John Armiger's Revenge

Front matter

BY P. HAY HUNTER AUTHOR OF "SONS OF THE CROFT," " JAMES INWICK," ETC., JOINT AUTHOR OF " MY DUCATS AND MY DAUGHTER" E&inbutflb an& Xonoon Oliphant Anderson & Ferrier PRINTED BY TURNBULL AND SPEARS, EDINBURGH FOR OLIPHANT, ANDERSON & FERRIER EDINBURGH AND LONDON TO MY WIFE THIS SIMPLE TALE OF A QUIET PLACE IS DEDICATED CONTENTS PAGE Chapter I. ...... 9 Chapter II. . . . . . .18 Chapter III. . . . . .29 Chapter IV. . . . . . .39 Chapter V. ...... 47 Chapter VI. . . . . . .56 Chapter VII. . . . . . .66 Chapter VIII. ...... 75 Chapter IX. ...... 84 Chapter X. ...... 94 Chapter XL . . . . .104 Chapter XII. . . . . . .116 Chapter XIII. . . . . . 125 Chapter XIV. . . . . . 143 Chapter XV. ...... 151 Chapter XVI. ...... 162 Chapter XVII. ...... 182 Chapter XVI 1 1.. . . . . • *95 Chapter XIX 202 Chapter XX 213 Chapter XXI 225 Chapter XXII

Chapter I

/^\ N a late October afternoon two farm carts were toiling up the Ridstane Rig, which is the last climb the traveller has to face as he ascends the southern slopes of the Brunt land Hills. No fence marks the road that winds through those pastoral solitudes. A line of weather-worn snowpoles, set up at irregular intervals and inclining at different angles, gives one a hint of what the land scape must be in winter, when February has " filled the dyke with white," and the drifts lie deep along the hillsides. It is an unfrequented road through a lonely region. Once on a time the mail-coach came rattling and lurching down the Rid stane Rig, with the sparks flying from horse - hoofs and skidded wheels ; and the red-coated driver pulled up his smoking team in style at the door of the Kilpallat Arms, far below in the strath.

But now the life and stir have departed; the famous old highway is given over to local traffic, and not much of that; and the Kilpallat Arms is a shrunken and forlorn hostelry. You may travel for miles, and hear nothing but the bleating of flocks and the " wheeple " of plovers ; and meet no living thing but the blackfaced sheep which graze along the roadside, and scurry and scamper away at your approach. The two carts were heavily laden with household furniture, and the horses, strong limbed and in the pink of condition as they were, seemed to find the last mile of the long hill quite enough for them. With drooping heads and heaving flanks, with their damp coats steaming and their big hoofs spinning the loose stones to right and left, they strained and hauled bravely upwards, while the men walking beside them cheered them on.

An elderly woman and a young girl rode in the leading cart, ensconced amongst the furniture. It was evidently a country flitting on a modest scale. A certain melancholy attends a flitting. The eight-day clock, torn from its accustomed corner and laid unceremoniously on its back, turns a gaze of mute reproach and protest to the skies. The old scrutoire and aumrie, the grandfather's high-backed leathern chair, the goodwife's spinning-wheel — all the cherished household gods, roped in grotesque attitudes on a cart, seem conscious of indignity and dis comfort. On this particular flitting the rain had begun to fall, which made its aspect the more depressing. A snell north-east wind blew down the Swyre, the narrow gap in the hills which marks the summit of the Ridstane Rig, and drove the flying shower right in the face of the travellers.

The woman drew the girl's shawl closer, and cast an anxious glance be hind her at the contents of the cart. " Are ye suir ye hae the bedding weel happed, Sandy ? " she asked of the man who was walking at the horse's head ; " it's comin' on to rain heavy. I wish it mayna be a wat nicht." " No' a bit o't, mistress," said the man, in a loud, cheery voice ; " it's nae mair than a Lid desdale drow. It'll be bye in a minute. An' ye needna fash yoursel' aboot the bedding. That's a' seen to. Ye may trust Sandy Skae ! " Sandy Skae looked as if he might be trusted. His rugged, weather-beaten counte nance, tanned with sun and wind, and set in a fringe of reddish hair dashed with gray, wore an expression of mingled sim plicity and shrewdness which invited con fidence. He was a very tall man, gaunt and sinewy ; a long way past middle age, but still carrying the load of years without effort.

