His first hour he had spent exploring his property. The manse was little and squat11, and gave lodging12 in its heather-thatched roof to more than one colony of bees. The front abutted13 on the kirkton road, save for a narrow strip of green edged with smooth white stones from the burn. The back looked on a garden, where stood a score of apple trees, the small wild fruit of which was scarcely worth the gathering14. There was also a square of green for bleaching15 clothes, a gean tree, a plot of gillyflowers and monkshood, and another of precious herbs like clary, penny-royal, and marjoram. At one end of the manse stood a brewhouse and a granary or girnel, for the storing of the minister’s stipend18 meal; at the other a stable for two beasts, a byre with three stalls, a hen-house of mud, and, in the angle of the dykes19 of the kirk loan, a midden among nettles20.
Indoors the place was not commodious21, and even on that warm August day a chill struck upward from the earthen floors. The low-ceiled lobby had no light but the open door. To the right of it was the living-room with a boarded ceiling, a wooden floor, and roughly plastered walls, where the minister’s eight-day clock (by John Atchison, Leith, 1601) had now acclimatized itself. To the left lay Isobel’s kitchen, with a door leading to the brewhouse, and Isobel’s press-bed at the back of it, and a small dog-hole of a cellar. The upper story was reached by a wooden staircase as steep as a ladder, which opened direct into the minister’s bedroom — an apartment of luxury, for it had a fireplace. One door led from it to the solitary22 guest-chamber; another to a tiny hearthless room, which was his study or closet, and which at the moment ranked in his mind as the most miraculous24 of his possessions.
David ranged around like a boy back from school, and indeed with his thick, sandy hair and ruddy countenance25 and slim, straight back he seemed scarcely to have outgrown26 the schoolboy. He spilt the browst in the brewhouse, and made a spectacle of himself with pease-meal in the girnel. Isobel watched him anxiously out of doors, where he sampled the fruit of the apple trees, and with various rejected specimens27 took shots at a starling in the glebe. Then, in response to his shouts, she brought him a basin of water and he washed off the dust of his morning ride. The August sun fell warm on the little yard; the sound of the burn in the glen, the clack of the kirkton smithy, the sheep far off on Windyways, the bees in the clove28 gillyflowers, all melted into the soothing29 hum of a moorland noontide. The minister smiled as he scrubbed his cheeks, and Isobel’s little old puckered30 apple-hued face smiled back. “Ay, sir,” she said, “our lines is fallen intil a goodly place and a pleasant habitation. The Lord be thankit.” And as he cried a fervent31 amen and tossed the towel back to her, a stir at the front door betokened32 his first visitors.
These were no less than three in number, neighbouring ministers who had ridden over on their garrons to bid the young man welcome to Woodilee. Presently stable and byre were crowded with their beasts, and the three brethren had bestowed33 themselves on the rough bench which adjoined the bleaching-ground. They would have their dinner at the village ordinary — let not Mr. Sempill put himself about — they would never have come thus unannounced if they had thought that they would be pressed to a meal. But they allowed themselves to be persuaded by the hospitable34 clamour of Isobel, who saw in such a function on her first day at the manse a social aggrandizement35. “Mr. Sempill would think black burnin’ shame if the gentlemen didna break breid. . . . ” There was walth o’ provender36 in the house — this moment she had put a hen in the pot — she had a brace37 of muir-fowl38 ready for brandering that had been sent from Chasehope that very morn. . . . The three smiled tolerantly and hopefully. “Ye’ve gotten a rare Abigail, Mr. Sempill. A woman o’ mense and sense — the manse o’ Woodilee will be well guidit.”
