by John Buchan
His voice had become sensibly gentler. If his main object was to avoid too great a scandal in the Church, there may have been a spice of pity for the youth and the haggard face of the accused.
“I acknowledge myself most heartily to be the chief of sinners,” said David.
“There must be more than a general confession,” said the Moderator. “You must condescend upon the transgression. You must in this place confess the heinousness of your guilt on the precise counts I have expounded, admit your grievous errors and your abhorrence of them, and humbly submit yourself to judgment.”
“Nay,” said David. “I cannot admit that to be sin which I hold to have been my duty.”
Again from the assembly came a sound like sighing, but now it seemed to have a note of wrath in it, as if the breath came through clenched teeth. The Moderator shut his eyes as if to ward off an unbearable spectacle. Then he looked down on David with his brows drawn so that they made a line bisecting his great face.
“Man, man,” he said, “you are far from Christ. You confess your sin, but you hug to your bosom one darling iniquity which you proclaim a grace. You are blinded and self-deluded, and I see no hope for you in this world or the next. You are an outcast from the commonwealth of Israel.”
He inclined his head to Chasehope, who had plucked at his arm and now said something in his ear.
“I am reminded,” he went on. “Malignancy is not all the sum of the sins of this unhappy man. There was a charge which I had hoped there would be no need to press, but which in his condition of resolute impenitence I am bound to bring forward. He was seen in the back-end to frequent the Black Wood in the company of a woman, and it is alleged — nay, it can be proved by many witnesses — that in his doubtful work during the time of pestilence a woman was in his company. To public sins he would seem to have added private lusts. Answer me, sir, as you will answer some day to your Maker, who and what was the woman, and where is she to be found?”
The words scarcely penetrated to David’s brain, for he had already slipped away from the crowd of moody faces to his secret world. But in the hush that followed the question another voice spoke, a voice high-pitched and tremulous but as startling as a trumpet.
“She is with the angels in Heaven.” Mr. Fordyce had dropped his plaid from his shoulders, and stood up with raised arm, his eyes burning in his pale face. His repute as a saint was so well established that at any time he would have commanded silence, but now he spoke in a quiet so deep that his hearers seemed to be frozen in their seats. Even the Moderator stopped in the act of settling his bands, and his hand remained at his throat.
“I will speak and not be silent,” said the voice. “The woman whom you would accuse with your foul tongues is this day with her Lord in Paradise. Well I kenned her — she was Katrine Yester and she abode at Calidon — there was none like her for gentleness and grace. She was the promised wife of David Sempill — and in the time of calamity she left her bien dwelling and her secure life and wrought among the poor folk of Woodilee — ay, as Christ left His Father’s house to succour sinful men. . . . She is far ayont us for evermore, and in the New Jerusalem she will be so near the Throne that blessed will I be if I get a glimpse of her.”
The words — which when remembered later were accounted a horrid blasphemy — cast at the moment a strange spell over his hearers. The hush was broken by many turning their heads, as if they could not endure the sight of that prophetic face. Even the Moderator dropped his eyes; Chasehope stared at the speaker with half a smile on his lips.
“Fools, fools!” the voice went on. “I have been ower long silent because of the infirmities of my flesh. One came among you preaching Christ and you have stoned him, as the Jews stoned Stephen outside the walls of Jerusalem. I pray that it may be given him, like Stephen, to see the heavens open and the Son of Man standing on the right hand of God. . . . I tell you that there’s those among us now that will burn in Hell for this day’s work. Blind, blind . . .”
He choked, his face coloured with a rush of blood, he swayed and would have fallen had not David caught him. The cessation of the haunting voice restored the assembly to its senses. Murmurings began, and the Moderator dropped his hand from his throat and found speech.
“This is most unseemly. Our brother is sick and has forgotten himself. Let the work of the Court proceed.”
David lifted the half-fainting Mr. Fordyce in his arms. He bowed to the Moderator. “My presence is no longer needed,” he said. “I have no more to say and am in the hands of the Court. Meantime I must look to my friend.”
He left the kirk with his burden.
