Redburn

Front matter

■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ I ■ ■ ■ REDBURN REDBURN BY HENRY OCHILTREE & -^%^**g^- ALEXANDER GARDNER }3tiblist)ct to ?£rr j+laiesty tf)f fijucm PAISLEY; and PATERNOSTER SQUARE, LONDON i895 CONTENTS. PAGE Chapter I. — Redburn, - - 9 ,, II. — A Forecast of the Year, - - 12 ,, III. — A First Attempt at Wooing, - - 19 ,, IV. — At the Staneshaw Brig, - 29 ,, V. — -Jims Buchan at Robin Marshall's Smithy, 39 „ VI. — A Tea Party at Whaupknowe, - 49 ,, VII. — More about the Tea Party, 60 ,, VIII. — Jims Buchan goes A-Courting, - 72 ,, IX. — Liz Visits Rashiehill, - 80 ,, X. — The Bonnie Brier Buss, - 96 ,, XI. — The Footing of the Peats, - 106 XII. — The Wraith, - 115 ,, XIII. — The Stoneyburn Revival, - 124 ,, XIV. — After the Revival Meeting, - 133 „ XV. — Conscience, - - - 140 XVI.— He Came Not, 146 ,, XVII. — Slopping the Cries, - 153 „ XVIII. — Trials for License, - - 164 ,, XIX. — Sandy and Nansie, - 171 ,, XX. — An Awakening, - - - 178 „ XXI. — The New Minister of Stoneyburn, 184 XX 1 1.— The Struggle, - - 191 „ XXIII.— The Cliffs of Creich, 196 „ XXIV.— ' The Great Onfa',' - 203 ,, XXV. — Whaupknowe, - - REDBURN.

Chapter I. Redburn

The farm of Redburn is situated far up on the uplands, or ' the Muirlands,' as that part of the country is locally called. It is one of the largest of those farms or holdings possessed by the bonnet lairds, and has been in the possession of the Waughs for nearly three hundred years. Things have greatly changed since the days when the lairds of Redburn did not think it beneath their dignity to breakfast, dine, and sup with their serving-men and women, and join them on terms of perfect equality in work or amusement. The present farmhouse of Redburn is no more like the farmhouse of the last generation than the old House of Parliament in Edinburgh is like the village school in the wild country of ' the Muirlands.' An imposing pile of stone and lime with bow-windows and huge panes takes the place of the quaint old two-storey house, with small windows and queer thick panes of glass, studded with knots, that acted like prisms on the light, and refracted rays of varied colour.

The front-door stands above a pile of half-a-dozen steps of stone, while the old one was a foot or more below the outside surface of the ground. The kitchen door is now concealed somewhere at the back of the house, which nobody is supposed ever to see, and a number of ' lily-oaks ' grow around it to make the con cealment as perfect as possible ; while the kitchen door of the old house was situated in the front, and was alike the entrance for human beings and cattle. In fact, the front-door, as it i REDBURN. 10 was called, was seldom opened, and nobody would have dreamt of entering by any other door than that which was common to kitchen and byre. The cattle turned to the right as they entered, the people to the left. There was no danger of the cattle finding their way ' ben by the trans door,' for a common understanding existed between people and beasts, and each took their ' ain gate ' by habit and instinct.

When the breath of the cattle was felt to be too strong, a mat of straw was laid along the foot of the ' trans door.' The byre, barn, and stables now form another separate square of buildings at the other end of the farm-town. The kail-yard lies between. The roof of the present house is of slate, and divided curiously into towers and turrets that jut out at various angles to one another ; but the old one was of thatch, with a barrel for a chimney top, and rows of ' fail ' along the top for a rigging. Where the piano now stands, the spinning-wheel and the reel would have stood in the old days. On the one side of what may be called an apology for a fireplace there now stands an open press in the wall, filled with china and other articles of a similar nature, most of which actually graced the shelves of a cupboard under the thatch roof, and on the other side is a ' what-not.' Each of these respectively would have been re placed by packs of wool or bales of lint on the one hand, and on the other by a pile of peats, in days when the fireplace was massive and broad, and when the stars could be seen up through the chimney.