The Reverend Mungo Muirhead had a vast shaven face set atop of a thick neck and a cumbrous body. He had a big thin-lipped mouth which shut tight like a lawyer’s, a fleshy nose, and large grey eyes which at most times were ruminant as a cow’s, but could on occasion kindle39 to shrewdness. His complexion40 was pale, and he was fast growing bald, so the impression at first sight was of a perfect mountain of countenance, a steep field of colourless skin. As minister of Kirk Aller he was the metropolitan41 of the company, and as became a townsman he wore decent black with bands, and boasted a hat. The Reverend Ebenezer Proudfoot, from the moorland village of Bold, was of a different cast. He wore the coarse grey homespun of the farmer, his head-covering was a blue bonnet42, his shoes were thick brogues with leather ties, and he had donned a pair of ancient frieze43 leggings. A massive sinewy44 figure, there was in his narrow face and small blue eyes an air of rude power and fiery45 energy. The third, Mr. James Fordyce from the neighbouring parish of Cauldshaw, was slight and thin, and pale either from ill~health or from much study. He was dressed in worn blue, and even in the August sun kept his plaid round his shoulders. In his face a fine brow was marred47 by the contraction48 of his lean jaws49 and a mouth puckered constantly as if in doubt or pain, but redeemed50 by brown eyes, as soft and wistful as a girl’s.
At the hour of noon they sat down to meat. Mr. Muirhead said a lengthy51 grace, which, since he sniffed52 the savour from the kitchen, he began appropriately with “Bountiful Jehovah.” All the dishes were set out at once on the bare deal table — a bowl of barley53 kail, a boiled fowl, the two brandered grouse54, and a platter of oatcakes. The merchant in the Pleasance of Edinburgh had given his son a better plenishing than fell to the usual lot of ministers, for there were pewter plates and a knife and a fork for each guest. The three stared at the splendour, and Mr. Proudfoot, as if to testify against luxury, preferred to pick the bones with his hands. The home-brewed ale was good, and all except Mr. Fordyce did full justice to it, so that the single tankard, passed from hand to hand, was often refilled by Isobel. “Man, Mr. David,” cried Mr. Muirhead in high good-humour, “this is a great differ from the days of your predecessor55. Worthy56 Mr. Macmichael had never muckle but bannocks to set before his friends. But you’ve made us a feast of fat things.”
David inquired about his predecessor, whom he remembered dimly from his boyhood as a man even then very old, who ambled57 about the parish on a white shelty.
“He was a pious58 and diligent59 minister,” said Mr. Muirhead, “but since ever I kenned60 him he was sore fallen in the vale of years. He would stick to the same ‘ordinary’ till he had thrashed it into stour. I’ve heard that he preached for a year and sax months on Exodus61 fifteen and twenty-seven, the twelve wells of water and three score and ten palm trees of Elim, a Sabbath to ilka well and ilka tree. I’ve a notion that he was never very strong in the intellectuals.”
“He wrestled62 mightily63 in prayer,” said Mr. Proudfoot, “and he was great at fencing the Tables. Ay, sirs, he was a trumpet64 for the pure Gospel blast.”
“I doubt not he was a good man,” said Mr. Fordyce, “and is now gone to his reward. But he was ower auld46 and feeble for a sinful countryside. I fear that the parish was but ill guided, and, as ye ken9, there was whiles talk of a Presbytery visitation.”
“I differ!” cried Mr. Muirhead. “I differ in toto. Woodilee has aye been famous for its godly elders. Has it not Ephraim Caird, who was a member of Assembly and had a hand in that precious work of grace done in the East Kirk of St. Giles’s two years syne65? Has it not Peter Pennecuik, who has a gift of supplication66 like Mr. Rutherford himself? Ay, and in the Bishops’ War you’ll mind how Amos Ritchie was staunch to uphold the Covenant67 with the auld matchlock that had been his gudesire’s. There’s no lack of true religion in Woodilee.”
“There’s no lack of carnal pride, Mr. Mungo. The folk of Woodilee are ready enough for any stramash in Kirk or State. But what of their perishing souls, I 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 forth69 works meet for repentance70?”
“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 Almighty71 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 [plaid]. 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 witchcraft72 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 [careful] folk to confound the Adversary73. 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 vouchsafed74 to us in England? A post came to Kirk Aller yestreen, and it seems that some weeks syne there was a great battle beside the city of York, where our Scots wrought75 mightily, and our own Davie Leslie gave the King’s horsemen their kail through the reek76. What does that portend77?”
“It portends78,” said Mr. Proudfoot, whom food did not mellow79, “that our pure and reformed Kirk of Scotland is linked more than ever with sectaries and antinomians and those, like the bloody80 and deceitful Cromwell, that would defile81 the milk of the Word with the sour whey of their human inventions. What avails a triumphant82 Kirk if its doctrine83 be sullied?”