He took him to the little inn in the Northgate and put him to bed. The landlady was a kindly soul and promised to tend him well; there was no serious illness — excitement and emotion and an unaccustomed effort had drawn heavily upon Mr. Fordyce’s small reserve of strength — he needed only rest to be himself again. David found a Cauldshaw man just setting off up the water, and sent by him a message to ease the mind of Mrs. Fordyce and tell her that her husband would return on the morrow. When he left him he was sleeping.
This business occupied his time till late afternoon, and gloaming had already set in before he rode out of Kirk Aller. The Presbytery business was long since concluded, and the kirk on the brae was vacant and locked. The members had departed, for the yard of the Cross Keys, which in the morning had been like a horse fair, was now empty. The wind, which had been growing in violence all day, had now reached the force of a gale, and as David turned the corner above the gorge where the Aller breaks from the hills into the haugh, it met him full in the face. He pulled his hat low on his head and looked back. The little town, very bleak and grey in the chill April evening, lay smoking with its hundred chimneys. The sight affected him with a painful regret. It seemed a last look upon the life from which he was now an outcast, a life which eighteen months ago he had so warmly embraced.
He was coming out of his abstraction now, and looking at cold realities. Mr. Fordyce’s outburst in the Presbytery had shattered his secret world. Katrine was in bliss, and he was left alone on the bare roads of earth. Very solitary he felt; his father was dead, Mark Riddel was a fugitive, Reiverslaw had failed him, his Church had cast him out; there was no place for him, it seemed, in all the habitable globe, no work to his hand, no friend to lean on. He was looking at life now in a light as bleak as that April day which was now vanishing from the hills. . . . He seemed to have lost the power of feeling. He had no grudge against his enemies, no hatred even for Chasehope; his humility had become so deep that it was almost the abnegation of manhood. He was very tired and had lost the will to contend. “Katrine, Katrine!” his heart cried, “I’m not wanted on earth, and there’s no comfort here for the comfortless. O my love, that I were with you!”
The night grew colder as it advanced, and the wind, which commonly he welcomed, now cut him to the bone. He drew his cloak round him, and tried to urge his horse to a better pace. But apathy seemed to have fallen on beast as well as on master, and it jogged funereally, as if in no hurry to leave the chilly out-of-doors for the manse stable. There was a moon behind the flying rack of the sky, and there was light enough to see the dark huddle of the hills. Only where the track dipped to the trees by the river-side was there any depth of shadow.
It was in one such patch of blackness that David heard the sound of a horse behind him. Presently the rider was abreast of him, and even in the dark it seemed that he recognized him. “Guid e’en to ye, Mr. Sempill,” said a voice, but a gust of wind made it hard to recognize it. The new-comer fell into step beside him, and when in a minute they came out of the trees, David saw that it was Chasehope.
“You are late on the road, friend,” he said.
“I had weighty business on hand,” was the answer. The man was in a good humour, for he was humming a tune.
“This has been a waesome day for you, Mr. Sempill,” he went on. “Ye have set yoursel’ up against God’s law and man’s law, and y
e have taken a mighty fall. I bear no malice — though weel I might if the Lord hadna gi’en me grace to forgive. What I have done in your case I have done painfully as my solemn duty. But there’s pardon even for the chief of sinners, and it’s not to be believed that one like yoursel’, that had once a title in Christ, can be cast away. Seek mercy where it is to be found, Mr. Sempill.”
Chasehope spoke fast like one under the influence of drink, but the man was temperate, so it must have been some excitement of the spirit. In the dim light David could not see his face, but he knew the kind of light that was in his eye, for he had witnessed it before.
“I speak in all loving-kindness,” he went on. “If ye’re of the Elect, you and me will meet before the Throne. I would hold out a hand to a stumbling brother.”
David made no answer, but his silence did not check Chasehope’s flow, for he seemed to be burdened with that which must have vent.
“What have ye made of it wi’ your railing accusations? Bethink ye of that, Mr. Sempill. What has become o’ your uncovenanted Reiverslaw, and your Glee’d Mark wi’ his warlockry, and the bonny may ye trysted wi’? Ane is vanished like a landlouper, and ane will soon ken the wuddy [hangman’s rope], and ane is under the mools.”
