“Weel,” says he, “Janet, if there was nae black man, I have spoken with the Accuser of the Brethren.”
An’ he sat down like ane wi’ a fever, an’ his teeth chittered in his heid.
“Hoots,” says she, “think shame to yoursel’, minister“; an’ gied him a drap brandy that she keept aye by her.
Syne Mr. Soulis gaed into his study amang a’ his books. It’s a lang, laigh, mirk chalmer, perishin’ cauld in winter, an’ no’ very dry even in the tap o’ the simmer, for the manse stands near the burn. Sae doun he sat, an’ thocht o’ a’ that had come an’ gane since he was in Ba’weary, an’ his hame, an’ the days when he was a bairn an’ ran daffin’ on the braes; an’ that black man aye ran in his heid like the owercome o’ a sang. Aye the mair he thocht, the mair he thocht o’ the black man. He tried the prayer, an’ the words wadna come to him; an’ he tried, they say, to write at his book, but he couldna mak’ nae mair o’ that. There was whiles he thocht the black man was at his oxter, an’ the swat stood upon him cauld as well-water; an’ there was ither whiles when he cam’ to himsel’ like a christened bairn an’ minded naething.
The upshot was that he gaed to the window an’ stood glowrin’ at Dule water. The trees are unco thick, an’ the water lies deep an’ black under the manse; an’ there was Janet washin’ the cla’es wi’ her coats kilted. She had her back to the minister, an’ he, for his pairt, hardly kenned what he was lookin’ at. Syne she turned round, an’ shawed her face; Mr. Soulis had the same cauld grue as twice that day afore, an’ it was borne in upon him what folk said, that Janet was deid lang syne, an’ this was a bogle in her clay-cauld flesh. He drew back a pickle and he scanned her narrowly. She was tramp-trampin’ in the cla’es, croonin’ to hersel’; and eh! Gude guide us, but it was a fearsome face. Whiles she sang louder, but there was nae man born o’ woman that could tell the words o’ her sang; an’ whiles she lookit side-lang doun, but there was naething there for her to look at. There gaed a scunner through the flesh upon his banes; an’ that was Heeven’s advertisement. But Mr. Soulis just blamed himsel’, he said, to think sae ill o’ a puir, auld afflicted wife that hadna a freend forbye himsel’; an’ he put up a bit prayer for him an’ her, an’ drank a little caller water—for his heart rose again’ the meat—an’ gaed up to his naked bed in the gloamin’.
That was a nicht that has never been forgotten in Ba’weary, the nicht o’ the seeventeenth o’ August, seeventeen hun’er’ an’ twal’. It had been het afore, as I hae said, but that nicht it was better than ever. The sun gaed doun amang unco-lookin’ clouds; it fell as mirk as the pit; no’ a star, no’ a breath o’ wund; ye couldna see your han’ afore your face, an’ even the auld folk cuist the covers frae their beds an’ lay pechin’ for their breath. Wi’ a’ that he had upon his mind, it was geyan unlikely Mr. Soulis wad get muckle sleep. He lay an’ he tummled; the gude, caller bed that he got into brunt his very banes; whiles he slept, an’ whiles he waukened; whiles he heard the time o’ nicht, an’ whiles a tyke yowlin’ up the muir, as if somebody was deid; whiles he thocht he heard bogles claverin’ in his lug, an’ whiles he saw spunkies in the room. He behoved, he judged, to be sick; an’ sick he was—little he jaloosed the sickness.
At the hinder end he got a clearness in his mind, sat up in his sark on the bed-side, an’ fell thinkin’ ance mair o’ the black man an’ Janet. He couldna weel tell how—maybe it was the cauld to his feet—but it cam’ in upon him wi’ a spate that there was some connection between thir twa, an’ that either or baith o’ them were bogles. An’ just at that moment, in Janet’s room, which was neist to his, there cam’ a stramp o’ feet as if men were wars’lin’, an’ then a loud bang; an’ then a wund gaed reishling round the fower quarters o’ the house; an’ then a’ was aince mair as seelent as the grave.
Mr. Soulis was feared for neither man nor deevil. He got his tinder-box, an’ lit a can’le, an’ made three steps o’t ower to Janet’s door. It was on the hasp, an’ he pushed it open, an’ keekit bauldly in. It was a big room, as big as the minister’s ain, an’ plenished wi’ grand, auld, solid gear, for he had naething else. There was a fower-posted bed wi’ auld tapestry; an’ a braw cabinet o’ aik, that was fu’ o’ the minister’s divinity books, an’ put there to be out o’ the gate; an’ a wheen duds o’ Janet’s lying here an’ there about the floor. But nae Janet could Mr. Soulis see; nor ony sign o’ a contention. In he gaed (an’ there’s few that wad hae followed him) an’ lookit a’ round, an’ listened. But there was naething to be heard, neither inside the manse nor in a’ Ba’weary parish, an’ naething to be seen but the muckle shadows turnin’ round the can’le. An’ then a’ at aince, the minister’s heart played dunt an’ stood stock-still; an’ a cauld wund blew amang the hairs o’ his heid. Whaten a weary sicht was that for the puir man’s een! For there was Janet hangin’ frae a nail beside the auld aik cabinet: her heid aye lay on her shouther, her een were steekit, the tongue projected frae her mouth, an’ her heels were twa feet clear abune the floor.
“God forgive us all!” thocht Mr. Soulis; “poor Janet’s dead.”