The checkered mawd folded over his chest and shoulders, the long staff in his hand, and the shaggy, wise-faced collie which fol lowed at his heels, announced his calling. In deed, that might have been guessed from nothing more than his walk, and the critical, comprehensive gaze with which he surveyed, now the heavens, and now the stretches of pasture on either hand. Only a shepherd walks the toll-road with those slow, deliberate strides, as if he were stalking knee-deep through heather. Only a shepherd — or a sailor — has that look in his eyes, at once searching and meditative, which comes of exploring far distances and observing the signs of the weather. Sandy Skae was every inch of him a Border herd ; a fine sample of a fine class of men. The young man who tramped up the hill at his side represented a quite different type.

He was of medium stature and slender build. He stooped slightly, and his cheeks were pale — the stoop and pallor of the student ; but he walked with a firm, elastic step, which be tokened no lack of bodily vigour. A high forehead, from which the wavy brown hair was pushed carelessly back ; dark, dreamy eyes; a mobile, sensitive mouth, which seemed to quiver or tighten at the touch of unspoken thoughts — altogether, a face that was intel lectual, attractive, even striking, though not, strictly speaking, handsome. A certain air of distinction and refinement, a high-bred bear ing, and noticeably small hands and feet, might have led an observer to surmise that this young man was of gentle birth. In reality, he came of a race which for centuries had been bound to the soil and had dwelt in a but and a ben.

That he had departed from the ways of his peasant ancestry and raised himself a step or two in the social scale, was shown by his suit of clerical black, and his white tie, the badge of his profession. The travellers had now passed through the Swyre, and the long Rig lay behind them. They had reached the watershed which divides the springs of Carterton from those of Kil pallat, and before them the road dipped gently downwards for several miles, and then rose again out of the valley and disappeared over the next ridge, at a point where a solitary snow-pole lifted itself against the sky. Sandy Skae stopped the horses. " We'll hae to gie the beasts a bit rest," he said; "they're leg weary after that brae. It's a sair climb for horse wi' a laid ahint them." For some time no word was spoken. They stood viewing the prospect, which was cheerless enough, seen in the gathering shades and falling rain of chill October.

Here and there on the bare slopes of the hillsides stood a farm-steading or a lonely shepherd's cottage ; but the signs of cultivation were few and far between, and for one acre of yellow oat-stubble or green turnips there were hundreds of brown moss and withered bracken and heather. Upon this sequestered valley, shut out from the world by its guar dian hills, and seeming to embrace a little world of its own, the young minister looked with an intent, wistful gaze. It seemed to say, " Here lies my future. What shall it be ? " Sandy Skae's voice broke the silence. "Maister Armiger!" he said, with abrupt emphasis. The young man started, and looked at him in surprise. "Maister Armiger," he continued," anither step taks ye into your ain parish. That mile stane there is richt on the march. There's no' a foot o' this road I dinna ken, for mony's the time I hae travelled it, gaun back an' forrat to St Boswells market.

An' here your parish begins, an' ower yonder, whaur ye see yon post stick in' up, it ends, an' it gangs a gey bit to the tae side an' the tither. An' now, as we're on the march, I wad like, if ye dinna objec', to gie ye a shake o' the han' an' wish ye luck." "Object, Sandy?" said the young man; " there's no man's hand I would sooner take than yours, and there's no one, I know, could wish me better ! " "Thank ye, Maister Armiger," said the shepherd, as he enfolded the young minister's small soft hand in his big horny one — "an' that's a true word, onyway. I see ye're no' used yet wi' my new way o' speakin' to ye, an' to tell ye the truth, I've no' just got the set o't mysel'. But I said in my ain mind — Sandy, as sune as ye're ower the march, ye maun mend your manners. It maunna be ' John ' ony mair.