Changes indeed ! The lairds have changed too, for they no longer wear knee-breeches of the best corduroy, and moleskin sleeved-waistcoats, with broad Kilmarnock bonnets on their heads and buckled shoes upon their feet, as their fathers did before them. The present laird sleeps not, as his forefathers were wont, in the box-bed of the kitchen, with a straw mat in front to keep their feet off the earthen floor when they rose in the morning, but in a fine carpeted room on the second floor, with a spring mattress below him, and with rare antique mahogany arranged round his room. REDBURN. 11 Old Maggie M'Farlane says, ' It's eneugh to turn ane's head and bring doon the jidgment o' Heaven, to think o' the changes that hae been made at Redburn, as for the waur, sin' auld Laird Waugh's head was put below the sod.' The old house of Redburn stood not on the situation of the present one, on the brow of the hazel knowe, but at the west end of the farm, about a hundred yards from the peat moss, on a low level bit of ground.

That site was chosen, as I have been told, to be ' handy for the peats cairting in.' Although now a mass of ruins, yet sufficient of these remain to mark the general outline of the place. The horse-pond still exists, although grown over with all manner of weeds, and tenanted with frogs and newts. Another strange-looking hollow may still be seen, about three steps from what was once the kitchen-door — this, I believe, was the site of the ' midden stead.' But it is the old windows with their rough lintels that attract one's attention most. They give the place in the twilight an uncanny appearance, especially the one that has left in it a solitary pane of glass. I looked in once through this dark green piece of glass, with its bull's-eye knot in it, but felt somewhat eerie, and retired. The frail box-bed, half broken down, with a tall hat lying at the foot of it, looked very queer.

The fireplace still stands, with its three broken ribs, and the old ' winter ' 1 in front of them, where Grannie Waugh for many a long day ' masked ' her afternoon cup of tea. In the peat-neuk, half a cart load at least of peat-malloch lies baked and dry looking. The post of the hallan door remains, too, solitary and bare, with the exception of a brown calf-skin bonnet which hangs on one of the nails in it, covered with dust and ashes. Two or three slabs of wood run along the foot of it, transversely, and in one of them there is a rough, torn like hole, made, it is said, by the teeth of one of the collies that always took up his abode at this spot, and growled and tore at the wood with its teeth when the lads used to ' daff ' with the 1 Winter — an implement made to hang on the grate on which the kettle is placed.

REDBURN. 12 lassies behind the hallan door, much to the annoyance of grannie as she lay in her comfortable box-bed. The only things which seem to shew no sign of decay about old Redburn are the clump of ash trees which still grow in all their magnificence at the west end gable of the barn. There they are, strong and living as ever, witnesses of many a queer frolic and event ; but they seem now strangely out of place, lonely and sad-looking, sighing over the roofless ruin. To only three or four persons do they now bring back crowded memories of things that have been. One of these is Maggie M'Farlane, who with tears in her eyes told me that the big ash was planted in the year '49 of last century by the auld laird's father, on the day that he was married to Jean, youngest daughter of John of Birkenshaw.

At the foot of the stackyard, well overgrown with grass and saughs, lie the stilts and beam of the old-fashioned wooden plough. On the ' wa' head ' of the barn I found, when last I visited the spot, two wooden mole traps, and another made from a drain tile, two or three rusty harrow prongs, and a box containing brass buttons, a pair of pincers, a few long nails, and the heckle of a spinning wheel. These have all long been disused ; and the well-worn hands that used them have mingled with their mother earth. They are at rest for evermore. But still the ash trees bend and creak before the autumn winds, and deeply groan in answer to the hooting owls. The old laird's calfskin bonnet, that once covered a well-filled head, hangs motionless and dusty on the hallan doorpost ; while the youngest laird of all gallops on a fiery steed behind a pack of hounds in pursuit of the much ill-used fox, and drinks and swears for a wager.

Chapter II

A FORECAST OF THE YEAR. It was the early spring of the year '26— a year famous, chiefly, for its short corn and dear oatmeal and 'yits.' The forenudits REDBURN. 13 were beginning to shorten, and the snell east winds were be coming sharper and ' more seeking.' Even the straw ' bass ' laid at tbe foot of the hallan door of Redburn house was as inadequate to keep out the cold breath of the east wind as, on other occasions, to keep out the heavy breath of the cows in the byre. Allan Waugh, laird of Redburn and Windyyetts, sat dozing in his arm-chair, with his head leaning back against the hallan, and his feet encased in a pair of leather shoes with the heels turned down, resting on a coil of peats. But for his intermittent snores and the birr of his wife's spinning wheel, the house was com paratively quiet.

