'The Cobbler o' Kirkiebrae.' A romance of Galloway

Chapter I

— DAVID ANGUS AND SOME OF HIS FRIENDS. II.— THE CRONIES. III.— THE STRANGER AT THE GATE. IV.— A MAN OF THE WORLD. V.— O'ER EVERY LIFE A SOMBRE SHADOW FALLS. VI.— MINISTERING UNTO THE LEAST OF. THESE. VII.— IN THE TOILS. VIII.— KIND HEARTS ARE MORE THAN CORONETS. IX.— REDFERN IN THE WAY OF BUSINESS. X.— GILBERT SCOTT'S SECRET. XI.— THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. XII.— TURNING BACK FROM DEATH. XIII.— TAM WILLISON STEPS INTO THE BREACH. XIV.— REJECTED, AND ILL AT EASE. XV.— MORE CLOUDS GATHER. XVI.-ANOTHER COIL OF THE SERPENT. XVII.— INTO THE LIGHT OF A NEW LIFE. „ XVIII.— LAYING THE TRAIN. XIX.— OFF, IN TRUE AMERICAN FASHION. XX.— OFF, AFTER THE MANNER OF THE BRITISH. XXI. -CONVALESCENT. XXII.— FOLLOWING A CLUE. ,, XXIII.— SUDDEN BUT SINCERE. „ XXIV.— RUINED. XXV.— EXODUS. „ XXVI.— AT THE OTHER SIDE. ,, XXVII.— UNRELENTING. „ XXVIII. —STILL UNRELENTING. „ XXIX.— DARKNESS AND LIGHT. XXX.— MORE LIGHT. „ XXXI.— TAM WILLISON'S MISSION. ,, XXXII.— TAM WILLISON'S VICTORY. „ XXXIII.— RETRIBUTION. „ XXXIV.-AND LAST. 0' KIRKIEBRAE

CHAPTER I. DAVID ANGUS AND SOME OF HIS FRIENDS.

David Angus was a poet, a naturalist, and an astronomer, who saw much in the heavens above, and the earth beneath to heighten his admiration, and deepen his love for that Power whose wondrous handiwork he saw everywhere around him. In early life he had known the fever-heat of enthusiasm, and now, in the evening of his day, he carried with him all that a thoughtful man gathers from a lengthy experience. He was a poet, and saw much in life that the casual observer never sees, and his songs and the results of his communings with Nature did much to make the world better and brighter for those whose lines were often cast in very unpleasant places. No one was more keenly alive to the many ills of life, and none had a deeper sympathy than he, for those who could not be classed as the hard-headed or matter-of-fact.

He had tasted the bitters of life and was none the worse of them, and through all, his character had been as stainless as his motives had been pure. He spent many a happy hour amid the solemn grandeur of the Galloway hills, and he was no less in his element in the meadows among the flowers, or when the sun swept in his glory behind the beetling brow of Cairnsmore, tipping the crest of Cairnharrow with gold, and lighting up the western slopes of Bengairn and Screel. When the sun sank, and the stars bent down from the dark blue of the night sky, and the rivers sang in harmony with the rills; or when silence sat upon the grey old mountains, David read the story of the stars — a story he had read and re-read, and in his reading finding something new, and strange, and wonderful. He knew more of the inner life of Nature than most men ; but his know ledge never descended to pedantry, and he never discoursed to those who were ignorant of the character of his pursuits.

He was kindly in his manner, natural in speech and action, and never failed in the shortest possible time to put everyone he met entirely at ease. He was considerably above the average height, and his long white hair and full flowing beard gave him a striking, and quite a patriarchal appearance. His clear grey eye reflected a high intelligence, and at the same time carried the light of a true and strong benevolence. He had seen much of the world, and the ways of men, and many of the phases of this strange human life ; but although he had met some less deserving of consideration than others, his native goodness of heart, and the ideal that had ever been his, gave some men a higher place in his affections than the world might say they really deserved. A year or two before the opening of this story, he had returned to Kirkiebrae, his native place, and taken up his residence at Deeside ; not far from the confluence of the Tarff and Dee, and where Telfer's bridge grasps the parishes of St. Cuthbert and Tongland.