He's the minister, an' you're the minister's man, an' ye maun mind that. Ye've kent him since he was a bairn, an' ye've got into a familiar way o' speakin' to him that'll no' dae, now he's in a parish o' his ain. Ye maun set an example to ither folk, an' show him a' respec'. Am I no' richt, mistress ? — ay, I thocht ye wad say sae. An' now ye maun wish him luck, tae, afore he taks the next step, that brings him into Carterton." The woman leant forward ; a look of maternal pride softened the lines of her hard peasant features, as she laid her hand in the young man's. " May guid gae wi' ye, my son," she said. John Armiger looked up with a quick, bright smile. " And with us all, mother," he said. " We are all crossing the march to gether, you know. And I'm not afraid of what may come as long as I have you, and Maisie here, and Sandy !

" "An' now we maun be pushin' on," said Sandy, "an' mak the maist o' what daylicht there is. This has been a thrang day, an' we hae oor wark afore us or we get fires lichtit, an' beds made up, an' a' thae things under cover. — Ye see yon farm steading, ac cross yon nick in the hills ? That's Seggar side. An' that's Carterton Kirk aboot a mile further yont — ye can mak' oot the gable end o't ower thae saugh trees. Ye canna see the Manse, for it lies doun in the hallow. We're near oor journey's end now, an' I'll wad there's nane o' us sorry, for a sair taissle it has been baith for beast and body ! " a

Chapter II

"\ 'XTHEN John Armiger was appointed to * * the parish of Carterton his friends pro nounced him a lucky man. For Armiger, though a brilliant student, was by no means a brilliant preacher. The nerve which had carried him triumphant through the ordeal of the stiffest examinations for honours or scholarships, un accountably forsook him when he mounted the pulpit stairs. The man who had faced the most formidable examiners without a tremor quailed before a handful of shepherds and ploughmen. To compose a sermon was child's play to John Armiger. To deliver it was the most exquisite agony, in which his hearers to some extent shared. This pro ceeded from his intense shyness. Under the gaze of one pair of eyes he fidgeted ; under the gaze of a hundred he suffered nameless torment. Armiger came of a line of flockmasters and a shepherds which had been settled in and about a certain Border parish for many gen erations.

A corner of the churchyard was filled with their gravestones, most of them marked with the shepherd's crook carved cross-wise, between skull and hour-glass. But there was a more imposing monument, built into the wall of the ancient church, on which their family name appeared. Time and weather had worn the surface of the stone and all but obliterated effigy and epitaph. Yet some trace of a knightly blazon remained, and under the growth of black-green moss which encrusted the crumbling slab one might decipher here and there a word or broken phrase of a long Latin inscription. The stone had been erected, it appeared, to the memory of Johannes de . . . Armiger. The name was lost : the designation remained. Perhaps the Armigers might have traced their descent from him who slept under what was known locally as " the muckle stane."

But they had long since ceased to take any interest in their pedigree. John Armiger was an only child, whom the simple piety of his parents had set apart for the Church from his earliest years. His own inclinations fell in with their wishes ; the studious, retiring lad, brought up under the strong religious influences of his cottage home, never doubted that he had a "call." Before he had finished his first session at college his father died ; and from that day to the end of his course his mother's life had been one of struggle and privation, at first in order to help her son, and latterly not to hang upon him as a burden. At last the day came when he stood before the Presbytery, satisfied his examiners that he knew rather more of Greek and Hebrew than themselves, and received license to preach the Gospel.

And then began a time of tribulation for the young probationer. He appeared in various pulpits within the bounds, with results most disappointing to his friends and morti fying to himself. He halted, he stammered, he floundered, he "lost himself," he repeated himself. He was pronounced "cauld," " fushionless," "raivelled"; everything a preacher should not be. His matter was objected to no less than his manner; it was "that deep there was nae findin' a bottom to't." " He may be a braw scholard, but he'll never mak' a preacher," was the general verdict, in which even the friendliest critics concurred. Even more damaging to his reputation than these failures in the pulpit was his manner when out of it. His shy reserve was set down as pride. As he walked the roads, in a fit of abstraction or a mood of sad self communing, he would omit to return a saluta tion or respond to a "fine day."