The laird always sat with his bonnet on, usually a broad Kilmarnock, but on a special occasion a calf skin cap. It was the broad Kilmarnock to-night. It usually hung over his brow, but, by the backward position of his head, it was slightly tilted up, and showed a broad, massive forehead, deeply wrinkled, with a large mole over the right eye. His mouth, usually firm and compressed, was half-open, while the heavy chin hung slack and easy below, which seemed to lengthen still more the long, deep-set lines which ran down his cheeks by the corners of his mouth, giving even a sterner expression to his face than it really possessed. Allan Waugh was no longer young. He had turned seventy, but certainly looked ten years younger, which was exactly the age of his wife, although she looked quite as old as her husband.

Kirsty Waugh, as she was called, was a little, wiry person, sharp featured, with a still sharper tongue, jet-black eyes and prominent nose. Her hair was still black as a raven, although it was seldom seen from under her long, 'sow-backed mutch.' Once on a time she had been considered the bonniest lass in the Muirlands, but she was now shrivelled and withered-looking ; and, as she ' teethed ' her heckle, the large, blue veins could be seen strongly marking her hands, which were never idle. Her mother, however, — Grannie, as she was called — looked not a bit older, although she had reached her ninety-fifth year. Indeed, but for the childish, piping voice of the old woman, it would have been difficult for REDBURN. a stranger to say from mere appearance whether mother or daughter were the elder.

Suddenly the birr of the wheel ceased with a quick, sharp click and the sound as of a string snapping. 'Ye've been haudin' ower stent,' said Grannie, in a curious, high treble, which sounded as if from another world. Her daughter made no reply, but bit away a thick knot from her yarn and proceeded to fasten the ends again. 'And that'll be the end o' yersel', too, Kirsty; an ye dinna tak' better care o' yersel' your heartstrings will juist play snap some morning. Ye work far ower hard, lassock.' ' Better to wear oot than rust oot,' replied the daughter with her quick, sharp voice. ' Hech O ! that's true. It's awfu' to be a lameter as I've been for sax 'ears gane. There's naething for me but rust oot now.' ' There's nae fear o' that, Grannie,' replied the laird, yawning, his eyes still closed ; ' auld, weel-wrought aim has aye a guid bane in't. It's gye teugh and stands a fell rug ; and sae we'll hae ye lowpin' ower the gowans yet, like a young ane.' ' Eh !

Allan, but ye speak rash. I hae seen the gowans o' ower mony simmers to let sic ferlies wander through my auld grey head. Gin it were the wull o' Providence to tak' me hame to Himsel', I widna hae a sair heart to start the morn.' ' Dinna look for snaw when there's nane fa'in, grannie. The simmer's comin', and we'll hae ye, muckle chair an' a', out in the calfward. It has a fine sod on't, an's weel bielded, and aince ye fin' the gowan aneath your fit there'll be nae haudin' o' ye.' ' Five score, a' but twa or three year,' replied grannie, with the same shrill plaintive voice; ' The Lord kens, I hinna muckle to live for now, but an' it were His wull, I wad be weel eneugh pleased to get a sniff o' the aipple-ringie and the sweet brier that grow sae bonnily at the north barn-door, afore I gang awa'.

But the gowans, Allan; the gowans ! Eh, laddie, ke.i ye what ye say ! — whaur will I e'er see the gowans again ? ' and a big round tear rolled down her cheek. REDBURN. 15 There was silence now for a few minutes. The laird leaned his head forward on his hands, and Kirsty, his wife, took the bottle of linseed oil from the ' bole,' and dropped a little into the sockets of the heckle, then gave it a twirl with her finger to see that it was working properly. This done, she pushed back her wheel into the breast of the window, and turn ing, with a languid air, to her husband, said : ' Allan, is't no time for fothering the kye? ' The laird lifted his head suddenly. The softness of his wife's voice — usually so firm and sharp — somewhat surprised him. ' What o'clock is't ? ' he enquired. ' Gaun on nine,' she replied ; ' they're half an hour by their time.' ' Ay, weel,' he answered, at the same time yawning.

