manse; and there was Janet M’Clour before his e’en, wi’ her thrawn craig, an’ nane sae pleased to see him. An’ he aye minded sinsyne, when first he set his e’en 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 a 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.
‘Weel,’ says he, ‘Janet, if there was nae black man, I have spoken with the Accuser of the Brethren.’
An ‘he sat doun like ane wi’ a fever, an’ his teeth chittered in his heid.
‘Hoots,’ says she, ‘think shame to yourseP, 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 top o’ the simmer, for the manse stands near the burn. Sae doun he sat, and thocht of 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 of a sang. Aye the mair he thocht, the mair he thocht o’ the black man. He tried the prayer, an’ the words wouldna come to him; an’ he tried, they say, to write at his book, but he couldna mak’ nae mair o’ that. There was while he thocht the black man was at his oxter, an’ the swat stood upon him cauld as well-water; and 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 herseP; 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 hetter 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 gey an’ 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 ance mair as seelent as the grave.
Mr Soulis was feared for neither man nor de’il. 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’ keeked 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 e’en! For there was Janet hangin’ frae a nail beside the auld aik cabinet: her heid aye lay on her shouther, her e’en 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.’
He cam ‘a step nearer to the corp; an’ then his heart fair whammled in his inside. For by what cantrip it wad ill beseem a man to judge, she was hangin’ frae a single nail an’ by a single wursted thread for darnin’ hose.
It’s a awfu ‘thing to be your lane at nicht wi’ siccan prodigies o’ darkness; but Mr Soulis was strong in the Lord. He turned an’ gaed his ways oot o’ that room, an’ lockit the door ahint him; an’ step by step, doun the stairs, as heavy as leed; and set doun the can’le on the table at the stairfoot. He couldna pray, he couldna think, he was dreepin’ wi’ caul’ swat, an’ naething could he hear but the dunt-dunt-duntin’ o’ his ain heart. He micht maybe hae stood there an hour, or maybe twa, he minded sae little; when a’ o’ a sudden, he heard a laigh, uncanny steer up-stairs; a foot gaed to an’ fro in the chalmer whaur the corp was hangin’; syne the door was opened, though he minded weel that he had lockit it; an’ syne there was a step upon the landin’, an’ it seemed to him as if the corp was lookin’ ower the rail and doun upon him whaur he stood.
He took up the can’le again (for he couldna want the licht), an ‘as saftly as ever he could, gaed straucht out o’ the manse an’ to the far end o’ the causeway. It was aye pit-mirk; the flame o’ the can’le, when he set it on the grund, brunt steedy and clear as in a room; naething moved, but the Dule water seepin’ and sabbin’ doun the glen, an’ you unhaly footstep that cam’ ploddin’ doun the stairs inside the manse. He kenned the foot ower weel, for it was Janet’s; an’ at ilka step that cam’ a wee thing nearer, the cauld got deeper in his vitals. He commended his soul to Him that made an’ keepit him; ‘and, O Lord,’ said he, ‘give me strength this night to war against the powers of evil.’
By this time the foot was comin ‘through the passage for the door; he could hear a hand skirt alang the wa’, as if the fearsome thing was feelin’ for its way. The saughs tossed an’ maned thegither, a long sigh cam’ ower the hills, the flame o’ the can’le was blawn aboot; an’ there stood the corp of Thrawn Janet, wi’ her grogram goun an’ her black mutch, wi’ the heid aye upon the shouther, an’ the girn still upon the face o’t− leevin’, ye wad hae said – deid, as Mr Soulis weel kenned – upon the threshold o’ the manse.
It’s a strange thing that the soul of man should be that thirled into his perishable body; but the minister saw that, an’ his heart didna break.
She