On a slope of the upland moor which divides Glen Effick from the coast was the spot where the Free Church congregation of Kilrundle held its Sunday meetings in the open air. 'The Muir Foot' sloped evenly down into the glen, not far outside the village, and close to the high road, from which, nevertheless, it was entirely screened by a thicket of birch and hazel. On the inner edge of this was a small platform for the preacher, roofed and enclosed with canvas, and hence denominated the tent. When the services were in Gaelic and the preacher indulged in much action, the arrangement might have been suggested of Punch and Judy to a frivolous stranger, but the people were too full of solemn and earnest enthusiasm to see anything amiss. A stray colt on the hillside projected against the sky, would bring to the minds of some a vision of Claverhouse and his troopers in the olden time, for that was a theme often presented to their thoughts in tract and sermon. They had almost persuaded themselves the covenanting scenes were to be played over again in their own times, and were steadfastly resolved to 'quit themselves like men' in the day of trouble.
Before the tent there was a plat of turf, through the middle of which a burn babbled over the stones; beyond, the moor swept gently upwards, and here the worshippers were wont to sit, tier above tier, like the audience in a theatre, to listen to the preaching of the word. In that gloaming the place was not altogether deserted, the tap of a hammer driving nails reverberated through the stillness. Joseph Smiley the beadle and a joiner by trade, was at work making preparation for the services of the morrow. He had driven a few posts into the sward, and on these was nailing planks to form a rough bench or two, for the eldership and the élite of the congregation. There were also two or three wooden chairs, but these he hid away in the tent to keep them safe till the Sangster family should appear, and he had an opportunity to present them.
'It's nane o' yer orra bodies 'at's to hecht their tail on thae chairs, an' me feshin' them a' the gate fra' hame, I'se warrant! I'll mak an errand up til Auchlippie come Monday, an' gin I hae na twa half crowns in my pouch, or a pair o' the maister's breeks in my oxter at the hamecomin', my name's no Joseph Smiley!' With these comfortable reflections he put on his coat, gathered up his tools, and started for home in the gathering darkness.
'Joseph Smiley!'
The words came out of the darkness under a tree, as he passed through the thicket and gained the road. Joseph recognized the voice, though he could not see the speaker.
'The deil flee awa wi' her auld banes! If that's no Tibbie Tirpie! What brings the auld witch here wi' her blathers and fleetchin'! I hae lippened til her haudin' her tongue afore folk, but here she's grippet me my lane. But we maun speak the carlin fair'--so much under his breath, then aloud--
'Hoo's a' wi' ye, Mistress Tirpie? It's lang sin we hae forgathered the gither. But I'm aye speerin' after ye; I ken ye're weel!'
It's no my bodily health 'at's ailin', Joseph Smiley, but my heart's sair in me, an' ye ken what for.'
'I'm sure, Luckie, I kenna what ye're drivin' at; gin gude will o' mine wad gar ye thrive, ye'se thrive wi' the lave! an' as for sare heart I kenna what there can be to fash ye. But there's balm in Gilead, Mistress Tirpie, take ye yer burden there. I'm but a puir door-keeper in the house of the Lord,--tho' it's better that nor dwellin' in tents o' sin,--juist a puir silly earthen vessel, but I'se testifee sae far.
'Joseph Smiley! Ye twa-faced heepocrit. Hoo daar ye tak the word o' God atween yer leein' lips like that? Are ye no feared the grund will open an' swally ye up?'