Mr. Muirhead laughed. “It portends nothing of the kind. The good work goes cannily84 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 to-day 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 posture85 of affairs for what he called the “good cause.” The Solemn League and Covenant bound all Scotland in a pact86 with the Lord, and presently all England would follow suit. There would be soon that comfortable sight which had been foretold87 by their godly fathers, a uniform Kirk and a pure Gospel established by law from London to the Orkneys, and a covenanted88 Sion to which all the peoples of the earth would go up. Mr. Muirhead was eloquent89, for he repeated a peroration90 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 mere91 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 duress92. 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? Nay93, 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 asperity94 in the one disputant and of recalcitrance95 in the other, so David for good-fellowship’s sake suggested that he might show them the manse in its new guise96. 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 largest tack97 in the parish. He was a big fellow, red as a fox, with a white freckled98 face, no eyebrows99, 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 acquiesced100 in the majority vote and had welcomed the new minister at the “preaching in” with a great show of goodwill101. To~day 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 bog102 hay. So David took the other two to his closet and left Chasehope and Mr. Muirhead to their colloquy103.
Mr. Proudfoot eyed with disapproval104 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 Testament105 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 clog106 yourself on the road to Heaven with ower much printit lear, when you can put the whole Word of God in your pouch107.”
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 coffin108 with me that my bodily parts may be together at the Resurrection.” “Would you shorten the arm of the Lord?” Mr. Proudfoot had asked testily109. “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, but there were other works over which he shook a moralizing 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 lascivious110 poets and mocking philosophers, whereas the Hebrew was consecrate111 wholly to God. . . . But you have the Hebrew too, I see. Losh, here’s the lexicon112 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 judgment113.”
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 to see you soon at Cauldshaw. It’s but a poor desert bit, but there have been precious occasions there and many an outpouring of grace. I’m sore troubled with the gravel114, Mr. David, and the goodwife has had a flux115 in the legs this twelvemonth back, but the Lord has showed me singular favour, and my damps are lightened since a leech116 in Edinburgh prescribed a hyperion of bourtree and rue68. . . . We’re a childless household, for we had but the one bairn, and sax year syne the Lord gathered her to Himself.”
Downstairs Mr. Muirhead had finished his talk, and the three ministers took their leave — they of Bold and Cauldshaw to jog the moorland miles to their homes, he of Kirk Aller to take his “four~hours” with Chasehope at Lucky Weir’s in the clachan. Each of the three kissed David on the cheek and blessed him after his fashion. “May you live to be a pillar of the Kirk,” said Mr. Muirhead. “Keep a Gospel walk,” said Mr. Proudfoot, “on the narrow rigging of the truth.” But Mr. Fordyce took the young man’s hand, after saluting117 him, and held it with a kind of wistful affection. “I pray,” he said, “that your windows may be ever open towards Jerusalem.”
When his guests had gone David Sempill explored once more his little domain118, like a child who counts his treasures. Then, as the afternoon mellowed119 into evening, the slopes of the Hill of Deer, red with flowering heather, drew him for a walk. He wanted a wide prospect120, to see his parish in its setting of hill and glen, and recall the landmarks121 now blurred122 in his childhood’s memory. His black coat and breeches were of Edinburgh make and too fine for moorland work, but he had stout123 country shoes and hose of ram’s wool, the gift of his cousin’s wife at Newbiggin, and he moved over the bent124 with the long stride of a shepherd. He crossed the burn of Mire125, and saw below him the farm-town of Mirehope, with barley and nettles at strife126 in the infield, and the run-rigs of the outfield feathered with very green oats. Presently he was on the Hill of Deer, where the long stacks of peats were drying so well that every breath of air sent up from them a fine flurry of dust. The Mirehope cattle, wretched little black beasts, were grazing under the charge of a herd-boy, and the Mirehope sheep, their coats matted with tar23 till they looked like monstrous127 slugs, were picking up an uneasy livelihood128 among the heather bushes, leaving tufts of smelly wool behind them on the scraggy twigs129 which were still charred130 from the March moorburn. He reached the low summit, and flung himself down on a patch of thymy turf between the whinstone screes, with his face to the valley.