He had passed the greater portion of his life as a teacher ; and for many years as the master of Aberlady school, a picturesque spot for such as he, who never tired of the voice of the sea as it flung its weird cadence against the rugged ribs of the Bass rock, or sighed over the baldness of the wide Luffness links. In the Haddingtonshire village he had learnt and suffered much, but he sang no less sweetly because of his sufferings. His wife and daughter sleep beneath the shadow of the quaint old tower of the village church, and one day the clothing of his only son was found on the links, but the boy he had never more seen. There is a chapter in David's history which will be better told some other time — a chapter hidden away in the depths of his heart, thoughts of which came to him, bringing tears to his eyes, and long, long midnight hours of sorrow.

When the energies of life began to flag, and work to become irksome, he came, with his granddaughter, to take up his abode, and to end his anxious life-day where so many years before he had disported himself in all the vigour, and light-heartedness of youth. Along the banks of the river, in the cool shadows of the woods, on the soft green of the uplands, and on the rugged sides of the mountains, he wandered amid the haunts of his beloved ' Flora,' and the soft note of the ouzel, the cheery pipe of the lintie, the full, thrilling song of the merle ; or the swelling strain of the lark, filled his soul with the music he loved and never tired of hearing. Deeside was indeed a place after David's own heart, and while he made the garden fair as a paradise, Elsie, his granddaughter, made the home bright with her deft house wifery, and her ever cheery smile.

She gladdened his heart ; for her tall, agile figure, her dark eyes, and beautiful head, crowned with a mass of silken floss-like curls-made him feel as if he was living again in the days, when his wife was as bright, and beautiful as this treasure, whose sweet voice trilled his songs in the evening, to welcome him home from his wanderings, or soothe him when he was ill at ease ; when her brown curls would fall on his shoulder while she kissed the furrowed forehead ; brown curls falling on the locks of age, like the brightness of the summer, resting amid the whiteness of the winter snows. One of David's most intimate friends lived in Kirkiebrae, up a stair not far from the old Tolbooth of the burgh, and that friend was one after his own heart ; for all that was quaint, beautiful or wonderful, had a place in the thoughts of Tam Willison the shoemaker.

Tam was a modest, unassum ing man with as honest a face and heart as ever son of Crispin possessed, and there were not a few folks in the world who would say. and confidently, that few men were to be found of more sterling qualities. Tam was an ardent botanist. He was over head and ears in antiquarian lore, and as an all-round naturalist possessed few equals. Tam was well up the ' stey brae ' of life, his locks were getting white and scant, and his thin grey beard lay over his tartan cravat like a fine fringe which was not intended to hide the lines that marked the clanship of the cloth. There was at times a curve of genuine humour round his lips ; for be it said here, that the beard he wore was not near his lips, but under his chin. Usually there was an earnestness in his face that spoke of purpose, but the light in the eye told of a nobility few men knew anything about.

It has been said that Tam was a shoemaker, and because he thought of matters that were far above shoemaking, matters that made men of all grades stand on one plane, because of this the folks of Kirkiebrae — at least those who thought little, and knew less, said that he was eccentric, which meant, of course, that his ways were not their ways, and that he took pains to see that their ways were not his. Tam was an enthusiast, and as ardent a lover of Nature as his friend, David Angus ; and he thought there was not another man in the world like David, and this feeling on his part may be fittingly described as love, pure and abiding love. There was another man who had a large share of Tarn's affections, but he was not like David Angus, for he knew little of botany — although he was a very apt pupil of the shoemakers, and he knew less of astronomy, but had a fine poetic vein that did not dribble into rhyme, but found fitting expression in a thousand other ways.