" He never goam'd me," the aggrieved countryman would say with much bitterness. And then the chorus would chime in : " I'm suir he has naethin' to mak' him stuck up. We a' kent his faither, an' we're just as guid as him." The humiliating sense of failure, the possi bility that he had mistaken his vocation, lay on Armiger's spirit like a pall. His mother suffered with him, but in silence. She was one of those whom nature has endowed with deep feelings, but to whom the faculty of expression has been denied. There was confidence between mother and son, but they rarely exchanged confidences. They under stood each other, but the understanding was independent of speech. The knowledge of what was passing in her mind made his trouble the worse to bear. Fortunately, perhaps, for Armiger, his lot was cast in the days of patronage ; a system which, whatever its faults, occasionally found out and rewarded patient and unobtrusive merit.

He had brought himself to face the alternative of remaining for life, like Dominie Sampson, a " stickit stibbler," or of throwing up the work to which his heart was given, yet for which it seemed he was unfit, when, one memorable evening, a letter came to him — a letter sealed with a big red seal. He recognised the handwriting and the armorial bear ings. "My Dear Mr Armiger" — so the letter ran — "It is very pleasing to me that one of the first things I have to do, on coming into my estates, is to make a presentation to the parish of Carterton, as I am thus able to offer you the living. I am sorry for your sake that the stipend is small, and the place so very much out of the way. But it may lead to something better, and if you accept, I shall be relieved of what I feel to be a serious responsibility.

For I know your character and gifts, and I am satisfied that the people will have in you a faithful minister. — Yours very truly, Kilpallat." Armiger read this letter with a thrill and a flush of satisfaction. It was no less a pleasure than a surprise to him to find that the young peer whom he had " coached " for a time when at college had not forgotten him when he came into his kingdom. And the offer was very tempting. It came to him like a shaft of sunshine through the clouds. It opened a way for him out of his difficulties. Next moment a qualm of doubt assailed him and the glow faded from his brow. He handed the letter to his mother. Mrs Armiger put down her knitting, put on her " glasses," and read it slowly, word by word. What she thought of it no one could have guessed from her face ; the strong, stern features, schooled to repress all emotion, kept their secret.

She handed back the letter to her son. "Weel?" — was all she said. " I think I'll step down the road," he said, " and see Sandy." He found the shepherd sitting as usual in the kitchen end of the small cottage where he dwelt in bachelor state, taking his ease after the day's toil. A big porridge-pot hung from the "swee" over the fire, which he stirred at regular intervals, while toasting his stockinged feet at the blaze, and puffing vigorously at a black clay pipe which was almost all bowl and no " shank." "Come your ways, John," he said with much cordiality ; " come in by an' sit ye doun. I'm aye luntin' awa, ye see, but I daursay ye'll no' mind the reek. An' what brings ye here the nicht?" Read that, Sandy," said Armiger. The shepherd took the letter, handling it with much respect, spread it out upon the table, brought the candle perilously near, and "snibbed" it with his fingers.

Then he set himself to his task with all the air of an Assyriologist at work on some Acadian in scription. In a first reading he "got the hing o' the thing," as he said ; in a second he "took it a' in." And then, bringing down his hand with a resounding smack upon his knee, — " Man, that's grand ! " he said ; " that's just providential ! " The young man did not seem to share his elation. "Sandy," he said, "I'm not clear about it, and I want your advice. Of course I know that this is a great chance for me, and if I don't take it I may never get another. And I should hate to seem ungrateful to Lord Kilpallat. But I doubt my own fitness. I doubt very much whether the people would ever have chosen me to be their minister if they had had their choice. And I'd rather a thousand times shoulder the crook than be forced on a parish against the people's will."

"Now, John," said the herd gravely, "ye'll just listen to me. I haena your lear, but I hae a kind o' rouch sense o' my ain, an' they say an ounce o' mother-wit is worth a pound o' clergy. Ye're takin' it ower muckle to heart, what the folk round aboot here hae been sayin'; ye micht mind what the Bible says aboot a prophet haein' nae honour in his ain country. It'll no' dae to stand in your ain licht or sit on your ain coat-tails : that's no' the way to win through life. This has come to ye withoot your seekin' it, an' ye maun haud forrat. Man, his Lordship kens ye better than ye ken yoursel'. Ye've got it in ye, and some day it'll win oot, I've aye said it. Ye'll answer that letter as it deserves to be answered, an' fine ye ken the way. Ye'll accep' his Lordship's offer, an' ye'll gang an' preach.