His holiday mood still held. The visit of his ministerial brethren had not dashed him, for he saw their prosiness through a golden haze131. Mr. Muirhead was a stout warder on the walls of Sion, Mr. Proudfoot a guardian132 of the purity of the Temple, and Mr. Fordyce beyond question a saint, with his haggard face and his wistful eyes. It was Mr. Fordyce who stuck in his memory. A lovable saint, with his cast teeth saved up to make easy the business of a bodily resurrection, his love of the stars, his pathetic bookishness. David was full of the zest133 of his calling, but for himself he was ready to circumscribe134 its duties. Not for him to uphold the Kirk against its ill-wishers in the State; in that cause he would do battle when the need arose, but not till then. He left to others the task of keeping the canon of truth pure from alloy135: he accepted the Kirk’s doctrine loyally, but let others do the dogmatizing. The work for which he longed was to save and comfort human souls.
Seen on that hilltop the minister of Woodilee was a different figure from that beheld136 by his colleagues in the dim light of the manse. His active form, his colour, his tumbled hair, spoke137 of the boy, but his face was not boyish. In its young contours there were already thought and resolution and spiritual fineness, and there was a steady ardour in the eyes. If his chin was the fighter’s, his mouth was the comforter’s. Five years before he had been set on a scholar’s life. At the college he had been a noted138 Grecian, and in Robert Bryson’s bookshop at the Sign of the Prophet Jonah in the West Bow his verses, Latin and English, had been praised by the learned. When religion called him it was as a challenge not to renounce139 but to perfect his past. A happy preoccupation with his dream made him blind to the harshness and jealousies140 which beset141 the Kirk, and he saw only its shining mission. The beauty which was to be found in letters seemed in very truth a part of that profounder beauty which embraced all earth and Heaven in the revelation of God. He had not ceased to be the humanist in becoming the evangelist. Some had looked askance at him as too full of carnal learning for the sacred office, some as too cheerful for a shepherd of souls in a perishing world. But his critics as yet were few, for David carried with him a light and warmth which it was hard for the sourest to resist. “He is a gracious youth,” an old minister had said at his ordination142. “May the Lord deal tenderly with him!”
David’s eyes from his perch143 on the hilltop rested first on the kirkton of Woodilee. He saw the manse among its trees, and the church with its thatched roof — the roof had been lead till Morton the Regent stripped it and melted it down for bullets. He saw the little beehive cottages in the clachan with the taller gable-end of Lucky Weir’s ale-house. He saw the adjoining farm-towns — the Mains, Chasehope, Nether144 Windyways, Crossbasket, the two Fennans, each with its patches of crops lifted well above the bogs145 of the glen. He saw the mill of Woodilee at present idle by the burn, and hay being cut on the side of Windyways hill, and what looked like the clipping of the miller’s sheep. In the bright evening the scene was all of peace and pastoral, and David’s heart kindled146. There dwelled his people, the little flock whom God had appointed him to feed. His heart yearned147 over them, and in a sudden glow of tenderness he felt that this sunset prospect of his parish was a new and more solemn ordination.
It was long before he lifted his eyes beyond the glen to the great encircling amphitheatre of the hills. At first he gazed at them in an abstraction, till childish memories came back to him and he began to name the summits to himself one by one. There was the bald top of the Lammerlaw, and the peak of the Green Dod, and far beyond the long line of the great Herstane Craig, which in that childhood had been the synonym148 for untravelled mystery. He saw the green cleft149 in the hills where the Aller came down from its distant wells, and the darker glen of the Rood where bent was exchanged for rock and heather. He saw the very patches of meadow by Roodside which he had made his boyish playground. Such a hilltop prospect he had never before known, for a child lives in a magnified world, and finds immensity in short vistas150. One thing struck hard on his mind. Never before had he realized the extent of the forest ground. He remembered travelling to Roodfoot through trees, and all up the water of Rood there had been a drift of scrub. But it was the meadows and the open spaces that had been his kingdom, and his recollection was of a bare sunny land where whaup and peewit cried and the burns fell headlong from windy moors151. But now, as he gazed, he realized that the countryside was mainly forest.
