Chapter I.
Soon after I had obtained my diploma, and was dubbed M.D., an opening for a medical practitioner occurred in the pleasant village of St Dunstan, situated on the beautiful banks of the Tweed. Knowing well that I might be forestalled by a day’s delay, I bundled up my testimonials and letters of recommendation, and departed at once for the scene of action. The shadows of a calm October evening were drooping over the Eildon Hills, and the Tweed was murmuring peacefully along its winding course, when I entered the principal street of the village, and took up my quarters at the inn. After refreshing myself with such entertainment as the house afforded, I called in the landlord, told him the object of my visit, and inquired if any other medical gentlemen had yet made their appearance. Mine host was a canny, cautious Scotsman, and manifested due deliberation in a matter of so much moment. He surveyed me quietly for a short time, and did not reply until he seemed satisfied with his scrutiny.
“Na, sir,” he said at length; “ye’re the first that’s come to the toun yet, and a’ the folk are wearying for anither doctor. Ye see, we canna tell what may happen. The shoemaker’s wife took unco onweel last nicht, and, frail as he is himsel, puir man, he had to gang a’ the way to Melrose for medical advice. Ye look young like, sir; hae ye been in ony place afore?”
“No,” I replied; “it is not very long since I passed.”
“Ay, weel, that’s no sae gude; we rather like a skeely man here. Dr Sommerville had a great deal o’ experience, and we were a’ sorry when he left for Glasgow.”
“I am glad that the good people of St Dunstan liked their last doctor so well,” I rejoined, somewhat nettled at the plain-spokenness of the worthy landlord of the Cross-Keys. “But although my youth may be against me,” I continued, “here are some testimonials which I hope may prove satisfactory, and I have several letters of recommendation besides to gentlemen in the village and neighbourhood.”
The landlord was a person whom I saw that it was necessary to gain over. He was vastly pleased when I recognised his importance by producing my testimonials for his inspection. It was amusing to observe the gravity and dignity with which he adjusted his spectacles across the bridge of his nose, and proceeded to carefully inspect the documents. At intervals as he read he gave such running comments as “gude”—“very gude”—“excellent”—“capital sir, capital!” I was glad to see the barometer rising so rapidly. After mine host had finished the perusal of the papers, he shook me heartily by the hand, and said, “You’re the very man we want, sir; ye hae first-rate certificats.”
So far, so good. It was a great thing to have gained the confidence and goodwill of one important personage, and I felt desirous to make further conquests that evening.
“Do you think I might venture to call to-night upon any of the parties in the village to whom I have letters of recommendation?” I inquired.
“Surely, surely,” responded the landlord; “the sooner the better. Just read me ower their names, sir, and I’ll tak ye round to their houses. We hae a better chance o’ gettin’ them in at nicht than through the day.”
Accompanied by the lord of the Cross-Keys, I accordingly visited the leading inhabitants of the village, and made what an expectant member of Parliament would consider a very satisfactory canvass. I was received with much courtesy and civility; and the minister of the parish, to whom I had a letter of introduction from a brother clergyman in Edinburgh, paid me the most flattering attentions, and pressed me to take up my abode immediately at St Dunstan. The ladies, married and unmarried, with whom I entered into conversation, were all unanimous in expressing their desire that I should remain in their midst. Indeed, I have observed that the female sex invariably take the greatest interest in the settlement of ministers and doctors. I could easily understand why the unmarried ladies should prefer a single gentleman like myself; but I could not comprehend at the time why their mothers seemed to take so much interest in a newly-fledged M.D. It struck me that the landlord of the inn must have committed a great mistake in describing Dr Sommerville as the favourite of all classes.
From many of the people upon whom we called I received kind invitations to spend the night in their houses, and I could have slept in a dozen different beds if I had felt so inclined; but I preferred returning to the Cross-Keys, that, like the Apostle, I might be burdensome to none. It is a piece of worldly prudence to give as little trouble as possible to strangers; and medical practitioners, of all men in the world, require to be wary in their ways, and circumspect in their actions.
On our return to the inn, the landlord appeared to regard my settlement in St Dunstan as a certainty.
“Ye’ve got on grandly the nicht, Dr Wilson,” he said, dropping the “sir” when he considered me almost installed in office. “Ye’ve carried everything afore ye—I never saw the like o’t. Ye hae got the promise o’ practice frae the hale lot o’ them—that’s to say, when they need the attendance o’ a medical man; and, ’od, doctor, but the womenkind are aften complainin’.”