An' syne, if they gie ye a call, ye'll tak' the place. If they dinna want ye they'll sune let ye ken, an' then'll be the time to speak o' refusin'. Now, ye've askit my advice, an' ye've got it, an' I hope ye mean to tak' it?" " Yes, I'll take it, Sandy." " That's sensible, now. Ye maun dae your best, though, an' mind ye shake han's wi' a'body ye meet. An' dinna be ower deep for them. Dinna gae soomin' oot a' your lane, an' leave the folk stan'in' on the edge o' the water, glowerin' after ye, an' wonderin' if ye're ever comin' back. Tell them a wheen things they've heard afore ; they'll think nane the waur o' ye for that. An' I'm thinkin' I'll maybe be able to gie ye a leg-up. There's a herd in Carterton parish — Jock Stoddart they ca' him — that I'm weel acquent wi'. He's got an unco say wi' the folk there ; they just gang after him like the titlin after the gowk.

I'll let him ken whae your faither was : he ken't him weel. It'll dae ye nae harm to hae REVENGE 27 Jock on your side, as weel as the laird. . . . Mercy me ! " he broke off, as a strong smell of singeing pervaded the room, " I've clean forgot to steer the parritch, an' now they're set on, an' I was gaun to ask ye to sit doun an' hae a sup wi' me ! " " Mother," said John Armiger when he came home that night, " I mean to go and preach at Carterton." " I think ye're richt, John," she said, and no more. But Maisie threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. So he went and preached, and " pleased the folk" sufficiently well. Jock Stoddart, the oracle, allowed that he " michtna be just at hame in the pulpit, but that wad come. As for his discoorse, it was fine, solid stuff. He didna tak' a subjec' an' mirl it a' doun to wee crumbs, that got lost in a body's pooch.

He gied ye a guid, honest, substantial slice — somethin' ye could carry awa'." And so, in due time, the old home was broken up, and the flitting took its way over the moors and across the hills to Carterton. " I'm gaun wi' ye, John," Sandy Skae had said a few days before their departure. "Your faither an' me gaed to the schule thegither, an' we worked to ane anither's han's for nigh forty year, an' whan he was lyin' on his death-bed he said to me no' to loss sicht o' ye. There's naethin' to keep me here, an' I've wrocht plenty. I hae somethin' laid by for a sair foot, ye ken — no' that muckle, but eneuch to keep me for the rest o' my days, an' bury me at the end o' them. Ye'll hae a glebe, an' we'll put a wheen sheep on't, an' I'll be minister's man. If the steepen's no' big, it'll be a through-pittin', onyway ; an' as lang as there's a loaf in the hoose, ye'll gie the loon's piece to Sandy ! "

Chapter III

"T^HEN it's understood aboot that new roof to the strae-barn, my lord, an' sortin' the cart-shed, an' mendin' that bad bit o' the road that I was showin' ye, frae the cottars' hooses up to the mains ? " " Certainly, Seggarside, certainly. These are all things that want looking to." " An' raisin' that march-dyke anither foot, or else rinnin' a wire alang the tap o't, I'm no' parteec'lar which ; an' drainin' Skitter bog — that's the field we gaed ower, ye'll mind, whaur ye saw the rashes growin' amang the grass wi' your ain een ? " " Oh yes, I remember it quite well. I'll mention it to Mr Cunningham. You leave it to me. It'll be all right." " Ye can say to him I'll drive the stanes and the tiles ; I'm no' wantin' to pit your Lordship to ony mair expense than what's richt an' reasonable. But ye see there's been naethin' dune to the place since the last tack ran oot, forby what I've dune mysel', an' it's astonishin' how the like o' buildin's an' fences gangs back, if they're no' lookit after.

