Inchbracken: The Story of a Fama Clamosa

by Robert Cleland

The evening came. Roderick's study had been transferred as far as possible into a fitting meeting-place. The screen which closed off his sleeping corner from the room was removed, the writing table and books moved aside as well as might be, and a dozen chairs or more arranged in front of his bed.

The clock over the fireplace marked the quarter to seven, but no one came. It seemed strange that all that day no one should have come to see him. He had lived in the completest harmony with his people, and when in health had had some one always dropping in for a 'crack,' so that it had often been difficult for him to secure the privacy necessary to prepare his sermons. The sudden change was altogether inexplicable to him. Every one seemed to stand aloof, and he seemed to be put under a taboo by the entire population of the glen.

Mary went to the window. No one appeared to be coming, she then went to the door, but the village street was deserted save by a few grimy children tumbling in the gutter. Looking across the road, however, where a lane ran down to the waterside, she descried one or two figures standing. They stood well up to the wall of a house and were nearly hidden from where she stood. Indeed she would have supposed they were actually hiding themselves there and watching, but that she could imagine no possible reason for such a proceeding.

While she stood looking, Peter Malloch came out of his door and walked towards her. Here at any rate was one man coming to the meeting. It was getting late, but then the village time would get astray sometimes. It depended on the watch of the stage coach guard, a not very accurate timekeeper, as its hands would sometimes be moved twenty minutes forward or half an hour back that the coach might arrive at its different stages in time, whereby its internal economy would become deranged, and it would be sent for a fortnight to recruit at the watchmaker's.

Farther down the street she now descried Ebenezer Prittie. No doubt it was the clocks which were to blame. But no! When Peter Malloch reached the corner of the lane, he stopped short for an instant, and then hastily turned down it and disappeared. Ebenezer marched steadily along till he came to the same point, but then he also stopped and straightway vanished, like the other. What could it mean? Roderick was restless and very ill. It would require all his strength to get through the proceedings in the quietest way possible, and she could not think of fretting him, neither could she say anything to Eppie now.

That good soul had been rather tiresome as it was, for the past few days. She was always kind and attentive, though a trifle more motherly than Mary considered the circumstances to warrant, for she objected to the old woman's view of her as a helpless young thing who needed to be clucked over, and protected with beak and feather, like some unfledged nurseling of the poultry yard. Of late Eppie's commiserating sympathy and sad devotion had become nearly overpowering, as Mary could divine no possible ground for anything so pathetic; things had appeared to be going much as usual, the only unwonted circumstance having been her own return home a day or two before in the Inchbracken dog-cart, driven by Kenneth. Eppie must have got it into her head that she was falling under the influence of those black persecutors, the Drysdales, and that her soul was in danger; and that was too provokingly absurd altogether and not to be tolerated.

Mary flushed slightly to think of it, though there came also a light into her eye, as though in some aspects the idea was not so grievous after all. But it must be put down, whether or no, and she had been endeavouring to assume a deportment of severe and dignified distance, which would put the old body back in her proper place. Poor child! Her attempts at offended reserve were like the snaps of a toothless puppy, they had small resemblance to biting, and were far more likely to tickle the offending hand than to hurt it.

The next person to appear along the village street was Mr. Sangster. He appeared to think he was late, and strode quickly along. He reached the end of the lane. Would he also turn down? No; Mary saw him wave his hand in salutation, which showed that the others were still concealed there, but he stepped briskly across, and, with a cordial greeting to herself in passing, entered her brother's room.

He had scarcely done so, when, round the corner of the lane, there came the whole Kirk-Session and Deacons' Court,--some ten or a dozen persons in all,--like a crowd of urchins late for school. They hurried forward in a sort of knot, each unwilling to go first, as though there were an irate pedagogue to confront, yet no one wished to be last, as if he expected the dominie's cane to descend on his shoulders. They were all oppressed by the dreadful rumours in circulation, as to the minister's iniquity, and all wished to wreak vengeance on the defiler of their church. But how to set about it? Something vigorous and memorable must be done; but what was it to be?

A posse of the lieges called out to assist in capturing some notorious offender, half-a-dozen dogs holding a wild cat at bay--their fingers tingle to collar, their fangs glance fiercely ready to throttle; they stand all eager, all fierce, all cruel,--but who shall be the first to lay hold? and what may not befall that impetuous individual? Knocking down, braining, scratching of eyes out; even in the case of these zealous Free-churchmen, flooring in some metaphorical but very actual though imagined sense. No man was prepared to tackle the offender, yet all were so sure of his wrong-doing, that each felt as if he were bound to do it, if he should encounter him alone or first. But now Auchlippie had gone in, he, the ruling elder, their official head, was the proper person to do the undevised deed, or, if he did not, to bear the 'wite' of leaving it undone.