This other was Gilbert Scott, a young man who had come to Kirkiebrae from Edinburgh to take up the duties of teller in the leading bank in the town. He was a tall, broad shouldered young fellow, with a fair curly head, and a pair of bright blue eyes, which lit up a well-defined and handsome face, that showed a warm heart, and a firm, manly character. Tam Willison was very proud of his stalwart young pupil, and he was never better pleased then when he was with him in the fields, on the hills, or by the botanically wealthy waysides of Galloway. Although Gilbert Scott was, and had been for some time, one of Tarn's most intimate friends, he had never met David Angus, but had many a time listened to the shoemaker's warm-hearted praise of the guid man o' Deeside. He had learnt to admire this true son of Nature, and as he again, and again, heard his praises sung as he sat by Tarn's stool, he took to loving him almost as ardently as his honest, warm-hearted friend.

Many a time Tam Willison would have brought his cronies together, but Gilbert had an evident disinclination which did not fail to set him thinking seriously. " It may surprise you ; but I am sure it is not for my own sake, rather I am sacrificing my greatest desire. I will see him some day, and sit an enthusiastic disciple at his feet ; but not yet. I will tell you when, so be patient with me, and wait." This Gilbert said to Tam one day as the two were seated picking shells from the dark, peaty loam of the Marie moss, not far from the banks of the Buckland burn, and over against the old Galtway kirkyaird. " Ochanee ! " exclaimed Tam, " but that caps a', ane wad hae thocht, by the signs ye hae gi'en that — but its nae use me sayin' ony mair, ye ken your ain ken full weel, so come awa hame ; for by we get there, it'll be time to gang lie.

Come awa an' we'll tak' a short cut ower by 'i Cannee." Further reference was never made to this subject by either, but the time came when the two men met and were all the better for the meeting. Across the way from Deeside, and at the junction of the ' Red Lion ' road, lived Betty Houston, in a little white washed cottage with quite a blaze of tropiolum lighting up its front, and standing in glowing contrast to the deep green of the oaks that hung over the bed of the river close by. Betty was David's friend, but more particularly the friend of his granddaughter, whose hand-maid she had been since the first day they had come to Deeside. Betty was tall and shapely, with black hair and well-cut features, which, with her dark eyes, told of an extraordinary energetic nature. She had a very brusque manner, and some said, an evil tongue and temper ; but no one could point to an ill turn Betty ever did, even to the poorest.

She was as fond of Elsie Angus as if she were her own, but David she always characterised as ' a queer ane.' A mid-summer evening when nature was in her kindliest mood, and Deeside was like a chosen spot for beauty to take up her abode. Everything was at its best, and the lark was sweeping to the dewy holms of the Carse. The Dee was murmuring among the rocks, a feeble stream that erst had brawled with the voice of a bravo with great strength. But the summer was kissing the fields, and the woods, and she had kissed the dark stream so often that it grew feeble even to murmuring. David Angus stood on the planking* of the Doachs, in his hand a choice bouquet of wild flowers he had gathered on the Boreland braes, and he watched the stream as it flowed slowly under the shadow of the high bank, a shadow made deeper by the thick foliage of the overhanging trees.

How feeble this stream seemed to him. When he came to Deeside * A wooden footway laid here and there on the rocky bed of the Dee at Tongland. it was roaring from bank to brae, and the creamy foam was thrown high with the fierce breath of the wind. Like life with its strength and feebleness, a feebleness that would gather strength when the summer had laid her head in the lap of Autumn, and Winter had bidden the gleaner depart, that she might not see the storm sweep the fair fields where the earth's fruits had been. David's thoughts wandered over his life-day almost as swiftly as the past of a drowning man flits before his struggling sense. His thoughts -were away in the old village of the Lothians, and although a shadow was on his brow it did not linger ; for even the most chequered life has bright moments, and he had had not a few gleams of sunlight from between the rifted clouds.

Elsie was on the Wallace hill with her collie, and when she had disported herself and gathered a bunch of Marguerites she sat down on the bottom round of a stone stile to drink in the beauties of the landscape that lay from her feet away to the very shores of the Solway. White sails gleamed on the horizon, and a ship lay in the offing. The sun shone in ruddy gold, and not a cloud to fleck the deepening blue. In the distance, the ' Ross,' with its white beacon, stood sentinel-like at the mouth of the bay, and stretching inland, the many greens of the Senwick woods, that belted the rugged shores of Borgue. Away over the lake loomed the bluff headland of the Torrs, backed by the verdant uplands of Balmae. Nearer, St. Mary's Isle, a paradise of umbrageous trees, and over against it the wood crowned slopes of Bishopton.

