It arrived in time at the Manse of Balmaghie, as all things are sure to turn manseward ere a day pass in the land of Galloway.
One evening in the quiet space between the end of hay and the first sickle-sweep of harvest, Hob came in with more than his ordinary solemn staidness.
But he said nothing till we were over with the taking of the Book and ready to go to bed. Then as he was winding5 the watch I had brought him from Edinburgh he glanced up once at me.
“When ye were last at Earlstoun,” he said, “heard ye any news?”{287}
I thought he meant at first that Mary was to be married, and it may be that my face showed too clearly the anxiety of the heart.
“About Sandy himself?” he hastened to add.
“About Alexander Gordon?” cried I in astonishment6. “What ill news would I hear about Alexander Gordon of Earlstoun?”
He nodded, finished the winding of his horologe, held it gravely to his ear to assure himself that it was going, and then nodded again. For that was Hob’s way.
“Well,” he said, “the Presbytery have had him complained of to them for drunkenness and worse. And they will excommunicate him with the greatest excommunication if he decline their authority.”
“But Earlstoun is not of their communion,” I cried, much astonished, the matter being none of the Presbytery’s business; “he is of the Hill-folk, an elder and mainstay among them for thirty years.”
“The Presbytery have made it their business because he is a well-wisher of yours,” said Hob. “Besides, the report of it has already gone abroad throughout the land, and they say{288} that the matter will be brought before the next general meeting of the societies.”
“And in the meantime?” I began.
“In the meantime,” said Hob, “those of the Hill-folk who form the Committee of the Seven Thousand have suspended him from his eldership!”
Hob paused, as he ever did when he had more to tell, and was considering how to begin.
“Go on, Hob,” cried I—testily enough, I fear.
“They say that his old seizure7 has come again upon him. He sits in an upper room like a beast, and will be approached by none. And some declare that, like King David, he feigns8 madness, others that he has been driven mad by the sin and the shame.”
Now this was sore and grievous tidings to me, not only because of Mary Gordon, but for the sake of the cause.
For Alexander Gordon had been during a generation the most noted9 Covenanter of the stalwart sort in Scotland. He had suffered almost unto death without wavering in the old ill times of Charles and James. He had languished10 long in prison, both in the Castle of Edinburgh and that of Blackness. He had{289} come to the first frosting of the hair with a name clear and untainted. And now when he stood at the head of the Covenanting11 remnant it was like the downfall of a god that he should so decline from his place and pride.
Then the other part of the news that the Presbytery, as the representatives and custodians12 of morals, were to lay upon him the Greater Excommunication was also a thing hard and bitter. For if they did so it inferred the penalties of being shut off from communion with man in the market-place and with God in the closet. The man who spoke13 to the excommunicated partook of the crime. And though the power of the Presbytery to loose and to bind14 had somewhat declined of late, yet, nevertheless, the terror of the major anathema15 still pressed heavily upon the people.
Hob went soberly up to his bedroom. The boards creaked as he threw himself down, and I could hear him fall quiet in a minute. But sleep would not come to my eyelids16. At last I arose from my naked bed and took my way down to the water-side by which I had walked oftentimes in dark days and darker nights.
Then as I was able I put before Him who is never absent the case of Alexander Gordon.{290} And I wrestled17 long as to what I should do. Sometimes I thought of him as my friend, and again I knew that it was chiefly for the sake of Mary Gordon that I was thus greatly troubled.
But with the dawning of the morning came some rest and a growing clearness of purpose—such as always comes to the soul of man when, out of the indefinite turmoil18 of perplexity, something to be done swims up from the gulf19 and stands clear before the inward eye.
I would go to Earlstoun and have speech with Alexander Gordon. The Presbytery had condemned20 him unheard. His own folk of the Societies—at least, some of the elders of them—had been ready to believe an evil report and had suspended him from his office. He needed a minister’s dealing21, or at least a friend’s advice. I was both, and there was all the more reason because I was neither of the Kirk that had condemned nor of the communion which was ready to believe an ill report of its noblest and highest.