David spoke at last, and had the other had ears to hear he might have detected a strange note in the minister’s voice.
“You speak the truth. I am indeed friendless and forlorn.”
“Friendless and forlorn! ‘Deed that’s the word. And wherefore, Mr. Sempill? Because ye have flung yoursel’ against the rock o’ the Elect who are secure in the Lord’s hands. What said the worthy Moderator after ye had gone? He likened the Kirk to the stone spoken of in Matthew twenty-one and forty-four—’Whosoever shall fall on this stone shall be broken: but on whomsoever it shall fall, it will grind him to powder.’”
“There was another word spoken — that some for this day’s work would burn in Hell.”
Chasehope laughed his rare and ugly laugh. “Hoots, man, that was just puir Mr. Fordyce, and a’body kens him. No but what he has the root o’ the matter in him — but he’s a dwaibly body wi’ nae mair fushion than a thresh [rush].”
“Nevertheless he spoke truly. Hell is waiting for some, and maybe this very night.”
Again Chasehope laughed. “Is Saul also among the prophets?” he asked. “Who are you, a minister outed and excommunicat, that you suld take to the prophesyin’?”
“God makes use of the feeblest pipes to proclaim His will. I tell you, Ephraim Caird, that this very night judgment may overtake you.”
This time Chasehope did not laugh, but moved his horse a little apart.
“Do ye daur to threaten me — ?”
“I threaten no man, but God threatens you.”
“Awa’ wi’ you! I have a firm assurance. And if ye daur lift hand on me—”
“Be comforted. My hand will not be lifted.”
The man seemed to recover his composure, for he edged his horse nearer and thrust forward his face.
“Ye’ve aye hated me. I could see it in your een the first day at the manse.”
“I have never hated you. There is no man living in whose company I would rather ride this night. I love you so dearly that I would save your soul.”
“You to speak of savin’ souls!” Chasehope began, and then stopped. For there was something in David which struck a chill even to his excited mind. The quiet masterful voice cut into his wild gabble like iron into peat. If there was madness in the man, there was a fiercer madness in the minister, for in the last minutes David’s weakness had fallen from him like rags, and he had quickened to a flaming zeal. It was a flame of such heat that it burned calmly, but the glow of it, radiating from him, made the other’s mere wildfire.
David spoke no further word, but a nervous restlessness came upon Chasehope. He blustered and bragged. See to what a pitch of esteem he had come from following the narrow way! And he whined. He had the frailty of all mortals, but it was atoned for by the imputed righteousness of his Redeemer. He seemed to long for a word of confirmation, and he pawed at the minister’s sleeve. But no answer came, and the silence of the other began to unnerve him. His voice had a startled note, he quoted texts as if they were supplications to the stony impassiveness of his companion. When his horse stumbled and he almost collided with the minister, he cried out suddenly, as if in fear.
They had crossed Aller half a mile below Roodfoot, and had come to the turning of the ways. The clouds had thinned and the struggling moon showed Melanudrigill before them, rising and falling like an ocean of darkness. David kept his horse’s head straight for it, and Chasehope, who had been riding on his left, edged his beast across the path.
“Ye’ll be for the short road. I’ll gang quicker by the back o’ Windyways. . . . Losh, that’s an awesome wind.”
“It is the wind of the Lord’s anger.”
“Guid e’en to ye, and God send ye a contrite heart!” Chasehope seemed to have recovered courage at the prospect of parting company.
David laid a hand on his bridle.
“Nay, you and I do not twine here. Our road lies yonder.”
“Are ye daft, man?” Chasehope cried, his voice strong again. “Who are you to order a man like me?” The voice was strong, but in its shrillness was disquiet.
“I do not order you. Look in your heart and you will find the compulsion. It was not for nothing, Ephrairn Caird, that we forgathered this night. The Lord ordained it, and in your marrow you know that you cannot leave me. This night we are in a closer bond than man and wife.”
“Havers!” It was the last spasm of bluster, and the voice was weaker than the word. “I’ll do no man’s bidding. Tak’ your hand from my bridle.”