The towers and spires of Kirkiebrae reared their heads above the surrounding trees and the blue haze hung over them with all the heavenly glamour of an artist's dream. The river flowed like a silver stream, kissing grassy holms and tree-clad banks, and nearer still, just at hand, rose the broomy braes of the Boreland and the deep luxuriance of the glorious Compstone woods. Elsie sat until the shadows began to creep over from the eastward, and then she rose and directed her steps home ward. When she reached the bend of the road, near the cottage, Peveril went bounding and barking away in front, through the gate and up the gravel path. A word with Betty Houston, who was cleaning her cottage window, drew her attention from the dog, and she did not notice a slim, ill-clad girl raise the knocker of the door at Deeside.

A scream, and she turned to see Peveril seize the girl's dress and pull her fiercely to the ground. A pale, pleading face was turned to her, and a form she had never seen before sank senseless on the rough gravel path.

Chapter II. The Cronies

Tam Willison was a bachelor, although he was old enough to have had more sense ; and what is further, the unsociable mortal (?) actually lived by himself. There was perhaps more wisdom in this latter course than at first sight appeared, for who would make room for the world of queer things he had around him, and who would put up with him taking himself, as he often did, away to the hills and woods for whole days at a time ? Nobody would be bothered with him but a wife, and Tam had not made up his mind to marry. He was happy as he was. In fact, if he had been asked at the dead hour of night if he was happy and contented, the querist would assuredly have got an affirmative reply. And what more does any even-minded son of Adam, or daughter of Eve, want in this rushing, panting world of ours, than happiness, for happiness has no counterfeit ?

Pleasure may come rumbling along the way with gaudy, tawdy garments, but she has as many faces as there are days in the year, and as often smiles upon the sot as she does upon the sage. But happiness sits within the heart and speaks sweet solace to it, and the monitor says " Well done." Pleasure has a lacquey called Pain, who follows her and kicks her devotees to the dogs ; but happiness is a reward which the angels bring, and lay upon the altar of the soul. Happiness has to be earned, and only earned by the pure of heart, the open of hand, and the tongue that speaks no guile. Tam Willison was happy, and there was no reason why he should be otherwise ; for he earned his happiness as honestly as he earned his bread, and what is more, he had made others happy beside himself. He was humble, but not servile ; modest, but not cringing ; brave, but not ostentatious, and unfailingly obliging.

This is just such another testimonial as Gilbert Scott would have given, had he been asked, and that with all the consciousness of truth. Tam lived in the High Street, opposite the ' Mercat Cross ' of the good old burgh by the Dee. The evening was hot, and his window was up to let in as much fresh air as the Polypodiums, Scolipendrums, and Aspleniums would admit. The thud of his hammer kept measure to the air of the song he was singing, and he ever and anon cast a glance at the one-handed clock of the Old Jail, as if he was working against time. Thump, thump, went the hammer, and higher swelled the music of his song, and out of the sound of both might have been heard something or other that had to do, however vaguely, with " A mile abune Bonaw." At length he threw down his hammer, and took another look, to see, if he could, where that single hand had got to.

" Craith* 's late the nicht," he muttered, as he resumed his * The bellringer of the Tolbooth. seat and his work, and scarcely had he done so, when the bell pealed forth, which was a sign that Craith was not so late after all. The last note had scarcely died away when Tam heard a firm footstep on the stair, and the next moment Gilbert Scott opened the door and entered the room. Tam Willison laid his hammer aside, and gathered up his knife, ' yeekie yakie,' lapstone, and rags, which he laid to rest on his stool for the next twelve or fourteen hours. This is the picture ! Tam Willison stands erect by his seat, and a big, bright-faced, manly fellow stalks across the room, and thrusts his soft, white fingers into the ' rosetty,' horny palm of the shoemaker. Gilbert Scott's face bore the true stamp of manliness, while his eyes spoke his friendship for Tam, who at that moment was blessing his stars that he was a man, and not a bank penholder.

