This atmosphere of terror, surrounding, as it did, a man of God of spotless character and orthodoxy, was a common cause of wonder and subject of inquiry among the few strangers who were led by chance or business into that unknown, outlying country. But many even of the people of the parish were ignorant of the strange events which had marked the first year of Mr. Soulis’s ministrations; and among those who were better informed, some were naturally reticent, and others shy of that particular topic. Now and again, only, one of the older folk would warm into courage over his third tumbler, and recount the cause of the minister’s strange looks and solitary life.
Fifty years syne, when Mr. Soulis cam’ first into Ba’weary, he was still a young man—a callant, the folk said—fu’ o’ book-learnin’ an’ grand at the exposition, but, as was natural in sae young a man, wi’ nae leevin’ experience in religion. The younger sort were greatly taken wi’ his gifts an’ his gab; but auld, concerned, serious men and women were moved even to prayer for the young man, whom they took to be a self-deceiver, an’ the parish that was like to be sae ill-supplied. It was before the days o’ the Moderates—weary fa’ them; but ill things are like guid—they baith come bit by bit, a pickle at a time; an’ there were folk even then that said the Lord had left the college professors to their ain devices, an’ the lads that went to study wi’ them wad hae done mair an’ better sittin’ in a peat-bog, like their forbears o’ the persecution, wi’ a Bible under their oxter an’ a speerit o’ prayer in their heart. There was nae doubt, onyway, but that Mr. Soulis had been ower lang at the college. He was careful an’ troubled for mony things besides the ae thing needful. He had a feck o’ books wi’ him—mair than had ever been seen before in a’ that presbytery; and a sair wark the carrier had wi’ them, for they were a’ like to have smoored in the De’il’s Hag between this an’ Kilmackerlie. They were books o’ divinity, to be sure, or so they ca’d them; but the serious were of opinion there was little service for sae mony, when the hale o’ God’s Word would gang in the neuk o’ a plaid. Then he wad sit half the day, an’ half the nicht forbye, which was scant decent—writin’, nae less; an’ first, they were feared he wad read his sermons; an’ syne it proved he was writin’ a book himsel’, which was surely no’ flttin’ for ane o’ his years an’ sma’ experience.
Onyway it behoved him to get an auld, decent wife to keep the manse for him an’ see to his bit denners; an’ he was recommended to an auld limmer—Janet M’Clour, they ca’d her—an’ sae far left to himsel’ as to be ower persuaded. There was mony advised him to the contrar, for Janet was mair than suspeckit by the best folk in Ba’weary. Lang or that, she had had a wean to a dragoon; she hadna come forrit[5] for maybe thretty year; an’ bairns had seen her mumblin’ to hersel’ up on Key’s Loan in the gloamin’, whilk was an unco time an’ place for a God-fearin’ woman. Howsoever, it was the laird himsel’ that had first tauld the minister o’ Janet; an’ in thae days he wad hae gane a far gate to pleesure the laird. When folk tauld him that Janet was sib to the de’il, it was a’ superstition by his way o’ it; an’ when they cast up the Bible to him an’ the witch o’ Endor, he wad threep it doun their thrapples that thir days were a’ gane by, an’ the de’il was mercifully restrained.
Weel, when it got about the clachan that Janet M’Clour was to be servant at the manse, the folk were fair mad wi’ her an’ him thegither; an’ some o’ the guid wives had nae better to dae than get round her door-cheeks and chairge her wi’ a’ that was ken’t again’ her, frae the sodger’s bairn to John Tamson’s twa kye. She was nae great speaker; folk usually let her gang her ain gate, an’ she let them gang theirs, wi’ neither Fair-guid-een nor Fair-guid-day: but when she buckled to, she had a tongue to deave the miller. Up she got, an’ there wasna an auld story in Ba’weary but she gart somebody lowp for it that day; they couldna say ae thing but she could say twa to it; till, at the hinder end, the guidwives up and claught hand o’ her, an’ clawed the coats aff her back, an’ pu’d her doun the clachan to the water o’ Dule, to see if she were a witch or no, soom or droun. The carline skirled till ye could hear her at the Hangin’ Shaw, an’ she focht like ten; there was mony a guidwife bure the mark o’ her neist day an’ mony a lang day after; an’ just in the hottest o’ the collieshangie, wha suld come up (for his sins) but the new minister.
“Women,” said he (and he had a grand voice), “I charge you in the Lord’s name to let her go.”
Janet ran to him—she was fair wud wi’ terror—an’ clang to him, an’ prayed him, for Christ’s sake, save her frae the cummers; an’ they, for their pairt, tauld him a’ that was ken’t, an’ maybe mair.
“Woman,” says he to Janet, “is this true?”
“As the Lord sees me,” says she, “as the Lord made me, no a word o’t. Forbye the bairn,” says she, “I’ve been a decent woman a’ my days.”
“Will you,” says Mr. Soulis, “in the name of God, and before me, His unworthy minister, renounce the devil and his works?”
Weel, it wad appear that when he askit that, she gave a girn that fairly frichtit them that saw her, an’ they could hear her teeth play dirl thegither in her chafts; but there was naething for’t but the ae way or the ither; an’ Janet lifted up her hand an’ renounced the de’il before them a’.