they hunted and fished and loved and died, God’s children in the morn of time; and he brought the first voyagers sailing the sounding coasts, they brought the heathen idols of the great Stone Rings, the Golden Age was over and past and lust and cruelty trod the world; and he told of the rising of Christ, a pin-point of the cosmic light far off in Palestine, the light that crept and wavered and did not die, the light that would yet shine as the sun on all the world, nor least the dark howes and hills of Scotland.
So what could you make of that, except that he thought Kinraddie a right coarse place since the jungles had all dried up? And his prayers were as short as you please, he’d hardly a thing to say of the King or the Royal Family at all, had the Reverend Colquohoun. So that fair put him out with Ellison and Mutch, they were awful King’s men both of them, ready to die for the King any day of the week and twice on Sundays, said Long Rob of the Mill. And his preaching had no pleasure at all for Chae Strachan either, he wanted a preacher to praise up socialism and tell how Rich and Poor should be Equal. So the few that listened thought feint the much of the old book- writer from Banff, he stood never a chance, pleasing Chris and her father only, Chris didn’t count, John Guthrie did, but his vote was only one and a hantle few votes the Banff man got when it came to the counting.
Stuart Gibbon was the third to make try for Kinraddie manse, and that Sunday when Chris sat down in the kirk and looked up at him in the pulpit she knew as well as she knew her own hand that he was to please all of them, though hardly more than a student he was, with black hair on him and a fine red face and shoulders strong and well-bulked, for he was a pretty man. And first his voice took them, it was brave and big like the voice of a bull, and fine and rounded, and he said the Lord’s Prayer in a way that pleased gentry and simple. For though he begged to be forgiven his sins as he forgave those that sinned against him—instead, as was more genteel, crying to be forgiven his trespasses as he forgave those that trespassed against him—still he did it with a fine solemnity that made everybody that heard right douce and grave-like; and one or two joined in near the end of the prayer, and that’s a thing gey seldom done in an Auld Kirk kirk. Next came his sermon, it was out of the Song of Solomon and well and rare he preached on it, showing that the Song had more meaning than one. It was Christ’s description of the beauty and fine comeliness of the Auld Kirk of Scotland, and as such right reverently must it be read; and it was a picture of womanly beauty that moulded itself in the lithe and grace of the Kirk, and as such a perpetual manual for the women of Scotland that so they might attain to straight and fine lives in this world and salvation in the next. And in a minute or so all Kinraddie kirk was listening to him as though he were promising to pay their taxes at the end of Martinmas.
For it was fair tickling to hear about things like that read out from a pulpit, a woman’s breasts and thighs and all the rest of the things, in that voice like the mooing of a holy bull; and to know it was decent Scripture with a higher meaning as well. So everybody went home to his Sunday dinner well pleased with the new minister lad, no more than a student though he was; and on the Monday Long Rob of the Mill was fair deaved with tales of the sermon and put two and two together and said Well, preaching like that’s a fine way of having your bit pleasure by proxy, right in the stalls of a kirk, I prefer to take mine more private-like. But that was Rob all over, folk said, a fair caution him and his Ingersoll that could neither make watches nor sense. And feint the voter it put off from tramping in to vote for Kinraddie’s last candidate.
So in he went with a thumping majority, the Reverend Gibbon, by mid-May he was at the Manse, him and his wife, an English creature he’d married in Edinburgh. She was young as himself and bonny enough in a thin kind of way, with a voice as funny as Ellison’s, near, but different, and big, dark eyes on her, and so sore in love were they that their servant quean said they kissed every time he went out a bit walk, the minister. And one time, coming back from a jaunt and finding her waiting him, the minister picked up his wife in his arms and ran up the stairs with her, both cuddling one the other and kissing, and laughing in each other’s faces with shining eyes; and into their bedroom they went and closed the door and didn’t come down for hours, though it was bare the middle of the afternoon. Maybe that was true and maybe it wasn’t for the servant quean was one that old Mistress Sinclair had fee’d for the Manse in Gourdon, and before a Gourdon quean speaks the truth the Bervie burn will run backwards through the Howe.
NOW EVERY MINISTER since Time was clecked in Kinraddie had made a round of the parish when he was inducted. Some did it quick, some did it slow, the Reverend Gibbon was among the quick. He came up to Blawearie just after the dinner hour on a Saturday and met in with John Guthrie sharpening a hoe in the close, weeds yammered out of Blawearie soil like bairns from a school at closing time, it was coarse, coarse land, wet, raw, and red clay, father’s temper grew worse the more he saw of it. So when the minister came on him and cried out right heartily Well, you’ll be my neighbour Guthrie, man? father cocked his red beard at the minister and glinted at him like an icicle and said Ay, mister Gibbon, I’ll be that. So the minister held out his hand and changed his tune right quick and said quiet-like You’ve a fine-kept farm here, Mr Guthrie, trig and trim, though I hear you’ve sat down a bare six months. And he smiled a big, sappy smile.
So after that they were chief enough, sitting one the other on a handle on the sharn-barrow right in the middle of the close, the minister none feared for his brave, black clothes; and father told him the coarse land it was in Kinraddie, and the minister said he well believed him, it was only a man from the North could handle it so well. In a minute or so they were chief as brothers, father brought him over into the house, Chris stood in the kitchen and father said And this quean’s my daughter, Chris. The minister smiled at her with his glinting black eyes and said I hear you’re right clever, Chrissie, and go up to the Duncairn College. How do you like it? And Chris blushed and said Fine, sir, and he asked her what she was to be, and she told him a teacher, and he said there was no profession more honourable. Then mother came ben from putting the twins to sleep and was quiet and friendly, just as she always was with loon or laird, crowned with gold with her lovely hair. And she made the minister some tea and he praised it and said the best tea in his life he’d drunk in Kinraddie, it was the milk. And father asked whose milk they got at the Manse and the minister said The Mains, and father shot out his beard and said Well may it be good, it’s the best land in the parish they’ve a hold of, the dirt, and the minister said And now I’ll have to be dandering down to the Manse. Come over and see us some evening, Chrissie, maybe the wife and I’ll be able to lend you some books to help in your studies. And off he went, swack enough, but no more fleet than father himself who swung along side him down to where the turnip-park broke off from the road.
Chris made for the Manse next Monday night, she thought maybe that would be the best time, but she said nothing to father, only told mother and mother smiled and said Surely; far-off she seemed and dreaming to herself as so often in the last month or so. So Chris put on the best frock that she used for Sundays, and her tall lacing boots, and prigged out her hair in front of the glass in the parlour, and went up across the hill by Blawearie loch, with the night coming over the Grampians and the snipe crying in their hundreds beyond the loch’s grey waters—still and grey, as though they couldn’t forget last summer nor hope for another coming. The Standing Stones pointed long shadow-shapes into the east, maybe just as they’d done of an evening two thousand years before when the wild men climbed the brae and sang their songs in the lithe of those shadows while the gloaming waited there above the same quiet hills. And a queer, uncanny feeling came on Chris then, she looked back half-feared at the Stones and the whiteness of the loch, and then went hurrying through the park paths till she came out above kirkyard and Manse. Beyond the road the Meikle House rose up in its smother of trees, you saw the broken walls of it, the flagstaff light was shining already, it would soon be dark.
She unsnecked the door of the kirkyard wall, passing through to the Manse, the old stones rose up around her silently, not old when you thought of the Standing Stones of Blawearie brae but old enough for all that. Some went back to the old, unkindly times of the Covenanters, one had a skull and crossed bones and an hour-glass on it and was mossed half over so that but hardly you could read the daft-like script with its esses like effs, and it made you shudder. The yews came all about that place of the