My youthful zeal made me inclined to slight the old man’s caution. I carried out my proposal, and, I feel sure that it was wisely done, even if it was the cause of a little coolness, for a time. The Auld Provost was not unreasonable, and I think he saw the good that had been effected.
XI. The Major
THE good folks of Drumscondie set much store by old saws and proverbs. They certainly adhered to the belief that “A green Yule maks a fat kirkyaird”—it had so often come true in their own experience. So when snow fell continuously for twelve hours on a stretch one Christmas Eve, every one heaved a big sigh of relief, as if the snow spirit had, by a touch of her wand, lifted the burden of a gloomy foreboding. Up went the spirits of old and young; the salutations of the gossips were redolent of good cheer; youngsters shouted with glee as they pelted one another with snowballs; even in the church itself the infection of joy had spread, and the church decorators sang snatches of carols as they hung up wreaths of red-berried holly on arch and pillar and window.
Then when the gloamin’ came and all met in church for the first Christmas vespers, their hearts went out in happy thanksgiving for the Nativity, which had wrought such wondrous good to them and to all mankind.
Now, there’s no doubt the gentle falling of the snow had not a little to do with this happy state of things. Our villagers were a very simple people, and somehow or other could not realize Christmas to be Christmas unless it was heralded by the snow. To them Christmas was more than a mere social feasting time. They had been trained in their young days to follow the course of the Church’s year with reverent attention, and to meditate on the special teaching that each season inculcated.
Oh! how they enjoyed the Church’s services at Christmastide! They were transported, in thought, to the holy fields of Bethlehem, where they kept watch with the humble shepherds; they heard the angelic song, “Gloria in Excelsis Deo;” they set out to seek the newly born King; and, when they found Him, they bent in lowly adoration. It did one good to note their realistic appreciation of the sweet old story of the Christchild.
The snow storm which began that year on Christmas Eve was one of the heaviest we had experienced for many winters. Towards the end of the year blowing commenced, and the light snow was piled in great drifts. Traffic on the country roads was for some time suspended and railway communication was stopped; on several lines of railway, notably those among the hills, the stoppage was of several weeks’ duration.
My dear friend and neighbor, the Rev. Hugh Arnott, had gone, after Christmas, to pay a long—promised visit to a country house in the romantic Carse of Gowrie, and his home-coming was delayed on account of the storm. Meanwhile one of his parishioners had died and would have to be buried before he could possibly return. He telegraphed his difficulty to me, and I agreed to take the burial service. Mr. Arnott’s church was in the county town, but the home of the dead girl was in the little fishing village of Carronmouth, a mile to the north. There was no church in the village at this time, but every soul in the place was a hereditary Episcopalian. I made my way down the hill from the railway to the seaside, where Carronmouth stood at the base of a great overhanging cliff; but, as it was my first visit to the place, I looked about in some perplexity, wondering which was the house I wanted. I was soon out of my dilemma. A cheery voice called out to me:
I looked, and saw approaching me a youngish man of middle stature, attired comfortably but plainly in a suit of dark blue, over which he wore a heavy reefer coat buttoned up to the chin. His whole appearance told that he was not one of the fishermen.