For the space of another minute there was silence. The old eight-day clock, grim and dark in its oaken frame, standing in front of grannie's box-bed, where it had stood for half a century before, went on heavily with its tick-tock, tick-tock. The hollow of the box-bed behind seemed to give a still deeper tone to its measured beat. Kirsty had drawn in to the fire her low set four-footed 'currie,' and was warming her feet before the red peats. Grannie still sat in her arm-chair, her head thrown back against the pillow and her hands resting on the arms. The laird had not yet risen to see to the cows. He sat with his sleeved-waistcoat open, showing the whole front of his pure white 'ham sark.' His thumbs rested in his red braces, which were mounted with strong, white buckles and dark brown leather.

He gazed vacantly at the short, thick tallow candle as it burned dimly over the bronze candlestick which supported it. He was just on the point of rising, however, but his mind seemed to be pondering over something which kept him from his duties towards the cows. ' I think w-e're gaun to ha'e a guid 'ear, Kirsty,' he said at length, at the same time rising to his feet. ' D'ye think sae ? ' 'Ay, it's looking like it enow ony way. That lea park's harrowing fine, an's as dry as pouther.' REDBURN. 'We micht no hae as guid a hairst for a' that,' replied his wife mechanically. ' I think we will. I notice that the hairst munes a' rin vera like the seed anes. And we sud hae a braw full mune to ripen and win. That's as near's I can reckon, at ony rate, enow. Ye see we've had nae rain to speak o' for sax weeks, and the weather looks juist as settled-like the nicht as it did a month sin'.

Sae we're likely to get everything in and happit up afore there'll be vera muckle weet. Nae doot it'll be a fine plash when it comes, but then, it'll juist come when we are needing it to gar the corn spring, and then we'll hae it dry aboot hairst again. I think it's gaun ' At this moment he was interrupted by a strange noise, as if coming from below the hearth. It was a strange, unearthly like knock. 'What in a' the wide world can that be?' said Kirsty, in evident astonishment. Three distinct knocks were heard by all three. ' Eh ! Kirsty, dochter, that's the dead-knock. Waes me ! but I've heard it ower often no to ken. Imm — imm ! ' and the old woman groaned heavily. ' Whisht, mither, ye maunna lat things tak' haud o' ye that gait. Ye juist imagine things. It's some o' the beasts at the stake,' and the daughter drew near, and raised her up in her chair a little, and set her mutch on her head straight. 'Ye mauna let auld-warld nonsense stress ye like that.' ' Im — mm ! ' she again groaned. ' Ye're gaun to lose your auld mither, Kirsty, and ye'll be weel quat o' her, for she's been a sair faucht to ye.' ' Toots, nonsense, grannie ; thae auld-warld havers juist fash ye.

I wonder ye ever learned sic a gait,' said the laird in a cheerful, re-assuring voice. After a little, grannie calmed down again, and leaned her head once more upon her pillow. 'Whaur's the lassocks?' the laird enquired of his wife as they both entered the byre door. REDBURN. 17 ' Maggie's awa' to her bed,' answered his wife, referring to the servant ; ' and Nansie,' meaning their daughter, ' gaed awar ower to Whaup-knowe to spend atween-and-suppertime.' ' And is she no back yet ? ' ' No, she's no back yet.' ' That's surely gye odd ; what can she be daein' till this time o' nicht,' said the laird, evidently irritated. ' It's no that far on yet, Allan, and I'm lookin' for her every minute,' replied his wife, as she held the candle sidewise to enable him to see to spread the straw before the cows' heads. ' Stan' up ye auld jade ; what are ye caving at ?

Cast your head,' and the cow immediately turned her head to the other side of the stall. ' Wasn't yon a queer knockin', Kirst ? ' con tinued the laird, turning his thoughts quickly from the cow's horns to the mysterious sounds which had so much affected grannie. 'Toots, it was naething ava; some o' the kye caving their heads, or maybe the horses kickin'. Ye're as bad's my mither wi' your auld-warld nonsense. I winder ye hinna mair sense.' 'Ye may crack as ye like, Kirst — come about here; tuts ! ye stupid beast, whaur are ye gaun ? — ye may crack as ye like, but I'm no satisfied. I hope there's naething gaen wrang wi' that lassie ; it's a gye dark nicht.' • I winder what ye think will gang wrang wi' the lassie ? She's no a bairn, and nae doubt Sandy will see her ower the hill,' replied Kirsty.

