" 'Noo, Hillocks, a' maun be aff tae see Drumsheugh's grieve, for he's doon wi' the fever, and it's tae be a teuch fecht. A' hinna time tae wait for dinner; gie me some cheese an' cake in ma haund, and Jess 'ill take a pail o' meal an' water.
" 'Fee? A' 'm no wantin' yir fees, man; wi' that boxy ye dinna need a doctor; na, na, gie yir siller tae some puir body, Maister Hopps,' an' h e was doon the road as hard as he cud lick."
His fees were pretty much what the folk chose to give him, and he collected them once a year at Kildrummie fair.
"Weel, doctor, what am a' awin' ye for the wife and bairn? Ye 'ill need three notes for that nicht ye stayed in the hoose an' a' the vessits."
"Havers," MacLure would answer, "prices are low, a' 'm hearin'; gie 's thirty shillin's."
"No, a' 'll no, or the wife 'ill tak' ma ears aff," and it was settled for two pounds.
Lord Kilspindie gave him a free house and fields, and one way or other, Drumsheugh told me the doctor might get in about one hundred and fifty pounds a year, out of which he had to pay his old housekeeper's wages and a boy's, and keep two horses, besides the cost of instruments and books, which he bought through a friend in Edinburgh with much judgment.
There was only one man who ever complained of the doctor's charges, and that was the new farmer of Milton, who was so good that he was above both churches, and held a meeting in his barn. (It was Milton the Glen supposed at first to be a Mormon, but I can't go into that now.) He offered MacLure a pound less than he asked, and two tracts, whereupon MacLure expressed his opinion of Milton, both from a theological and social standpoint, with such vigour and frankness that an attentive audience of Drumtochty men could hardly contain themselves.
Jamie Soutar was selling his pig at the time, and missed the meeting, but he hastened to condole with Milton, who was complaining everywhere of the doctor's language.
"Ye did richt tae resist him; it 'ill maybe roose the Glen tae mak' a stand; he fair hands them in bondage.
"Thirty shillin's for twal' vessits, and him no mair than seeven mile awa', an' a' 'm telt there werena mair than four at nicht.
"Ye 'ill hae the sympathy o' the Glen, for a'body kens yir as free wi' y ir siller as yir tracts.
"Wes 't 'Beware o' Gude Warks' ye offered him? Man, ye chose it weel, for he's been colleckin' sae mony thae forty years, a' 'm feared for him.
"A' 've often thocht oor doctor's little better than the Gude Samaritan, an' the Pharisees didna think muckle o' his chance aither in this warld or that which is tae come."
Dr. MacLure did not lead a solemn procession from the sick-bed to the dining-room, and give his opinion from the hearth-rug with an air of wisdom bordering on the supernatural, because neither the Drumtochty houses nor his manners were on that large scale. He was accustomed to deliver himself in the yard, and to conclude his directions with one foot in the stirrup; but when he left the room where the life of Annie Mitchell was ebbing slowly away, our doctor said not one word, and at the sight of his face her husband's heart was troubled.
He was a dull man, Tammas, who could not read the meaning of a sign, and laboured under a perpetual disability of speech; but love was eyes to him that day, and a mouth.
"Is 't as bad as yir lookin', doctor? Tell 's the truth. Wull Annie no come through?" and Tammas looked MacLure straight in the face, who never flinched his duty or said smooth things.
"A' wud gie onythin' tae say Annie has a chance, but a' daurna; a' d oot yir gaein' to lose her, Tammas."
MacLure was in the saddle, and, as he gave his judgment, he laid his hand on Tammas's shoulder with one of the rare caresses that pass between men.
"It's a sair business, but ye 'ill play the man and no vex Annie; she 'ill dae her best, a' 'll warrant."
"And a' 'll dae mine," and Tammas gave MacLure's hand a grip that would have crushed the bones of a weakling. Drumtochty felt in such moments the brotherliness of this rough-looking man, and loved him.
Tammas hid his face in Jess's mane, who looked round with sorrow in her beautiful eyes, for she had seen many tragedies; and in this silent sympathy the stricken man drank his cup, drop by drop.
"A' wesna prepared for this, for a' aye thocht she wud live the langest. . . . She's younger than me by ten year, and never was ill.
. . . We've been mairit twal' year last Martinmas, but it's juist like a year the day. . . . A' wes never worthy o' her, the bonniest, snoddest (neatest), kindliest lass in the Glen. . . . A' never cud mak' oot hoo she ever lookit at me, 'at hesna hed ae word tae say about her till it's ower-late. . . . She didna cuist up to me that a' w esna worthy o' her--no her; but aye she said, 'Yir ma ain gudeman, and nane cud be kinder tae me.' . . . An' a' wes minded tae be kind, but a' see noo mony little trokes a' micht hae dune for her, and noo the time is by. . . . Naebody kens hoo patient she wes wi' me, and aye made the best o' me, an' never pit me tae shame afore the fouk. . . .
An' we never hed ae cross word, no ane in twal' year. . . . We were mair nor man and wife--we were sweethearts a' the time. . . . Oh, ma bonnie lass, what 'ill the bairnies an' me dae without ye, Annie?"
The winter night was falling fast, the snow lay deep upon the ground, and the merciless north wind moaned through the close as Tammas wrestled with his sorrow dry-eyed, for tears were denied Drumtochty men. Neither the doctor nor Jess moved hand or foot, but their hearts were with their fellow-creature, and at length the doctor made a sign to Marget Howe, who had come out in search of Tammas, and now stood by his side.
