“And now,” says Mr. Soulis to the guidwives, “home with ye, one and all, and pray to God for His forgiveness.”
An’ he gied Janet his arm, though she had little on her but a sark, an’ took her up the clachan to her ain door like a leddy o’ the land; an’ her screighin’ and laughin’ as was a scandal to be heard.
There were mony grave folk lang ower their prayers that nicht; but when the morn cam’ there was sic a fear fell upon a’ Ba’weary that the bairns hid theirsels, an’ even the men-folk stood an’ keekit frae their doors. For there was Janet comin’ doun the clachan—her or her likeness, nane could tell—wi’ her neck thrawn, an’ her heid on ae side, like a body that has been hangit, an’ a girn on her face like an unstreakit corp. By an’ by they got used wi’ it, an’ even speered at her to ken what was wrang; but frae that day forth she couldna speak like a Christian woman, but slavered an’ played click wi’ her teeth like a pair o’ shears; an’ frae that day forth the name o’ God cam’ never on her lips. Whiles she wad try to say it, but it michtna be. Them that kenned best said least; but they never gied that Thing the name o’ Janet M’Clour; for the auld Janet, by their way o’t, was in muckle hell that day. But the minister was neither to haud nor to bind; he preached about naething but the folk’s cruelty that had gi’en her a stroke of the palsy; he skelpit the bairns that meddled her; an’ he had her up to the manse that same nicht, an’ dwalled there a’ his lane wi’ her under the Hangin’ Shaw.
Weel, time gaed by: an’ the idler sort commenced to think mair lichtly o’ that black business. The minister was weel thocht o’; he was aye late at the writing, folk wad see his can’le doon by the Dule water after twal’ at e’en; an’ he seemed pleased wi’ himsel’ an’ upsitten as at first, though a’ body could see that he was dwining. As for Janet she cam’ an’ she gaed; if she didna speak muckle afore, it was reason she should speak less then; she meddled naebody; but she was an eldritch thing to see, an’ nane wad hae mistrysted wi’ her for Ba’weary glebe.
About the end o’ July there cam’ a spell o’ weather, the like o’t never was in that countryside; it was lown an’ het an’ heartless; the herds couldna win up the Black Hill, the bairns were ower weariet to play; an’ yet it was gousty too, wi’ claps o’ het wund that rumm’led in the glens, and bits o’ shouers that slockened naething. We aye thocht it but to thun’er on the morn; but the morn cam’, an’ the morn’s morning, an’ it was aye the same uncanny weather, sair on folks and bestial. O’ a’ that were the waur, nane suffered like Mr. Soulis; he could neither sleep nor eat, he tauld his elders; an’ when he wasna writin’ at his weary book, he wad be stravaguin’ ower a’ the countryside like a man possessed, when a’ body else was blithe to keep caller ben the house.
Abune Hangin’ Shaw, in the bield o’ the Black Hill, there’s a bit enclosed grund wi’ an iron yett; an’ it seems, in the auld days, that was the kirkyaird o’ Ba’weary, and consecrated by the Papists before the blessed licht shone upon the kingdom. It was a great howff o’ Mr. Soulis’s, onyway; there he wad sit an’ consider his sermons; an’ indeed it’s a bieldy bit. Weel, as he cam’ ower the wast end o’ the Black Hill ae day, he saw first twa, an’ syne fower, an’ syne seeven corbie craws fleein’ round an’ round abune the auld kirkyaird. They flew laigh an’ heavy, an’ squawked to ither as they gaed; an’ it was clear to Mr. Soulis that something had put them frae their ordinar’. He wasna easy fleyed, an’ gaed straucht up to the wa’s; an’ what suld he find there but a man, or the appearance o’ a man, sittin’ in the inside upon a grave. He was of a great stature, an’ black as hell, an’ his e’en were singular to see.[6] Mr. Soulis had heard tell o’ black men, mony’s the time; but there was something unco about this black man that daunted him. Het as he was, he took a kind o’ cauld grue in the marrow o’ his banes; but up he spak for a’ that; an’ says he: “My friend, are you a stranger in this place?” The black man answered never a word; he got upon his feet, an’ begoud to hirsle to the wa’ on the far side; but he aye lookit at the minister; an’ the minister stood an’ lookit back; till a’ in a meenit the black man was ower the wa’ an’ rinnin’ for the bield o’ the trees. Mr. Soulis, he hardly kenned why, ran after him; but he was fair forjeskit wi’ his walk an’ the het, unhalesome weather; an’ rin as he likit, he got nae mair than a glisk o’ the black man amang the birks, till he won doun to the foot o’ the hillside, an’ there he saw him ance mair, gaun hap-step-an’-lowp ower Dule water to the manse.
Mr. Soulis wasna weel pleased that this fearsome gangrel suld mak’ sae free wi’ Ba’weary manse; an’ he ran the harder, an’, wet shoon, ower the burn, an’ up the walk; but the deil a black man was there to see. He stepped out upon the road, but there was naebody there; he gaed a’ ower the gairden, but na, nae black man. At the hinder end, an’ a bit feared, as was but natural, he lifted the hasp an’ into the manse; an’ there was Janet M’Clour before his een, wi’ her thrawn craig, an’ nane sae pleased to see him. An’ he aye minded sinsyne, when first he set his een upon her, he had the same cauld and deidly grue.
“Janet,” says he, “have you seen a black man?”
“A black man?” quo’ she. “Save us a’! Ye’re no wise, minister. There’s nae black man in a’ Ba’weary.”
But she didna speak plain, ye maun understand; but yam-yammered, like a powney wi’ the bit in its moo.