Everywhere, muffling152 the lower glen of the Woodilee burn and the immediate153 vale of the Aller, and climbing far up the hillside, was the gloom of trees. In the Rood glen there was darkness only at the foot, for higher up the woods thinned into scrub of oak and hazel, with the knees of the uplands showing through it. The sight powerfully impressed his fancy. Woodilee was a mere clearing in a forest. This was the Silva Caledonis of which old writers spoke, the wood which once covered all the land and in whose glades154 King Arthur had dwelt. He remembered doggerel155 Latin of Merlin the Bard156 and strange sayings of True Thomas — old wives’ tales which concerned this sanctuary157. He had grown up beside it and had not known of it, and now he had come back to a revelation. Silva Caledonis! Up the Rood water lay the house of Calidon. Were the names perhaps the same?
The young man’s fancy was quick to kindle, and he looked with new eyes at the great cup of green, broken only at one spot by Aller side with the flash of water. At first in the soft evening light it had worn a gracious and homely158 air, even the darkness of the pines seemed luminous159, and the feathery top of a patch of birches was like the smoke of household fires. . . . But as the sun sank behind the Rood hills a change seemed to come over the scene. The shade became gloom, a hostile, impenetrable darkness. The birches were still like smoke, but a turbid160 smoke from some unhallowed altar. The distant shallows of Aller caught a ray of the dying sun and turned to blood. . . . The minister shivered and then laughed at himself for his folly161.
The evening deepened in the hollows, though the hilltops were still faintly bright. The great wood seemed now to be a moving thing, a flood which lapped and surged and might at any moment overflow162 the sandspit which was Woodilee. Again the minister laughed at himself, but without conviction. It must be an eerie163 life under the shadow of that ancient formless thing. Woodilee could not be quite as other parishes, or its folk like other folk. The Wood, this hoary164 Wood of Caledon, must dominate their thoughts and form their characters. . . . Had not some one called it the Black Wood? — Yes, they had spoken of it that afternoon. Mr. Muirhead had admitted that it must be queer to live so near it, and Mr. Fordyce had shaken his head solemnly and hinted at tales that would be told if the trees could speak. . . . Did the Devil use the place as a stronghold and seduce165 the foolish into its shadows? Could it be said of a lost soul, Itur in antiquam silvam?
David was less superstitious166 than most men, but he had too ready a fancy and a mind too well stored with learning to be easy at the thought. Already he felt that he had found an antagonist167. Was Woodilee to prove a frontier-post for God’s servant against the horrid168 mysteries of heathendom? . . . He gave a sudden start, for a voice had sounded behind him.
The voice was singing — a charm against bogles which he remembered himself using as a child:
“Weary, Ovie, gang awa’,
Haste ye furth o’ house an’ ha’,
Ower the muir and doun the burn,
Wearie, Ovie, ne’er return.”
A grotesque169 figure emerged from the dusk. It was a tall fellow, who seemed to have been broken in the middle, for he walked almost doubled up. His face, seen in the half-light, was that of a man of thirty or so, with a full black beard and red protuberant170 lips. His clothes were ruinous, an old leather jerkin which gaped171 at every seam, ragged172 small-clothes of frieze, and for hosen a wrapping of dirty clouts173. There were no shoes on his feet, and his unwashed face was dark as a berry. In his hand he had a long ash pole, and on his head a blue cowl so tight that it was almost a skull-cap.
David recognized the figure for Daft Gibbie, the village natural, who had greeted him with mewing and shouting at his ordination. In the clachan street he had seemed an ordinary deformed174 idiot — what was known locally as an “object”— but up on this twilight175 hilltop he was like an uncouth176 revenant from an older world. The minister instinctively177 gripped his staff tighter, but Gibbie’s intention was of the friendliest.
“A braw guid e’en to ye, Mr. Sempill, sir. I saw ye tak’ the hill and I bode178 to follow, for I was wantin’ to bid ye welcome to Woodilee. Man, ye gang up the brae-face like a maukin [a hare]. Ower fast, I says to mysel’, ower fast for a man o’ God, for what saith the Word, ‘He that believeth shall not make haste!’”