As a thing of flesh and blood, he would be free from that grip in a short time — as an instrument of wood and steel, he would be in that firm hold from ten till three, one hour off, which he thought, at the least, was just a trifle too long. " Hoo're ye ? " asked Tam, when his hand was free, and he had drawn a long sigh of relief. " In the finest possible condition," replied Gilbert, as he looked round the room. " Sit doon," said the shoemaker. "Where?" asked Gilbert, smiling. There was no irony in this question, but to tell the truth the room was not very large, and it was imperative that all Tarn's odd things should find a place in it, for the simple reason, that there was no other. Tam, however, soon found his friend a seat, who as soon produced his briar-root, and set himself to have a delectable puff.

" Hae ye been oot sin' I saw ye last, Mr. Scott ?" asked Tam, as he pulled off his cravat and vest, to perform his evening ablutions. " I have not, Mr. Willison," replied Gilbert, as his eyes twinkled, and the smoke cloud became denser. He knew there would be an outburst on the part of his friend, so he turned his head toward the window, ostensibly for the purpose of sending his cloud over Tom's fernery. " Balancing time, you know, and " " I wad be obleeged to you, Mr. Scott, if ye wadna Mr. Willison me ; I hae chackit ye for't, mony a time, an' if I hear ye at it again, I'll I'll " " Well, Mr. Willison, what will you do ?" asked Gilbert, laying aside his pipe as the issue appeared so grave. " My name's plain Tam Willison. Ye hear that ?" an' Tam paused in the act of raising a 'gowpin-fu' of soapy water to his face, and blinked from among the suds.

" Certainly I hear it, and by no means for the first time. Now what will be the result if I persist in calling you by the conventional title ? " " Ye'll no gang wi' me on ony mair o' my trips." " You don't mean that, I know as well as you," and Gilbert relit his pipe, and once more puffed vigorously. Tarn's face was buried in the towel, and he muttered something which was inaudible, but Gilbert saw in the intervals the towel was employed on the back of Tarn's neck, that there was a good-natured play round the lips, and a good-natured light in the eyes. " Ye micht pit that kettle on the fire," said Tam, as he hung the towel on a nail behind the door, " I'll be nane the waur o' a wee drap tea afore we gang to Tonglan'." " Oh, you are going to Tongland, are you ? Anybody going with you ?" laughed Gilbert, as he proceeded to fill the kettle from a speckled jar which stood beneath the friendly shelter of a chair, " you know you promised to introduce me to your friend, Mr. Angus, but seeing we have not come to terms yet, you will no doubt withhold your favours."

" Terms ! what terms ?" asked Tam, in seeming ignorance. " Why, about that deplorable conventionalism, Mr." " Drap it ! " Tam was busy putting his cravat into proper shape by folding it across his mouth, so that it would lie comfortably against his throat, and the two words " drap it " fell upon Gilbert Scott's ears with muffled sound. " Drap it," repeated Tam, as he laid his cravat gently under his chin, and craned his neck to get his long beard over the forty-second tartan. " Drap it," he went on, as he stuffed the tartan under the headband of his pants, and buttoned his vest over all, " drap it, and dinna let me hear ye at it again." " I will," said Gilbert, " on condition that you do the same. Your name's plain Tam Willison, mine's plain Gilbert Scott. Will that suit your stickling highness ?

" There was no immediate reply from Tam. He went into a dark corner of the room, and brought forth some small pieces of wood and a pair of bellows. The wood he thrust between the bars of the grate, and the bellows he laid across his knees, and all this time he seemed to revolve in his mind the desirability of capitulation. The wood began to crackle and blaze, and Gilbert continued to smoke his pipe, as he watched the play of Tarn's features. The kettle began to sing, and still Tam sat with the bellows across his knees. " Ay, I'll agree to that," he said at length, as he made a dab at the grate bars with the bellows, only to find that the wood was reduced to embers and the kettle steaming vigorously, " I'll drook the tea, an' hae a cup, and then we'll tak' the gate. Onything new doon bye ? " As if it were possible that anything could transpire at one end of Kirkiebrae that the other was not acquainted with in the crack of a penny pistol.