It was little past the dawning when, being still sleepless22, I set my hat on my head, and, taking staff in hand, set off up the wet meadow-edges to walk to Earlstoun. I heard the black-cap sing sweetly down among the gall-bushes{291} of the meadow. A blackbird turned up some notes of his morning song, but drowsily23, and without the young ardour of spring and the rathe summer time. Suddenly the east brightened and rent. The day strode over the land.
I journeyed on, the sun beating hotly upon me. It was very evidently to be a day of fervent24 heat. Soon I had to take off my coat, and as I carried it country fashion over my shoulder the harvesters gave me good-day from the cornfields of the pleasant strath of the ken3, and over the hated park-dykes which the landlords were beginning to build.
Mostly when I walked abroad I observed nothing, but to-day I saw everything with strange clearness, as one sometimes does in a vision or when stricken with fever.
I noted how the red willow-herb grew among the river stones and set fire to little pebbly25 islands. The lilies, yellow and white, basked26 and winked27 belated on the still and glowing water. The cattle, both nolt and kye, stood knee-deep in the shallows—to me the sweetest and most summersome of all rural sights.
As I drew near to New Galloway a score of laddies squattered like ducks and squabbled{292} like shrill28 scolding blackbirds in and out of the water, or darted29 naked through the copsewood at the loch’s head, playing “hide-and-seek” about the tree-trunks.
And through all pulsed the thought, “What shall I say to my friend? Shall I be faithful in questioning, faithful in chastening and rebuke30? Shall I take part with Mary Gordon’s father, and for her sake stand and fall with him? Or are my message and my Master more to me than any earthly love?” I feared the human was indeed mightier31 in my heart of hearts. Nevertheless something seemed to arise within me greater than myself.
点击收听单词发音
1 mellow | |
adj.柔和的;熟透的;v.变柔和;(使)成熟 | |
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2 wafted | |
v.吹送,飘送,(使)浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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3 ken | |
n.视野,知识领域 | |
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4 kens | |
vt.知道(ken的第三人称单数形式) | |
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5 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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6 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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7 seizure | |
n.没收;占有;抵押 | |
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8 feigns | |
假装,伪装( feign的第三人称单数 ); 捏造(借口、理由等) | |
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9 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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10 languished | |
长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 ); 受折磨; 变得(越来越)衰弱; 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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11 covenanting | |
v.立约,立誓( covenant的现在分词 ) | |
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12 custodians | |
n.看守人,保管人( custodian的名词复数 ) | |
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13 spoke | |
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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14 bind | |
vt.捆,包扎;装订;约束;使凝固;vi.变硬 | |
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15 anathema | |
n.诅咒;被诅咒的人(物),十分讨厌的人(物) | |
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16 eyelids | |
n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 );眼睛也不眨一下;不露声色;面不改色 | |
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17 wrestled | |
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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18 turmoil | |
n.骚乱,混乱,动乱 | |
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19 gulf | |
n.海湾;深渊,鸿沟;分歧,隔阂 | |
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20 condemned | |
adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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21 dealing | |
n.经商方法,待人态度 | |
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22 sleepless | |
adj.不睡眠的,睡不著的,不休息的 | |
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23 drowsily | |
adv.睡地,懒洋洋地,昏昏欲睡地 | |
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24 fervent | |
adj.热的,热烈的,热情的 | |
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25 pebbly | |
多卵石的,有卵石花纹的 | |
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26 basked | |
v.晒太阳,取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 );对…感到乐趣;因他人的功绩而出名;仰仗…的余泽 | |
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27 winked | |
v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 );递眼色(表示友好或高兴等);(指光)闪烁;闪亮 | |
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28 shrill | |
adj.尖声的;刺耳的;v尖叫 | |
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29 darted | |
v.投掷,投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 );向前冲,飞奔 | |
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30 rebuke | |
v.指责,非难,斥责 [反]praise | |
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31 mightier | |
adj. 强有力的,强大的,巨大的 adv. 很,极其 | |
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