The creature spoke in a voice of great beauty and softness — the voice rather of a woman than of a man. And as he spoke he bowed, and patted the minister’s arm, and peered into his face with bright wild eyes. Then he clutched David and forced him round till again he was looking over the Wood.
“The Hill o’ Deer’s a grand bit for a prospect, sir, for is it no like the Hill o’ Pisgah from which ye can spy the Promised Land? Ye can lift up your eyes to the hills, and ye can feast them on the bonny haughs o’ the Aller, or on the douce wee clachan o’ Woodilee, wi’ the cots sittin’ as canty round the kirk as kittlins round an auld cat.”
“I was looking at the Wood,” said David.
The man laughed shrilly179. “And a braw sicht it is in the gloamin’ frae the Hill o’ Deer. For ye can see the size o’ the muckle spider’s wab, but doun in the glen ye’re that clamjamphried wi’ michty trees that your heid spins like a peery and your e’en are dozened. It’s a unco thing the Wud, Mr. Sempill, sir?”
“Do you know your ways in it, Gibbie?”
“Me! I daurna enter it. I keep the road, for I’m feared o’ yon dark howes.” Then he laughed again, and put his mouth close to the minister’s ear. “Not but what I’ll tak’ the Wud at the proper season. Tak’ the Wud, Mr. Sempill, like other folk in Woodilee.”
He peered in the minister’s face to see if he were understood. Satisfied that he was not, he laughed again.
“Tak’ Gibbie’s advice, sir, and no gang near the Wud. It’s nae place for men o’ God, like yoursel’, sir, and puir Gibbie.”
“Do they call it the Black Wood?”
Gibbie spat180. “Incomin’ bodies, nae doot,” he said in contempt. “But it’s just the Wud wi’ nae ‘black’ aboot it. But ken ye the name that auld folk gie’d it?” He became confidential181 again. “They ca’d it Melanudrigill,” he whispered.
David repeated the word. His mind had been running on heathen learning, and he wondered if the name were Greek.
“That might mean the ‘place of dark waters,’” he said.
“Na, na. Ye’re wrong there, Mr. Sempill. There’s nae dark waters in Melanudrigill. There’s the seven burns that rin south, but they’re a’ as clear as Aller. But dinna speak that name to ither folk, Mr. Sempill, and dinna let on that Gibbie telled ye. It’s a wanchancy name. Ye can cry it in a safe bit like the Hill o’ Deer, but if ye was to breathe it in the Wud unco things micht happen. I daurna speak my ain name among the trees.”
“Your name is Gibbie. Gibbie what?”
The man’s face seemed to narrow in fear and then to expand in confidence. “I can tell it to a minister o’ the Word. It’s Gilbert Niven. Ken ye where I got that name? In the Wud, sir. Ken ye wha gie’d it me? The Guid Folk. Ye’ll no let on that I telled ye.”
The night was now fallen, and David turned for home, after one last look at the pit of blackness beneath him. The idiot hobbled beside him, covering the ground at a pace which tried even his young legs, and as he went he babbled182.
“Tak’ Gibbie’s advice and keep far frae the Wud, Mr. Sempill, and if ye’re for Roodfoot or Calidon haud by the guid road. I’ve heard tell that in the auld days, when there was monks17 at the kirkton, they bode to gang out every year wi’ bells and candles and bless the road to keep it free o’ bogles. But they never ventured into the Wud, honest men. I’ll no say but what a minister is mair powerfu’ than a monk16, but an eident body will run nae risks. Keep to fine caller bits like this Hill o’ Deer, and if ye want to traivel, gang west by Chasehope or east by Kirk Aller. There’s nocht for a man o’ God in the Wud.”
“Are there none of my folk there?”
For a second Gibbie stopped as if thunderstruck. “Your folk!” he cried. “In the Wud!” Then he perceived David’s meaning. “Na, na. There’s nae dwallin’ there. Nether Fennan is no far off and Reiverslaw is a bowshot from the trees, but to bide183 in the Wud! — Na, na, a man would be sair left to himsel’ ere he ventured that! There’s nae hoose biggit [built] by human hand that wadna be clawed doun by bogles afore the wa’ rase a span frae the grund.”