“Well, Mr Barlas,” I said (such was the landlord’s name), “I have experienced much kindness and civility, and in the course of a few hours I have far outstripped my expectations. If I only succeed as well with the ladies and gentlemen in the neighbourhood, I will not hesitate for a moment in settling down in the midst of you.”
“There’s nae danger o’ that, doctor. What’s sauce or senna for the goose is sauce or senna for the gander. I’ve seen aften eneuch that the grit folk are no sae ill to please as the sma’. If ye get ower the Laird,—an’ I think ye’ve as gude a chance as ony ither body,—ye needna fear muckle for the rest.”
“And who is the Laird, Mr Barlas?” I asked.
“Oh, just the Laird, ye ken—Laird Ramsay o’ the Haugh; ye’ll surely hae heard o’ him afore you cam south?”
“Ramsay,” I said; “Ramsay—oh, yes,—I have a letter of introduction to a gentleman of that name from a professor in Edinburgh. Does he rule the roast in this neighbourhood?”
“I’ll tell you aboot him i’ the noo; but wait a wee, doctor, till I bring ye something warm.”
I did not disapprove of the medicine proposed by the host of the Cross-Keys of St Dunstan, as I was anxious to know as much as possible about the place and people; and the influence of hot punch in making even silent persons communicative is quite proverbial. Mr Barlas, after a brief absence, returned to the snug little parlour, bearing his own private blue bottle, capable, I should think, of holding a good half-gallon of Islay or Glenlivet; and we were soon sitting comfortably, with steaming tumblers before us, beside a blazing fire.
“This is something social like, noo, doctor,” said the composed and considerate landlord. “Ye were wantin’ to hear aboot the Laird. Weel, I’ll tell ye what sort o’ a being he is, that ye may be on your guard when ye gang to the Haugh the morn. Laird Ramsay has mair gear, doctor, than ony half-dozen o’ his neighbours for mony miles roond, and he’s a queer character wi’d a’. He’s unco auld-fashioned for a man in his station, an’ speaks muckle sic like as ye hear me speakin’ i’ the noo. He gets the name o’ haudin’ a gude grip o’ his siller; but I’ve nae reason to compleen, as he spends freely eneuch when he comes to the Cross-Keys, no forgettin’ the servant-lass and the ostler; an’ I ken for a fac’ that he slips a canny shillin’ noo and again into the loofs o’ the puir folk o’ St Dunstan. He’s unco douce and proud,—ye micht maist say saucy,—until ye get the richt side o’ him, an’ then he’s the best o’ freends; an’ nane better than the Laird at a twa-handed crack.”
“And how do you get to the right side of him, Mr Barlas?” I interjected.
“That’s the very thing I was gaun to tell ye, doctor. Lay on the butter weel. Butter him on baith sides, an’ then ye easy get to the richt side. Praise his land, his craps, his nowte, his house, his garden, his Glenlivet, his everything; but tak care what ye say o’ his dochter to his face.”
“The Laird has got a daughter, then, it seems?”
“Ay, that he has, an’ a comely quean she is; but he’ll be a clever man wha can rin awa wi’ her frae the Haugh. The Laird just dotes upon her, an’ he wouldna pairt wi’ her for love or siller. If she has a sweetheart, I’m thinkin’ he’ll need to sook his thoomb, an’ bide a wee.”
In answer to my inquiries the landlord informed me that Miss Jessie Ramsay was the Laird’s only daughter, and that her mother had been dead for several years. His information and anecdotes regarding the eccentric character of the old-fashioned proprietor of the Haugh, excited my curiosity so much that I resolved to pay him an early visit on the following day. After sitting for an hour or two, during which time Mr Barlas became more and more loquacious, I seized the first favourable opportunity to propose an adjournment, and receiving the reluctant assent of mine host, I retired to rest, and slept soundly in spite of all the crowing cocks of St Dunstan.
In the morning the tidings were through the whole village that a new doctor had come, and several people became suddenly unwell, for the express purpose, I presume, of testing my skill. Three urgent cases I found to be ordinary headache, and, fearing lest my trip to the Haugh might be delayed for two weeks, I hired the best hack the Cross-Keys could afford, and made off for the domicile of the eccentric Laird. The owner of the hack was very anxious to accompany me, but I preferred making the excursion alone. The weather was mild and delightful; the trees seemed lovelier in decay than in the fulness of summer life; and the Tweed flowed and murmured softly as the waters of Siloah. Half-an-hour’s riding brought me to the Haugh—an ancient edifice embosomed among trees. In the prime of its youth it would doubtless be considered a splendid mansion; but in its old age it had an ungainly appearance, although not altogether destitute of a certain picturesque air. After disposing of my hack to a little Jack-of-all-work urchin, who was looking about for some work to do, or meditating mischief, I knocked at the door, and was ushered, by an old serving-woman, into a quaint apartment, crammed with antique furniture. The mantelpiece absolutely groaned under its load of ornaments, while a great spreading plume of peacock’s feathers waved triumphantly over all. This must be the Laird’s fancy, I thought, and not the taste of Miss Jessie. Several pictures illustrative of fox-hunting, and two portraits, adorned the walls. None of them could be considered as belonging to any particular school, or as masterpieces in art. On the window-blinds a besieging force was represented as assaulting a not very formidable castle.
