ask? Are they striving to get a grip of Christ, as a bird scrapes with its claws at a stone wall? And do they bring forth works meet for repentance?’
‘There was no clash of cauld morality in worthy Mr Macmichael,’ said Mr Proudfoot sourly.
‘Is there the spirit of God in the people? That’s what I want to ken. There’s ill stories in the countryside anent Woodilee. The Black Wood could tell some tales if the trees could talk.’
Mr Muirhead, having finished his meal and said a second grace, was picking his teeth in great good-humour.
‘Hoot toots, Mr James, you’ll give our young brother a scunner of the place, to which it has pleased the Almighty to call him, before he has had a look at it himself. I’m not denying that the Wood is ower near Woodilee. It’s a wanchancy thing for any parochine to have a muckle black forest flung around it like a maud. And no doubt the Devil walks about like a roaring lion in Woodilee as in other bits. But there’s men of God here to resist him. I tell you, sirs, there have been more delations to the Presbytery for the sin of witchcraft in Woodilee than in any other parish on the water of Aller.’
‘And what does that prove, Mr Mungo?’
‘That there’s wealth of prayerful and eident folk to confound the Adversary. This is no season to despair of Kirk and Covenant, when this day they hold the crown of the causeway. You’ll no have heard of the astonishing mercy vouchsafed to us in England? A post came to Kirk Aller yestreen, and it seems that three weeks syne there was a great battle beside the city of York, where our Scots wrought mightily, and our own Davie Leslie gave the King’s horsemen their kail through the reek. What does that portend?’
‘It portends,’ said Mr Proudfoot, whom food did not mellow, ‘that our pure and reformed Kirk of Scotland is linked more than ever with sectaries and antinomians and those, like the bloody and deceitful Cromwell, that would defile the milk of the Word with the sour whey of their human inventions. What avails a triumphant Kirk if its doctrine be sullied?’
Mr Muirhead laughed. ‘It portends nothing of the kind. The good work goes cannily on, and the noble task to which the Assembly of Divines at Westminster set itself is advanced by a long mile. Man, Eben, you folk at Bold live ower far from the world. It’s the Kirk of Scotland that holds the balance today and can enforce its will on both King and sectaries. Two days back I had a letter from that gospel-loving nobleman, the Earl of Loudoun. …’
Mr Muirhead was mounted on his high horse. He lit his pipe and for the space of half an hour dealt comprehensively with politics, labouring to show the happy posture of affairs for what he called the ‘good cause.’ The Solemn League and Covenant bound all Scotland in a pact with the Lord, and presently all England would follow suit. There would be soon that comfortable sight which had been foretold by their godly fathers, a uniform Kirk and a pure Gospel established by law from London to the Orkneys, and a covenanted Sion to which all the peoples of the earth would go up. Mr Muirhead was eloquent, for he repeated a peroration which he had once used in the General Assembly.
‘I have heard,’ he concluded, ‘that in Woodilee there was a signing of the Covenant by every soul that could make a scart with a pen. That for your encouragement, Mr David.’
Mr Fordyce shook his head. ‘How many appended their names out of fear or from mere carnal policy? Mankind will run like jukes after a leader. I much misdoubt if there is any spiritual health to be got from following a multitude under duress. I would have left the choice to every man’s conscience.’
‘You’re not sound,’ cried Mr Muirhead. ‘You’re shaky on the fundamentals, Mr. James. I will confound you out of the Word. When King Josiah made a solemn covenant, did he leave it to ilka man’s fancy to sign or no? Nay, he caused all—all, I say—in Jerusalem and Benjamin to stand to it. See Second Chronicles thirty-four and thirty-two.’
There was a touch of asperity in the one disputant and of recalcitrance in the other, so David for good-fellowship’s sake suggested that he might show them the manse in its new guise. But at that moment Isobel appeared with word that Chasehope was at the door seeking speech with the minister of Kirk Aller. At her back appeared the fiery head of the visitor, who was that Ephraim Caird whom Mr Muirhead had already praised as a pillar of the Covenant and who farmed the biggest tack in the parish. He was a big fellow, red as a fox, with a white freckled face, no eyebrows and greenish blue eyes, a man of over forty, whose muscular frame was now somewhat overlaid by flesh. His mouth was small and generally puckered together, a habit which gave him an air of thought and gravity. He had been an opponent of David Sempill before the call, but had acquiesced in the majority vote and had welcomed the new minister at the ‘preaching in’ with a great show of goodwill. Today he was apologetic and affable. He asked pardon for his intrusion—he would take neither bite nor sup—he had heard that the ministers were at the manse and he begged a word with Mr Muirhead on Presbytery matters which would save him a journey to Kirk Aller, when he was busy with the bog hay. So David took the other two to his closet and left Chasehope and Mr Muirhead to their colloquy.
Mr Proudfoot eyed with disapproval the books in the little dark chamber. He was content, he said, with the Bible and the Institutes of John Calvin and old Robert Rollock’s commentary on the Prophet Daniel. He read the lettering on one volume, Sancti Clementi Opera, and on another, a work by a Dutch theologian, De Sancti Pauli Epistolis. The word ‘Saint’ roused his ire. ‘Rags of Popery,’ he muttered, as he banged the books back on their shelves. ‘What for “Saint” Paul and not “Saint” Moses or “Saint” Isaiah? It’s a queer thing that Antichrist should set himself to miscall the godly Apostles of the New Testament and let the auld prophets alone. You’re a young man, Mr Sempill, and, as is natural in youth, with but a small experience of religion. Take the advice of an older man, and no clog yourself on the road to Heaven with ower much printit lear, when ye can put the whole Word of God in your pouch.’
But Mr Fordyce looked at the shelves with greedy eyes. The moor-fowl at dinner had loosened a tooth, and now it came out in his hand and was wrapped carefully in his kerchief. ‘I have kept ilka tooth I have ever cast,’ he told the others, ‘and they will go into my coffin with me that my bodily parts may be together at the Resurrection.’ ‘Would you shorten the arm of the Lord?’ Mr Proudfoot had asked testily. ‘Can He no gather your remnants from the uttermost parts of the earth?’ ‘True, true,’ the other had answered gently, ‘but it’s just my fancy to keep all my dust in the one place.’ This ceremony over, he flung himself on the books like a hungry man on food. He opened them lovingly, read their titles, fingered them as if he could scarcely bear to part with them. ‘You’re no half my age,’ he told the owner, ‘but you’ve twice as many books as there are in the Cauldshaw manse. You start well provided, Mr David.’
The theology he knew already and approved of, but there were other works over which he shook a moralising head. ‘You’ve a hantle of Pagan writers, Mr David. I would counsel a young minister to apply himself rather to the Hebrew than to the Greek, for though the Greek was the tongue of the New Testament, it was also the tongue of lascivious poets and mocking philosophers, whereas the Hebrew was consecrate wholly to God…. But you have the Hebrew too, I see. Losh, here’s the lexicon of Bamburgius, of which I have read but have never seen. We must consult, Mr David. I’ve a new theory of the Hebrew accents on which I would like your judgment.’
As he ran over the list he suddenly cried aloud with pleasure, and then checked himself almost shamefacedly. ‘Preserve us, but here’s Hieronymus Cardanus, and other astrologic works. Man, I’ve diverted myself whiles with the science of the stars, and can make a shape at calculating a nativity. I cannot see why the thing should not be turned to holy uses, as when the star guided the Wise Men of the East to Bethlehem. You and me must have long cracks some day. These books will be like the Pole Star to draw me to Woodilee, and I’m looking
