grievances against him, so that those faithful to him were very few. Isobel was at Calidon, Reiverslaw had gone no man knew where, and only Amos Ritchie and one or two women were left to defend him. Strange news had come about the tenant of Crossbasket. There had been soldiers seeking him with a warrant for his apprehension; it seemed that the decent, quiet-spoken farmer-body was Mark Kerr, a kinsman of the Lord Roxburghe, whose name had appeared in many proclamations of the Kirk and the Estates, and who since Philiphaugh had been zealously sought for through the length of Scotland. Men remembered his masterful ways and declared that they had always known that he was gentrice; they remembered his handling of the pricker and were confident that they had detected his ungodliness. But that he should have lived among them gave them a feeling of distinction and adventure, and the younger people cast curious eyes towards the empty house of Crossbasket.
It was the first day that spring seemed to have come into the air, and the congregation, waiting in the kirkyard for the arrival of the ministers, were warmed by a mild and pleasant sun. The elders stood by the gate, each in his best attire, wearing — even the miller — an air of ceremonial gravity.
“This is a great day for Woodilee,” said Nether Fennan, “and a great day for Christ’s Kirk in Scotland. We cleanse the tabernacle of an unworthy vessel, and woe is me that some o’ the bauldest and stenchest Christians have no lived to see it. Peter Pennecuik — honest Peter had nae broo o’ Sempill — clouts o’ cauld morality, was his word — Peter has gane ower soon to his reward.”
“What’s come o’ Chasehope?” Mirehope asked. “He suld have been here langsyne. H
e’ll surely no be late on this heart-searching day.”
“I heard from the Chasehope herd,” said the miller, “that Ephraim never cam’ hame last night. The wife was sair concerned, but she jaloused it would be Presbytery business.”
“But that was a’ by and done wi’ by three in the afternoon. He would be seein’ Edom Trumbull about the new aits. Still and on, it’s no like Chasehope to let warldly matters interfere wi’ his Christian duty. . . . Eh, sirs, what a testimony Woodilee will bear the day! Mr. Mungo is to proclaim the outing, and Mr. Ebenezer is to preach the sermon, and on sic an occasion Bold is like a hungry gled and the voice o’ him like a Januar’ blast.”
Among the women sitting on the flat gravestones there was less talk of the Kirk and more of the minister. Most were bitter against him.
“They may out him and excommunicate him,” cried Jean of the Chasehope-foot, “but wha will restore me the braw bairn that dee’d in the pest whilk was sent to punish him? Answer me that, kimmers. I wad be the better pleased if I got my ten fingers at his thrapple.”
“Weel for you, wumman,” said another, “that Isobel Veitch is no here, or it’s your ain thrapple would suffer.”
“There’s a queer tale come up the water wi’ Johnnie Dow,” said a third. “There was talk, ye mind, o’ a lassie that he met wi’ in the Wud, and we a’ ken that there was a lassie wi’ him in the hinder days o’ the pest — the fairest face, some folk say, that they ever looked on.”
“Tuts, gossip, yon was nae lassie. Yon face was never flesh and bluid. It was a bogle oot o’ the Wud, and some says—” The speaker lowered her voice and spoke into her neighbour’s ear.
“Bogle or no, Aggie Vicar, it cured my wee Benjie, and nae word will be spoke oot o’ my mouth against it. The callant is still greeting for anither sicht o’ the bonny leddy.”
“Haud your tongues and let me speak. Johnnie Dow says the Presbytery had it a’ riddled out, and it seems it was nae fairy but a leevin’ lassie. And wha think ye she was? Nae less than the young mistress o’ Calidon.”
The women exclaimed, most of them incredulous.
“But that’s no a’. It seems that she and the minister had made it up thegither and she was promised till him. Mr. Fordyce o’ Cauldshaw telled that to the Presbytery.”
“Heard ye ever the like? Will Sempill be hingin’ up his bonnet at Calidon and turnin’ frae minister to laird? The lassie will no doubt heir the place, and it’s weel kenned that Sempill has walth o’ gear o’ his ain.”
“He canna weel do that if he’s excommunicat. He’ll aiblins [perhaps] be for fleein’ the country like the auld laird, and takin’ the quean wi’ him.”
“Ye havena heard the end o’ the tale,” said the first speaker. “Dinna yatter like pyets, or I winna get it telled. . . . The lassie is deid — deid three days syne o’ a backcast o’ the pest, and the minister is no to haud nor bind wi’ grief. Johnnie said he sat yestreen at Kirk Aller wi’ a face like a corp and took his paiks as mild as a wean, and him for ordinar’ sic an ettercap. Johnnie thriepit that he had maybe lost his reason.”
There was silence among her hearers, and only Jean of the Chasehope-foot laughed. “She’s weel oot o’ it,” she said, “and he’s weel served.”
“Wheesht, wumman,” said one. “The lad has sinned, but he’s but young, and his punishment is maybe ower sair.”
There was a movement among the crowd, for the ministers were seen approaching. They were received by the elders and conducted to the minute session-house, which was a pendicle on the east wall of the kirk. The congregation, according to custom, now entered the building, whence could presently be heard the sound of slow psalmody. Robb the beadle waited at the single door till the ministers reappeared, Mr. Muirhead in Geneva gown and bands, Mr. Proudfoot in his country homespun, for he was a despiser even of sanctioned forms. They too entered, and Robb followed, closing the door behind him, but leaving the great key in the lock.