At the same time she had her own thoughts, which she did not express. 'Weel, I hope he may, but there's nae sayin' if she's ever gaen near Whaup-knowe. She's maybe awa' gallavantin' with that lang, thin-shanked-looking carle o' a tutor at Gowanhill. D'ye ken, Kirst, I'd rather see her neckbane brak than gang awa' wi' that loon o' a weaver's son.' ' Weel, I widna like to see't mysel', gudeman, but I dinna think she'll bother ony mair wi' him. She's been weel tauld aboot it.' ' That's a' vera true, but young anes dinna aye dae as they're i8 ■ REDBURN. telt. It's far ower late to be comin' hame at this time o' nicht. If she's no hame here lucky shairp, I'll tak' the road for her mysel'. ' I dinna think ye need fash,' said his wife, ' for I ken fine she'll no be that lang. At ony rate, ye dinna need to gang yersel when the man's there.

I dinna think he's in's bed yet.' ' The man has his wark in the morning to attend till. We canna expect him to be gaun awa' ower that hill at this time o' nicht after the stravaigin' cutty, when he sud be gaun till's bed.' 'Weel, weel, then, juist as ye like, but ye can gi'e her half-an hour yet, at ony rate. It's no that often she's out o' the hoose.' 'If I thocht she war a' richt, I wadna mind sae muckle; but I tell ye, guidwife, and ye can say onything ye like, I didna think muckle o' that boss soun' we heard the nicht. And if she's no here in half-an-hour frae this minute, I'm on the road for her.' ' Man, ye're an awfu' havril, Allan. I can hardly foddom a man o' your age crackin' that gait. An I were to hearken till a' the queer soun's I hear, I'd ne'er be out o' het water.' ' D'ye mind when your faither dee'd, Kirst?' 'Ay, I think I'm no likely to forget that.' 'Weel, d'ye mind what happened when the twa o's were standing yonder at the fit o' the plantin'?' 'That's true eneugh.' ' Ye'll mind your faither was a corp' within four and twenty hours after't.' ' I think it was juist a maitter o' chance.

I've naither seen nor heard onything since.' 'Time eneugh, though, when it comes, gudewife.' ' Weel, I hope there's naething gaun happen our bairn. But if there's onything in't, d'ye no think it would be mair likely to be my mither, puir auld body ? She was sair distressed like.' ' I hope no, gudewife ; although it's in the nature o' things that your mither canna hae a lang tack to gang now. But she's weel eneugh at the heart for ocht we see enow, and I wadna like to see onything come ower your mither ony mair than our ain bairn.' REDBURN. 19 'We'll juist gang ben the hoose and wait for a weeock to see gin she doesna turn up.' ' There's naething for't in the meantime. I think the beasts are a' richt, so we may stap awa' ben,' replied the laird, taking the candle from his wife's hand and holding it up a little above his head, looking at the same time over the backs of the cattle to see that everything was right.

Chapter III

A FIRST ATTEMPT AT WOOING. Draped in her gray woollen gown and heavy plaid, Nansie Waugh arrived at Whaupknowe just as the long gloaming of springtime was settling into that deeper gray which makes small things look big, and everything assume a kind of blurred and undefined shape. Her cheeks glowed with freshness and a deep, rosy hue which the bracing spring atmosphere had infused into them. Her large, liquid, blue eyes gleamed out through their fringe of dark eye-lashes with such a play of merriment that might have enslaved the devotion of even a much less impressible heart than that of her great, slow, lumbering cousin, Sandy. He was seated on the ' bink ' in a half-lounging posture, when she stepped in past the hallan wall. With his elbow resting on one end of the bink and his foot on the other, he presented more a figure of dried clay than anything else — he was so bespattered with mud. ' How's a' wi' ye the nicht, Sandy ? ' was Nansie's salutation. ' Hallo, Nansie ! this you ?