While I sat amusing myself with the oddities of the apartment, the door opened, and the Laird entered. He was a gray-haired, ruddy-faced, shrewd-looking man of fifty or thereabouts. I was rather taken with his dress. He wore a blue coat of antique cut, knee breeches, long brown gaiters with metal buttons, and his vest was beautified with perpendicular yellow stripes. There was an air of dignity about him when he entered as though he were conscious that he was Laird of the Haugh, and that I had come to consult him about some important business. Being a Justice of the Peace, as I afterwards learned, he probably wished to impress a stranger with a sense of his official greatness. I did not know very well whether to address him as Mr Ramsay or the “Laird;” but he relieved me of the difficulty by saying in broad Scotch, “This is a grand day, sir; hae ye ridden far?”
“No,” I replied, “only from St Dunstan.”
“Just that—just that,” said the Laird, with a peculiar tone. “I thocht as much when I met the callant leadin’ awa the Cross-Key’s charger,—puir beast!”
I handed the Laird the letter of introduction which I had received from one of the medical professors in Edinburgh. He read it very slowly, as though he were spelling and weighing every word, and he had perused it twice from beginning to end before he rose and welcomed me to the Haugh.
“He’s a clever man, that professor,” quoth Laird Ramsay; “an’ he speaks o’ ye, doctor, in a flattering way; but the proof o’ the puddin’ is the preein’ o’t, ye ken. Ye’ve shown some spunk in comin’ sae quick to St Dunstan; but ye’re young eneuch to be on your ain coat-tail yet.”
“We must begin somewhere and sometime, Mr Ramsay,” I rejoined.
“Ye’re richt there,” answered the Laird; and then added with a chuckle, “but patients dinna like to be made victims o’. However, we’ll think aboot that. Ye’ll be nane the worse o’ something to eat and drink, I’m thinkin’; an’ to tell the truth, I want to weet my ain whistle.”
So saying, the Laird o’ the Haugh rose and rang the bell, and told the old serving-woman, the handmaiden of the household, to bid Jessie speak to him. In a short time Jessie, a tall, handsome, hearty, fresh-coloured, black-haired beauty, came tripping into the room. The Laird was not very ceremonious so far as the matter of introduction was concerned, but Jessie was one of those frank girls who can introduce themselves, and make you feel perfectly at home at once. The father and daughter were evidently strongly attached to each other.
“Bring us some wine first, like a gude lass,” said the Laird, “an’ then we’ll tak something mair substantial when ye’re ready.”
Jessie, like a dutiful daughter, placed the decanters and glasses on the table. There was an elasticity in her step, a grace in her every motion, and an irresistible charm in her frank and affectionate smile. The Laird did not seem altogether to relish the manner in which my eyes involuntarily followed her movements; and remembering what mine host of the Cross-Keys had told me on the previous night, I resolved to be as circumspect as possible, both in look and word. The Laird o’ the Haugh pledged the young doctor, and the young doctor pledged the Laird. Meanwhile, Jessie had disappeared to look after the substantials. A glass or two of his capital wine warmed Laird Ramsay into a fine conversational mood, and we got on famously together. After dinner, when the punch was produced, our intimacy increased, and I began to love the eccentric Laird for the sake of his beautiful and accomplished daughter. I discovered that he had a hearty relish for humorous stories and anecdotes, and I plied him with them in thick succession, until the fountain of laughter ran over in tears. I was determined to take the old gentleman by storm, and Miss Jessie, with quick feminine instinct, appeared to be more than half aware of my object. However, I carefully abstained from exciting his suspicion by conversing directly with Jessie, even when he appeared to be in the most genial and pleasant mood.
The evening was pretty far advanced when I left his hospitable board. “Mind, you’re to be the doctor o’ St Dunstan,” he said, as I mounted the Cross-Key’s charger. “We’ll hae naebody but yoursel, an’ ye mun be sure an’ come back soon again to the Haugh.” I rode home to mine inn fully resolved to locate myself in the village, and firmly persuaded that if I had not captivated the Laird’s daughter, I had at least conquered the Laird himself.