Amos Ritchie arrived, moodily sauntering through the gate. He had been unable to face the kirkyard crowd, knowing that he would hear words spoken which might crack his brittle temper. He reached the door and was about to enter, when the sound of furious hoofs on the road made him pause. The rider hitched his bridle to the gate-post and strode up the path, and Amos saw that it was Reiverslaw.
“Am I ower late?” the new-comer panted. “What’s asteer in the kirk?”
“Ye’re ower late,” said Amos bitterly. “Yestreen the minister was condemned and excommunicat by the Presbytery at Kirk Aller, and Chasehope was affirmed a saunt for want o’ you to testify against him. This day Muirhead and Proudfoot are preachin’ the kirk empty.”
“God be merciful to me,” Reiverslaw groaned. “I only got the word last nicht, and I’ve left weary beasts on the road atween here and Langholm. . . . Where is the minister? Where is Mr. Sempill?”
“The Lord kens. He’s no in the manse, for I was there at skreigh o’ day, and he hasna been seen since he left Kirk Aller. . . . What does it matter? The puir lad has his name blastit, and Woodilee loses the best man that ever walked its roads. . . . Are ye for in?”
“I’m for in,” said Reiverslaw grimly. “If I canna help the minister I can mishandle some that hae brocht him doun. I’m thinkin’ Chasehope will hae sair bones or nicht.”
The two slipped through the door and stood in the dusk at the extreme back of the crowded kirk. The first exercises having been concluded, Mr. Muirhead was reading from the pulpit the finding of the Presbytery. The misdeeds of the minister were set forth seriatim with the crooked verbosity of a legal document. Then came the pith:
“Wherefore the Presbytery of Aller, in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, the sole King and Head of the Church, and by the power committed by Him to them, did, and hereby do, summarily excommunicate David Sempill, at present residing in the parish of Woodilee, delivering him over to Satan for the destruction of the flesh that the spirit may be saved in the day of the Lord, and the Presbytery did, and hereby do, enjoin all the faithful to shun all dealings with him, as they would not be found to harden him in his sins, and so to partake with him in his judgments.”
The Moderator read the words with a full voice and with relish. He outlined briefly the civil consequences attaching to excommunication, and dwelt terrifyingly on the religious state of one cut off from communion with Christ and His Kirk. Then he proceeded to depose the minister in absentia from the charge and to declare it vacant till such time as a successor was appointed. The appointment would be in the free gift of the people, subject to confirmation by the Presbytery, since Nicholas Hawkshaw, the chief, indeed the sole, heritor, was an outlaw and a fugitive. He concluded with prayer, a copious outpouring in which the godly in Woodilee were lauded for their zeal, condoled with in their sufferings, and recommended for a special mark of the Lord’s favour. Then he drew the skirts of his gown delicately around him, and gave place to the minister of Bold.
Mr. Proudfoot chose for his text second Kings the tenth chapter, the twenty-fourth verse, the second clause of the verse: “If any of the men whom I have brought into your hands escape, he that letteth him go, his life shall be for the life of him.” It was a theme that suited his genius, and never had he spoken with more freedom and power. Scripture was heaped upon Scripture to show the guilt of half-heartedness in God’s cause (“Curse ye Meroz, said the angel of the Lord”); the other charges against David he neglected, and concentrated on the awful guilt of unfaithfulness to the Kirk in her hour of trial. The bulk of the world lay prone under the foot of Satan, but in Scotland the Lord had set His poor people erect and committed His cause to their charge, and woe be to them if they faltered in that trust. At this point Mr. Proudfoot almost attained sublimity. There was a crusading zeal in his voice; his picture of the stand of the faithful remnant against the world was the vision of a stout heart.
He passed to David and his backslidings. He drew the minister as a weakling, beginning no doubt with an honest purpose, but soon seduced fr
om the narrow path by the lusts of the eye and the pride of life. “Oh, is it not pitiful,” he cried, “in this short and perishing world, with the Pit yawning by the roadside and the fires of Hell banked beneath us — is it not pitiful and lamentable that the soul of man should have other thoughts than its hard-won salvation? What signify profane learning and the delights of the eye and the comforts of the body, and even good intents toward your fellows, if at the hinder end the Judge of all will ask but the one question — Have you your title in Christ?”
In especial, he dealt scornfully with the plea of charity. There could be no charity towards sin. The accursed thing must be destroyed wherever found, and were it the wife of a man’s bosom or the son of the same mother the sinner must be struck down.
The congregation listened as if under a spell. So intent were they that neither the people on their stools nor the Moderator in his chair nor the preacher in the pulpit noticed that in the dim back-end of the kirk the door had opened and some one had entered.
But it was in the close of his discourse that the gale came upon Mr. Proudfoot’s spirit. Now he was at his application. The history of Israel was searched to show how Jehovah the merciful was yet merciless towards error. Agag was hewn in pieces — the priests and worshippers of Baal were slain to a man — the groves were cut down and ploughed up and sown with salt. . . . So rapt were preacher and people that they did not observe that a new-comer was among them moving quietly up the kirk. . . . The minister of Bold concluded in a whirl of eloquence with his favourite instance of Barak the son of Abinoam — how with ten thousand men of Naphtali and Zebulun he went down from the mount Tabor and fell upon Sisera, the captain of the hosts of Canaan, so that not a man was left. He likened himself in all humility to Deborah the prophetess; he called upon the people of the Lord, even as she had called upon Barak, to rise and destroy the Canaanites without questioning and without respite. “Let us smite the chariots and the host with the edge of the sword, for in this day hath the Lord delivered Sisera into our hand, and let us pursue after the remnant even to Harosheth of the Gentiles!”