Whaur the world hae ye come frae ? ' replied Sandy as he sprang to his feet, — his face flushing and his head somewhat bewildered. ' Whaur wad I come frae but frae hame, ye gowk.' ' I didna see ye comin' up the bawk. I'm just this minute in. Did ye come that wy? ' he went on with some confusion. REDBURN. 20 ' Ay, to be sure, for there's nae ither wy that I ken o'. D'ye ken o' ony ither yersel' ? ' ' There's nae ither, of course ; but it's queer I ne'er saw ye although I cam that wy frae the back bog.' ' I doubt your een are no in their richt bit, Sandy.' ' If they're wrang, it's you that pits them wrang then, Nansie,' he replied under his breath. ■ What a craitur ye are for leein, Sandy ! Ye speak awfu' havers. D'ye think ye can blaw my head up wi' a lot o' wind?' ' I'm tellin' ye.' ' Gae 'wa man.' 1 Nae gae 'wa.

I'm tellin' ye.' ' I'm no gaun to hearken to that nonsense o' yours. Ye think ye can mak' fun o' me. Whaur's the rest o' them ? ' At this moment a footstep was heard in the passage behind the kitchen, and leaving Sandy to chew the cud of his own thoughts, Nansie joined her aunt ' but between the doors.' Sandy, thus left to himself for a bit, began to look at his mud bespattered leggings, and compare them with the fine grey tweeds of Adam Scott, tutor at Gowanhill. He felt irritated, and his soul burned with wrath at the ' bold, upsetting ' tutor. He would be evens with him yet. He picked up his bonnet, and with quick, firm step marched out at the scullery door past his mother and cousin. He lifted the dimly lighted lantern with its tallow candle and broken glass, and covering the broken part with his waistcoat from the wind, made his way across ' the close ' to the stable.

After a shake or two at the ring of the door it opened. He closed it behind him, hung up his lantern at the back of it, on the handle of an old knife which was stuck in between the wooden sash and the masonry above, and did duty for a peg. He next went to a ' bole ' behind the gray mare, seized a currycomb with the one hand, and with a wisp of straw in the other, began to groom the horses. He rubbed hard and viciously — a hissing sound proceeding through his teeth all the time — until he came to the brown colt, REDBURN. 21 which was either so much astonished or so terrified at this un wonted kind of handling, that it first struck out with one of its hind feet then reared up and came down full weight on Sandy's toes. A half-suppressed groan was all that was heard until the sounds of whack ! whack ! whack ! went all over the stable, mingled with the cracks of the colt's hoofs against the treviss boards. ' Stand up on your feet, there, ye prod.' The colt rushed up into a corner of the stall, at these words, and during the rest of the proceedings cowered and trembled, each time Sandy passed behind with a lippie of corn to the several animals.

He next seized a three-pronged grape and lashed the straw bedding about the astonished creatures, while their tails went whisk, whisk, to the sounds of the graip. He had just finished operations in the stable, and was in the act of locking up the doors when his mother appeared suddenly behind him. AVithout another word she began : ' Nansie's in frae Redburn owerby, ye'd better gie yoursel a bit snod up and see her ower the hill.' Sandy made no reply and his mother, without further remark, turned on her heel, and had joined the family in the kitchen almost before any one had noticed she had gone out. She was a knowing woman, Mrs. Waugh of Whaupknowe, shrewd and observant, although at first sight quiet and stupid looking. Her looks belied her entirely. Her soft, quiet-toned voice and slow manner of speech, were altogether misleading.

Her stout, corpulent frame, her heavy eyelids, and lofty forehead, with its circle of sleek brown hair smoothed over her temples were in strange contrast to the sharp, keen intellect, mingled with a certain amount of cunning, that shone but dimly through her hazel eyes. She still looked a woman in prime of life, although slightly over fifty, and the mother of two stalwart sons and three daughters. At her husband's death she had to take upon her own shoulders the management of the farm of Whaupknowe, and for twelve years, had carried it out with the greatest success. Donald Dymber, cow-dealer, declared that REDBURN. 22 she could sell a cow or a horse with any man in the country. During the past two or three years, however, she had for the most part consigned the reigns of government to the hands of her son Sandy, in whose wisdom and knowledge she had implicit trust.