An' as ye are here, I wad like to let ye see " " And how is your new minister getting on, Seggarside ? " said Lord Kilpallat, with his foot in the stirrup. The question was put rather abruptly, and with an evident intention to change the subject. Lord Kilpallat was new to estate management. He was young, and naturally inclined to open-handed generosity. But al ready a suspicion had crept over him that his tenant at Seggarside had inveigled him into a tour of the steading and farm for purposes of which Mr Cunningham the factor might not wholly approve. And a vision of how that potentate might look and of what he might say had begun to disturb the young landowner's mind. A shadow flitted across Seggarside's jovial countenance ; he would fain have kept the conversation on business lines. On ordinary occasions he was ready enough to " crack " RE VENGE 31 about ministers in general, and his own in particular ; but now, when the laird was in his toils, when there were so many defects to point out and improvements to suggest, the topic seemed distinctly mistimed — a frittering away of a golden opportunity.

He was not wanting in tact, however, and before Lord Kilpallat was in the saddle he had made up his mind that he had better take the hint, and not attempt to go further for the present. "The new minister?" he said, with an affectation of interest ; " weel, to tell ye the truth, I haena seen muckle o' him. But I believe he's daein' weel eneuch." Lord Kilpallat knew the vernacular suf ficiently well to appreciate this guarded answer. "No' that ill" would have been eulogy. "Well eneuch" was the faint praise which is condemnation. "Why, don't you find him a good preacher ? " " Ou, as for that, I hae naethin' to say agin' his preachin', forby that whiles ye're no' very suir what he's drivin' at, an' whiles he doesna appear to ken ower weel himsel'. An' ye couldna ca' him eloquent; no, ye couldna say he was that.

He hasna muckle freedom in the pulpit, if ye ken what I mean — he doesna exert himsel', an' fling himsel' aboot, an' dad the thing into ye whether ye wull or no'. But this I maun allow, he aye divides his subjec' into heids, an' he doesna keep ye ower lang. No, his preachin's no' his worst faut. I'll say as muckle as that for him." "And what is his worst fault, then? I wish you would tell me. I should really like to know." "Weel, if he's stiff in the pulpit, he's ten times stiffer oot o't. He meets ye on the road as if he'd raither see ye further. An' he's no' sociable. For a' they said against him, auld M'Watt was gran' company. He wad drap in o' an evenin', an' crack aboot whatever cam' bunemost, an' tak' his tumbler an' enjoy it. He wasna muckle o' a preacher, M'Watt, but he was a speakable body, an' he was a braw han' at tellin' a story, an' he had a wonderfu' notion o' stock.

Now, this ane's aye at his buiks, they tell me; onyway, he doesna come yont here. They say he's a fair dungeon o' learnin', an' I daursay he may be; I'm nae jidge o' thae things." " I think there used to be great com plaints about Mr MWatt? — about him not visiting the people ? " "Weel, he didna gang muckle aboot amang the folk ; at least, he aye got the name o' bein' a bad visitor, puir body." " I'm sure you will never find that Mr Armiger neglects any of his duties. Give him time, Seggarside. Wait till you know him better, and if you don't change your opinion, I shall be greatly disappointed. I want him to do well here ; he's a friend of mine." " A frien' o' your Lordship ? " " Yes, and a friend that did me good in more ways than I can tell you. I never came across a better man, and he has brains for anything.

You may be proud to have a man like him for your minister ; that's how I look at it." "Weel," said the farmer slowly, as if re adjusting his ideas to this new point of view, "your Lordship ocht to ken best, an' there c maun be a heap mair in him than comes to the tap. But ye maunna think I'm no' frien'ly disposed to him — quite the contrar'. I mak' nae dou't he's a' that ye say. We'll hae to get better acquent ; I'll ask him up to tak' a bite o' supper, some nicht sune, An' if he wad just meet a body half-roads, he'll find there's nae man in the parish'll stand up for him mair stieve nor Andrew Warden o' Seggarside." "That's right, Warden ; that's how to talk. Take my word for it, you'll find him the right sort when you really get to know him. And now I'll say good-day to you — I'm going down to the Manse to call."