At the outfield of Mirehope Gibbie fled abruptly184, chanting like a night bird.
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1
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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2
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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3
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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4
licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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5
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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6
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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7
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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8
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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9
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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10
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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11
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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12
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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13
abutted
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| v.（与…）邻接( abut的过去式和过去分词 )；（与…）毗连；接触；倚靠 | |
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14
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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15
bleaching
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| 漂白法，漂白 | |
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16
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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17
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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18
stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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19
dykes
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| abbr.diagonal wire cutters 斜线切割机n.堤( dyke的名词复数 )；坝；堰；沟 | |
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20
nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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21
commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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22
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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23
tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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24
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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25
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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26
outgrown
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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27
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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28
clove
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| n.丁香味 | |
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29
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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30
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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32
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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35
aggrandizement
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| n.增大，强化，扩大 | |
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36
provender
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| n.刍草；秣料 | |
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37
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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38
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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39
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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40
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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41
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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42
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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43
frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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44
sinewy
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| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
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45
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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46
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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47
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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48
contraction
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| n.缩略词，缩写式，害病 | |
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49
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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50
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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51
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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52
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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53
barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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54
grouse
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| n.松鸡；v.牢骚，诉苦 | |
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55
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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56
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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57
ambled
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的过去式和过去分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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58
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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59
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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60
kenned
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| v.知道( ken的过去式和过去分词 )；懂得；看到；认出 | |
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61
exodus
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| v.大批离去，成群外出 | |
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62
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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63
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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64
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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65
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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66
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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67
covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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68
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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69
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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70
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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71
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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72
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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73
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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74
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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75
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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76
reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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77
portend
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| v.预兆，预示；给…以警告 | |
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78
portends
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| v.预示( portend的第三人称单数 )；预兆；给…以警告；预告 | |
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79
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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80
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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81
defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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82
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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83
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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84
cannily
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| 精明地 | |
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85
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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86
pact
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| n.合同，条约，公约，协定 | |
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87
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
covenanted
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| v.立约，立誓( covenant的过去分词 ) | |
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89
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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90
peroration
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| n.（演说等之）结论 | |
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91
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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92
duress
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| n.胁迫 | |
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93
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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94
asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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95
recalcitrance
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| n.固执，顽抗 | |
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96
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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97
tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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98
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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100
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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102
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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103
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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104
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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105
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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106
clog
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| vt.塞满，阻塞；n.[常pl.]木屐 | |
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107
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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108
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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109
testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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110
lascivious
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| adj.淫荡的，好色的 | |
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111
consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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112
lexicon
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| n.字典，专门词汇 | |
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113
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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114
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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115
flux
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| n.流动；不断的改变 | |
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116
leech
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| n.水蛭，吸血鬼，榨取他人利益的人；vt.以水蛭吸血；vi.依附于别人 | |
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117
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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118
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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119
mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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120
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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121
landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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122
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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124
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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125
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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126
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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127
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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128
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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129
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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130
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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131
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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132
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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133
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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134
circumscribe
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| v.在...周围划线，限制，约束 | |
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135
alloy
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| n.合金，(金属的)成色 | |
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136
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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137
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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138
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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139
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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140
jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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141
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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142
ordination
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| n.授任圣职 | |
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143
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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144
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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145
bogs
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| n.沼泽，泥塘( bog的名词复数 )；厕所v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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146
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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147
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
synonym
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| n.同义词，换喻词 | |
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149
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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150
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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151
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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152
muffling
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| v.压抑，捂住( muffle的现在分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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153
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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154
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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155
doggerel
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| n.拙劣的诗，打油诗 | |
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156
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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157
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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158
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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159
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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160
turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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161
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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162
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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163
eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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164
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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165
seduce
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| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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166
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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167
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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168
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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169
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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170
protuberant
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| adj.突出的，隆起的 | |
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171
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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172
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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173
clouts
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| n.猛打( clout的名词复数 )；敲打；（尤指政治上的）影响；（用手或硬物的）击v.（尤指用手）猛击，重打( clout的第三人称单数 ) | |
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174
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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175
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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176
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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177
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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178
bode
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| v.预示 | |
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179
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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180
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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181
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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182
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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183
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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184
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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