“‘Well, Baxter,’ said the factor in his room next day, ‘your offer is all right in the money, and we’ll soon settle the building. By the way, I suppose you’ve thought over that kirk affair, and will give your word to attend the Established Church, eh?’
“‘Ye may be sure that A’ve gien a’ ye said ma best judgment, and there’s naething I wudna dae to be left in Burnbrae, but this thing ye ask A canna grant.’
“‘Why not?’ and the factor, lounging in his chair, eyed Burnbrae contemptuously as he stood erect before him. ‘My groom tells me that there is not a grain of difference between all those kirks in Scotland, and that the whole affair is just downright bad temper, and I believe he’s right.’
“‘A wudna say onything disrespectfu’, sir, but it’s juist possible that naither you nor your groom ken the history o’ the Free Church; but ye may be sure sensible men and puir fouk dinna mak’ sic sacrifices for bad temper.’”
Which is exceeding good of Burnbrae, if a little too bad of Dr. Maclaren.
And our excellent Scotch author makes Burnbrae conclude the interview thus: “‘Sir,’ he said, with great solemnity, ‘I pray God you may never have such sorrow as you have sent on my house this day.’” I should very much doubt whether there is a Scotchman in all Scotland who would not have made quite a different ending with much fist-shaking and calling down of curses in it.
Well, in the result, Burnbrae does leave his farm; anyway, there is a sale, or as the Scotch elegantly term it, a roup. And what happens? Why, the neighbours—good, honest bodies—turn up in their thousands and buy in Burnbrae’s farming stock at noble prices, bidding high for everything in order that Burnbrae may at least have a good roup. Meanwhile the minister of the kirk with which Burnbrae scorned to become a member has communicated with the owner of the soil, the Earl of Kilspindie to wit, and to Burnbrae Kilspindie writes, “Meet me in Muirtown on Friday.” On Friday, Burnbrae meets the Earl. They crack together of Burnbrae’s son, the sergeant, who, like all the other Scotch sergeants of fiction, has just won the Victoria Cross. “‘There will be no speaking to Mrs. Baxter now after this exploit of the sergeant’s! When I read it on my way home I was as proud as if he had been my own son. It was a gallant deed, and well deserves the Cross. He’ll be getting his commission some day. Lieutenant Baxter! That will stir the Glen, eh?’” Then they touch on the matter of the farm, and the tears come to Burnbrae’s eyes. “‘Athocht,’ he said, ‘when yir message cam, that maybe ye hed anither mind than yir factor, and wud send me back tae Jean wi’ guid news in ma mooth.’
“‘Gin it be yir wull that we flit, A’ll mak nae mair complaint, an’ there’s nae bitterness in ma hert. But A wud like ye tae ken that it ’ill be a sair pairtin’.
“‘For twa hundred years an’ mair there’s been a Baxter at Burnbrae and a Hay at Kilspindie; ane wes juist a workin’ farmer, an’ the other a belted earl, but gude freends an’ faithfu’; an’, ma Lord, Burnbrae wes as dear tae oor fouk as the castle wes tae yours.