FullReads

“But a week or twa after the minister had lost yon twa nice bairns wi’ the scarlet fever, his faither an’ him forgathered at the fishin’–whaur he had gane, thinkin’ to jook the sair thochts that he carried aboot wi’ him, puir man. They were baith keen fishers an’ graun’ at it. The minister was for liftin’ his hat to his faither an’ gaun by, but the auld man stood still in the middle o’ the fit-pad wi’ a gey queer look in his face. ‘Wattie!’ he said, an’ for ae blink the minister thocht that his faither was gaun to greet, a thing that he had never seen him do in a’ his life. But the auld man didna greet. ‘Wattie,’ says he to his son, ‘hae ye a huik?’

“Ay, Saunders, that was a’ he said, an’ the minister juist gied him the huik and some half-dizzen fine flees forbye, an’ the twa o’ them never said Disruption mair as lang as they leeved.

“‘Ye had better see the factor aboot pittin’ up a meetin’-hoose and a decent dwallin’, gin ye hae left kirk and manse!’ That was a’ that the auld laird ever said, as his son gaed up stream and he down.

“Ay, he’s been a sair-tried man in his time, your minister, but he’s a’ by wi’t the day,” continued Saunders M’Quhirr, as they trudged behind the hearse.

“Did I ever tell ye, Rob, aboot seem’ young Walter–his boy that gaed wrang, ye ken–when I was up in London the year afore last? Na? ‘Deed, I telled naebody binna the mistress. It was nae guid story to tell on Deeside!

“Weel, I was up, as ye ken, at Barnet Fair wi’ some winter beasts, so I bade a day or twa in London, doin’ what sma’ business I had, an’ seein’ the sichts as weel, for it’s no’ ilka day that a Deeside body finds themsel’s i’ London.

“Ae nicht wha should come in but a Cairn Edward callant that served his time wi’ Maxwell in the Advertiser office. He had spoken to me at the show, pleased to see a Gallawa’ face, nae doot. And he telled me he was married an’ workin’ on the Times. An’ amang ither things back an’ forrit, he telled me that the minister o’ Deeside’s son was here. ‘But,’ says he, ‘I’m feared that he’s comin’ to nae guid.’ I kenned that the laddie hadna been hame to his faither an’ his mither for a maitter o’ maybe ten year, so I thocht that I wad like to see the lad for his faither’s sake. So in a day or twa I got his address frae the reporter lad, an’ fand him after a lang seek doon in a gey queer place no’ far frae where Tammas Carlyle leeves, near the water-side. I thocht that there was nae ill bits i’ London but i’ the East-end; but I learned different.

“I gaed up the stair o’ a wee brick hoose nearly tumlin’ doon wi’ its ain wecht–a perfect rickle o’ brick–an’ chappit. A lass opened the door after a wee, no’ that ill-lookin’, but toosy aboot the heid an’ unco shilpit aboot the face.

“‘What do you want?’ says she, verra sharp an’ clippit in her mainner o’ speech.

“‘Does Walter Anderson o’ Deeside bide here?’ I asked, gey an’ plain, as ye ken a body has to speak to thae Englishers that barely can understand their ain language.

“‘What may you want with him?’ says she.

“‘I come frae Deeside,’ says I–no’ that I meaned to lichtly my ain pairish, but I thocht that the lassie micht no’ be acquant wi’ the name o’ Whunnyliggate. ‘I come frae Deeside, an’ I ken Walter Anderson’s faither.’

“‘That’s no recommend,’ says she. ‘The mair’s the peety,’ says I, ‘for he’s a daicent man.’

“So she took ben my name, that I had nae cause to be ashamed o’, an’ syne she brocht word that I was to step in. So ben I gaed, an’ it wasna a far step, eyther, for it was juist ae bit garret room; an’ there on a bed in the corner was the minister’s laddie, lookin’ nae aulder than when he used to swing on the yett an’ chase the hens. At the verra first glint I gat o’ him I saw that Death had come to him, and come to bide. His countenance was barely o’ this earth–sair disjaskit an’ no’ manlike ava’–mair like a lassie far gane in a decline; but raised-like too, an’ wi’ a kind o’ defiance in it, as if he was darin’ the Almichty to His face. O man, Rob, I hope I may never see the like again.”