The hand was raised, and the other cowered to his saddle-bow, as if to avert a stroke. But the hand did not fall. Instead it gripped his arm, and the grip seemed to crush his bones.
“You fool,” said the grave voice. “This night I have the strength of ten men, for the Lord is in me. I could strike you dead if I were minded, but the command is on me that we ride together.”
Chasehope’s arrogance had drained out of him, but it had left some dregs of courage. He struggled to compose his voice and recover his everyday demeanour.
“Weel, since ye’re so pressin’ I’ll do your will. There’s no half a mile differ in the roads.” But the words did nothing to break the spell which choked him. They were like the wry-mouthed bravado of a criminal at the gallows’ foot.
No word was spoken as they crossed the haugh and skirted the Fennan Moss, but had there been any one to see he would have noted that David rode erect like a trooper, while Chasehope hung like a sack in his saddle, and that David’s knee was hard pressed against the other’s, as if the two were shackled.
They came to the edge of the Wood, where the road bent to the right among the pine roots towards the glen of Woodilee burn.
“We dismount here,” said David, “for we cannot ride among the trees. The beasts will find their way home.”
Chasehope cried out, and his voice now was strangled with terror.
“The Wud! No the Wud! Ye daurna gang there. . . .” He raised his arm and would have struck, but David caught his wrist. He overbalanced himself and rolled to the ground, and in a second David was beside him. The horses, alarmed by the scuffle, dashed up the track.
Fear made the man violent. He flung himself on David, but for all his weight found himself tossed down like a feather. Was this stern figure with the sinews of iron the minister whom he had despised?
The quiet voice spoke.
“You are gross and elderly and I have the exercised strength of youth. At no time could you hope to strive with me. But this night the might of the Lord is in me, and I could break you like a straw. . . . You will come with me, though I have to ding you senseless and carry you.”
The man scrambled to his feet and made the place echo with his cries for help. No answer came, except the flap of disturbed night bir
ds.
“Where would ye have me gang?” he whimpered.
“Into the Wood — to the place you know of. Ephraim Caird, this night I give you the chance of salvation. I may have erred — my eyes may have deceived me — it may not have been you that capered and piped in a dog’s mask to yon lost crew. If I have been wrong, it will be proven yonder. If I have been right, you will be given a chance of repentance. We go up to the Mount together that you may choose between Abiron and Jehovah.”
Chasehope crouched like a dog. “I daurna — I daurna,” he wailed. “I’m a believin’ man, but I daurna enter the Wud. . . . It’s no the season — there’s fearsome things ryngin’ in’t. Oh, ye dinna ken. . . . Let me gang hame, and the morn I’ll gang on my hunkers to Kirk Aller and sweir that a’ I hae said against ye was a lee. I’ll confess . . .”
David’s grip was on his arm, but he did not struggle. His legs were loosened, and his whole body drooped like a creature stricken with the palsy.
“I’ll make confession — I’ll tell ye things that are no to be named — I took the Wud wi’ ithers, but I kenned I was a redeemed soul and that the Lord wouldna cast me away. . . . I aye ettled to repent, for I was sure o’ the Mercy Seat. . . . It is written that Solomon went after the abominations of Moab, and was yet numbered among the Elect. . . . But I’ll hae nae mair o’t frae this day. . . . I’ll tak’ my aith on the Word. . . . I’ll cast my idols ahint my back . . . I’ll burn the books . . . I’ll forswear the Deil . . .”
“You will do it yonder,” said David.
He had never entered the Wood from this side, and in the darkness the road would have been at all times hard to find, but now he seemed to have a map in his brain and to steer by an instinct. In this backward spring there was no sprouting undergrowth, but the dead bracken stalks had not yet shrunk to earth, and he waded waist-deep among them. The man beside him had lost the power of resistance. He followed like an obedient hound, without the need of David’s grasp on his arm. Often he stumbled, and once he fell into the dell of a burn and had to be lifted out, but he made no attempt at resistance or escape. He walked and sometimes ran, crouching almost double, and as he went he made little moaning noises which might have been prayers.