" Not much," replied Gilbert, " only I met Grierson last night, and he lent me a copy of a poem by your friend, Mr. Angus." " Ay, ay ! Hae ye't wi' ye ?" asked Tam, eagerly, as he set out the necessary dishes for his evening meal, " I'm unco fond of Mr. Angus' poems, I've seen twa or three. Read it, man, read it, while I get my tea." Gilbert laid aside his pipe, while Tam filled his cup, and buttered his scone, he then brought the poem from the careful division of his pocket-book, and prepared to read ' Midnight on the Hills.' When Gilbert Scott finished reading, he saw a tear steal from the eye of his friend, and trickle on to his long grey beard. Tam was moving about rather uneasily on his seat, and he was stirring his tea with the handle of his knife. He shook his head several times, but said nothing, and went on with his meal.

Gilbert saw that the poem had touched his friend,. so he sat down by the fire in silence, and waited for Tam to speak. " Ye're no a bad reader, Gilbert," he at length said, " ye read that poem unco weel." " But what of the poem itself, Tam." " Dinna ax that question aff me, for ye ken mair aboot poetry than I do. But the man wha wrote that has nae sma' grip o' heaven. But this'll no fit ava. We maun be on the road to Tonglan' afore it is ower late. What time is't ? " " A quarter till seven," replied Gilbert, as he restored the poem to his pocket-book, and took up his pipe, " are you ready ? " " Hoot ay !" replied Tam, " I'll dicht up the dishes when I come back." Gilbert Scott preceded his friend to the street, and half-an-hour afterwards they were standing at David Angus' gate. " There's naebody in," fairly shrieked Betty Houston from her own door, " the lassie's awa to the hill, an' the auld man 's up the water side howkin' for hornics."

Tam waved his hand in token of apprehension, but Gilbert did not understand a word that she said. "What does she say?" he asked. " That Mr. Angus has gane up the waterside. We'll just follow, an' nae doot come across him awee aboon the fishers' pool. They retraced their steps along the bridge, vaulted the wall at the end, and were soon in the height of their glory among the ferns, and the flowers. " Twa mair hornic hunters," said Betty Houston to n herself as she walked slowly into the middle of the road, " I won'er wha that tall, gude-lookin' chiel is that Tam Willison has drawn into his deil's gate. I'm thinkin' there's a michty clanjamphrie o' thae emissaries o' Satan risin' up on the yirth. It's eneuch to bring a judgment on the wicked sons o' men. There's that auld man ower there wi' his hair the hue o' his windin' sheet, everlastin'ly howk, howkin' in aboot the hedge roots, delvin' oot stanes frae dyke backs, pickin' up a' the bum clocks he can get his fingers ower, an' when I speak to him on the sinfu'ness o' his carryin's on, he only smiles so pleased like, an' says, ' Betty, ye're a weel-meanin' woman, but ye're no a natural' Gude be thankit I wasna born a natural ; an' there never was a natural in the hale family o' the Houstons, an' they hae leeved, as I hae heard my grandfaither say, at Tonglan' an' Twynholm thegither for the undignified period o' twa hunner year."

Betty seemed satisfied with this deliverance, which was spoken in an undertone ; for when Tam and Gilbert disappeared, she speedily disappeared also. The cronies revelled for a time in the beauties of the Tongland water, but did not succeed in coming up with Mr. Angus. Tam had found some very fine specimens, and a good deal of time was taken up with his not very concise explanations and descriptions, but Gilbert was eager and patient, and he drank in every word that Tam uttered with avidity. The gloaming was set in before they crossed the old bridge, and Gilbert felt there was little time, that night, for a crack with Mr. Angus. " Shall we call at Deeside ? " asked Gilbert, as they neared the cottage. " Hoot ay ! " exclaimed Tam, Mr. Angus disna aye gang sune to bed." Tam opened the gate, and the two men approached the door, to be greeted with " Ye needna come here. There's something like death in the hoose, an' there's nae room for you ! "