There was still one risk to be run and one barrier to be surmounted, for the concordat of the Church required the sanction of Parliament. Through the summer days the battle had been fought in the lobbies and committee rooms of the House of Commons, and that afternoon it was to be decided; and up to the last there was a chance that the bill might be thrown out, and the heart's desire of Scotland once more refused at Westminster. For there were cross-currents which no man could calculate; there were stiff old Tories who hated the idea of the Church being disestablished; keen Radicals who were determined that the Church should be also disendowed; Episcopalians who were eager that the title of the Church of Scotland should be left open to be claimed by that respectable, though limited, dissenting community, which traces its descent through Archbishop Sharpe and John Graham of Claverhouse; and a balance of men who disliked all Churches equally, and were always ready to hinder religion, when they could get an opportunity. If the bill were thrown out it would be a sad calamity, and Lord Kilspindie had promised to telegraph to Dr. Davidson the moment the bill passed the Commons; for it had been taken first in the Lords (and carried with a brisk fight), and Carmichael proposed to meet the messenger at Tochty bridge, and escort him to the manse.
It did not, however, surprise Carmichael to find the minister of the parish of Drumtochty walking to and fro on the level ground from which the wonderful arch of the ancient bridge sprang, and talking affably with Hillocks on the prospects of harvest, but keeping all the time a watchful eye on the distant point on the other side of the Glen where the road emerged from the pine woods and the Kildrummie messenger would first be seen.
“Glad to see you, Carmichael,” said the doctor, with just the faintest suggestion of excitement in his manner; “I left a message at the manse that if you called they were to send you down to the bridge, but I rather suspected you would be here. For myself, I frankly confess I could neither sit nor read, so I just turned out to wait for the messenger. It's a historical day, Carmichael, charged with great issues for Scotland.”
They climbed the stiff ascent, and stood on the arch through which the Tochty ran, clear and sparkling, that summer evening.
“More than a century of Scots history has run since this bridge was built, some of it sad enough; but, please God, we shall see good days before they build the new bridge. What hinders the messenger? Kilspindie expected to telegraph by five at latest, and now it's six o'clock.” The doctor snuffed uneasily and wiped his eye-glasses. “I wish I had gone down to Kildrummie. What's that, Carmichael, on the crest of the hill? Your eyes are quicker than mine.”
“It's a man on horseback, and we'll soon know who he is, for he's riding hard. I should recognize that horse. Why, it's Macfarlane's chestnut that brings me up from the station in forty minutes and something to spare, and Macfarlane's riding her himself. If the old chap hasn't saddled a horse and ridden up to bring us the news post-haste! Isn't he going! He would never come that speed if it were bad news. They've let it out at the post office, as sure as we're standing here; and, look, Macfarlane has seen us. He's waving his hat, doctor; the bill has passed, and the Kirks are one.” They went down the other side of the bridge, and Carmichael did not look at Dr. Davidson, for the doctor's stately step was broken, and he was again polishing his eyeglasses. The chestnut was covered with dust, and so was Macfarlane, and the mare herself seemed to be triumphant when Macfarlane reined her in on the other side of the bridge.
“Half expeckit to see you here, gentlemen,” for even Macfarlane, dealer in horses, in coals, in manure, and hirer of carriages, was discomposed. “Message came in at 6.48; had the mare ready; left at 6.60; done the three miles in thirteen and a half minutes”—all this in one breath; then, jumping off his horse and taking off his hat, “A telegram for you, Dr. Davidson.”
He patted the chestnut on the neck for her good going, and tried to look as if he did not know what was in the envelope. Dr. Davidson handed the envelope to Carmichael, who understood the reason, and, stripping it off, handed him the message.
“Quiet, lass, quiet!” said Macfarlane. Carmichael straightened himself, and raised his hand to that weather-beaten soft hat of his, which was the scandal of the Presbytery; the doctor unfolded the paper with a shaking hand, a flush passed over his face, the tears—which already were in his eyes—broke and rolled down his face, and he read out with a trembling voice—“Bill carried by a majority of two hundred and thirty-three. God bless the Kirk of Scotland, one again and for ever!—Kilspindie.”
“Hip, hip, hurrah!” Carmichael was very young, but Macfarlane might have known better, who was waving his cap with one hand and holding the dancing mare with the other; while Hillocks was a spectacle of glory, standing on the summit of the bridge and throwing in a hoarse shout. Dr. Davidson took no part in the cheer, for he had turned aside and was looking to the hill where the Parish Kirk peeped out from the trees, and there were many thoughts in his mind.