Part 18 (1/2)

”A's richt noo!” replied Jock, as again he raised his hand and repeated his parting words, ”G.o.d's blessin' be wi' ye”; and then ran off as if pursued, until concealed by rising ground from the gaze of the keeper, who watched him while in sight, lost in his own meditations.

One of the first things Jock did after thus parting with Hugh was to undo his parcel, and when he did so there was spread before his wondering eyes such a display of clothing of every kind as he had never dreamt of in connexion with his own person. All seemed to his eyes as if fresh from the tailor's hands. Jock looked at his treasures in detail, held them up, turned them over, laid them down, and repeated the process with such a grin on his face and exclamations on his lips as can neither be described nor repeated. After a while his resolution seemed to be taken: for descending to a clear mountain stream, he stripped himself of his usual habiliments, and, though they were old familiar friends, he cast them aside as if in scorn, stuffing them into a hole in the bank. After performing long and careful ablutions, he decked himself in his new rig, and tying up in a bundle his superfluous trappings, emerged on the moorland in appearance and in dignity the very lord of the manor! ”Faix,” thought Jock, as he paced along, ”the Sterlin' wasna far wrang when it telt me that 'a man's a man for a'

that!'”

Instead of pursuing his way direct to Drumsylie, he diverged to a village half-way between Castle Bennock and his final destination. With his money in his pocket, he put up like a gentleman at a superior lodging-house, where he was received with the respect becoming his appearance. Early in the morning, when few were awake, he entered Drumsylie, with a sheepish feeling and such fear of attracting the attention of its _gamins_ as made him run quickly to the house of an old widow, where he hoped to avoid all impertinent inquiries until he could determine upon his future proceedings. These were materially affected by the information which in due time he received, that Adam Mercer had been suddenly seized with illness on the day after he had left Drumsylie, and was now confined to bed.

CHAPTER XXI

THE QUACK

It was true, as Jock Hall had heard, that Sergeant Mercer was very unwell. The events of the few previous weeks, however trivial in the estimation of the great world, had been to him very real and afflicting.

The ecclesiastical trials and the social annoyances, with the secret worry and anxiety which they had occasioned, began to affect his health.

He grew dull in spirits, suffered from a sense of oppression, and was ”head-achy”, ”fus.h.i.+onless”, and ”dowie”. He resolved to be cheerful, and do his work; but he neither could be the one nor do the other. His wife prescribed for him out of her traditional pharmacopoeia, but in vain. Then, as a last resort, ”keeping a day in bed” was advised, and this was at once acceded to.

At the risk of breaking the thread of our narrative, or--to borrow an ill.u.s.tration more worthy of the nineteenth century--of running along a side rail to return shortly to the main line, we may here state, that at the beginning of the Sergeant's illness, a person, dressed in rather decayed black clothes, with a yellowish white neckcloth, looking like a deposed clergyman, gently tapped at his door. The door was opened by Katie. The stranger raised his broad-brimmed hat, and saluted her with a low respectful bow. He entered with head uncovered, muttering many apologies with many smiles. His complexion was dark; his black hair was smoothly combed back from his receding forehead, and again drawn forward in the form of a curl under each large ear, thus directing attention to his p.r.o.nounced nostrils and lips; while his black eyes were bent down, as if contemplating his s.h.i.+ning teeth. His figure was obese; his age between forty and fifty.

This distinguished-looking visitor introduced himself as Dr. Mair, and inquired in the kindest, blandest, and most confidential manner as to the health of ”the worthy Sergeant”, as he condescendingly called him.

Katie was puzzled, yet pleased, with the appearance of the unknown doctor, who explained that he was a stranger--his residence being ordinarily in London, except when travelling on professional business, as on the present occasion. He said that he had devoted all his time and talents to the study of the complaint under which the Sergeant, judging from what he had heard, was evidently labouring; and that he esteemed it to be the highest honour--a gift from Heaven, indeed--to be able to remedy it. His father, he stated, had been a great medical man in the West Indies, and had consecrated his life to the cure of disease, having made a wonderful collection of medicines from old Negroes, who, it was well known, had a great knowledge of herbs. These secrets of Nature his father had entrusted to him, and to him alone, on the express condition that he would minister them in love only. He therefore made no charge, except for the medicine itself--a mere trifle to cover the expense of getting it from the West Indies. Might he have the privilege of seeing the Sergeant? One great blessing of his medicines was, that if they did no good--which rarely happened--they did no harm. But all depended--he added, looking up towards heaven--on _His_ blessing!

After a long unctuous discourse of this kind, accompanied by a low whine and many gestures expressive of, or intended to express, all the Christian graces, added to Nature's gifts, the doctor drew breath.

Kate was much impressed by this self-sacrificing philanthropist, and expressed a cordial wish that he should see the Sergeant. Adam, after some conversation with his wife, saw it was best, for peace' sake, to permit the entrance of the doctor. After he had repeated some of his former statements and given a.s.surances of his skill, the Sergeant asked him: ”Hoo do I ken ye're speaking the truth, and no' cheatin' me?”

”You have my word of honour, Sergeant!” replied Dr. Mair, ”and you don't think _I_ would lie to you? Look at me! I cannot have any possible motive for making you unwell. Horrible thought! I hope I feel my sense of responsibility too much for that!” Whereupon he looked up to heaven, and then down into a black bag, out of which he took several phials and boxes of pills, arranging them on a small table at the window. He proceeded to describe their wonderful qualities in a style which he intended for the language of a scholarly gentleman, interlarding his speech with Latinized terms, to give it a more learned colouring.

”This medicine,” he said, ”acts on the spirits. It is called the _spiritum cheerabilum_. It cures depression; removes all nervous, agitating feelings--what we term _depressiones_; soothing the anxious mind because acting on the vital nerves--going to the root of every painful feeling, through the gastric juice, heart, and liver, along the spinal cord, and thence to the head and brain. This view is according to common-sense, you must admit. A few doses of such a medicine would put you on your legs, Sergeant, in a week! I never once knew it fail when taken perseveringly and with faith--with faith!” he added, with a benignant smile; ”for faith, I am solemnly persuaded, can even yet remove mountains!”

”Doctor, or whatever ye are,” said the Sergeant, in an impatient tone of voice, ”I want nane o' yer pills or drugs; I hae a guid eneuch doctor o'

my ain.”

”Ha!” said Dr. Mair; ”a regular pract.i.tioner, I presume? Yes, I understand. Hem! College bred, and all that.”

”Just so,” said the Sergeant. ”Edicated, as it were, for his wark, and no' a doctor by guess.”

”But can you believe his word?” blandly asked Dr. Mair.

”As muckle, surely, as yours,” replied the Sergeant; ”mair especial' as guid and learned men o' experience agree wi' him, but no' wi' you.”

”How do you know they are good and learned?” asked Dr. Mair, smiling.

”Mair onyhoo than I ken _ye're_ good and learned, and no' leein',” said Adam.

”But G.o.d might surely reveal to me the truth,” replied Mair, ”rather than to ten thousand so-called learned men. Babes and sucklings, you know, may receive what is concealed from the great and self-confident.”

”My word! ye're neither a babe nor a sucklin', doctor, as ye ca'