WHEN Carmichael was Free Kirk minister of Dramtochty, and in the days of his youth, he had casual ways, and went at his own free will. He never came across the moor behind his manse on a summer day, and entered the cool pine wood which separated it from the ploughed land, without sitting down beside a certain pool of a burn which ran through the fringe of the wood. Because the water broke over a little rock and then gathered in a cup of gravel, and there was a heather bank where he could he as comfortably as in his favourite study chair, which had seen the Rebellion, but had changed its covering as well as its creed more than once since then; because the Highland cattle came to drink at that pool if you were not fussy and suspicious; and because all the sounds of the moor—the bleating of the sheep, the cry of the grouse, and the wail of the whaup and the drone of the bees—mingled in one music, and fell pleasantly upon your ear. “For five minutes only,” he said to himself, and then some Highland cows, with their absurd little calves, arrived, and would have considered it ill-mannered for him to rise; and he fell a-thinking while time flew. He rose with a start and hurried down to the main road, and made for the bridge over the Tochty, fearful lest he should be too late when the messenger came with momentous tidings from the telegraph office at Kildrummie.

For two years the Glen had been in the most delightful state of intellectual ferment, and it was freely said by those who could remember that conversation had not risen to such a high level for fifty years, not even during '43. It goes without saying that the subject which exercised the minds and tongues of the Glen had to do, not with markets, but with Kirks; and while many had feared that the golden age of the Disruption would never be repeated in Drumtochty, when children were taught the doctrine of spiritual independence as they were supping their porridge, and women spoke freely about the principle of “Coordinate Jurisdiction with Mutual Subordination” as they hoed turnips in the fields, even Jamie Soutar was compelled to allow that the present debate had points of excellence altogether its own. While the spirit of disruption had wonderfully sharpened the edge of the intellect, the new spirit of concord which was abroad had still more powerfully quickened the feelings of the heart. By the fireside, where the guidwife darned the stockings and the guidman read the Muirtown Advertiser from the first word of the advertisements to the last word of the printer's name, out at work where they were planting potatoes or reaping the com, on the way to market as they walked down to Kildrummie station on Friday morning or crammed themselves by fives and sixes into Hillocks' dog-cart, but most of all in the kirkyard or at the Free Kirk door, men and women had been discussing with unswerving honesty and amazing subtlety, but with great goodwill and eager longing, how the differences between the Free Kirk and the Established could be reconciled, and upon what terms of honour and self-respect they could be united so that there should be again one Kirk in Scotland, as in the former days. According to the light which Providence had been pleased to give to other parishes, which was as twilight to the sunlight of Drum-tochty, they also argued this great affair, till even Kildrummie had pronounced ideas on the subject; and Rabbi Saunderson, the minister of Kilbogie, had announced a course of twenty-five sermons on the “Principle of Unity in the Christian Church, considered biblically, theologically, historically, and experimentally.” The ecclesiastics on both sides had not regarded the movement with conspicuous favour, and, while stating that the end in view was not only admirable but one they had always desired, they felt it their duty to point out difficulties. They mentioned so many, indeed, and expounded them so faithfully, that it would not have been wonderful if the people had lost heart and abandoned a hopeless enterprise; for as a rule it had been the ecclesiastics who spoke and the people who kept silence; the ecclesiastics who passed measures and the people who paid for them. This time, however, the younger ministers had taken the matter into their own hands, and refused to serve themselves heirs to past controversies or to bind themselves to perpetuate ancient divisions; they were men of another age, and intended to face the new situation. There had been enough dividing in Scotland since the days of the Covenanters; it was time there should be some uniting, and when they were at it they wanted thorough-going and final union. And the people, who in every country parish had, Sabbath after Sabbath for more than a generation, passed one another in opposite directions going to their kirks, began to inquire why they should not all go in one direction and meet under one roof as their fathers had done; and when people began to ask that question, both with their heads and with their hearts, it was bound to be answered in one way.

The ecclesiastics had yielded under pressure, and as Carmichael went down to the bridge he recalled, with a keen sense of humour, their marvellous proceedings and the masterly game which had been played by the diplomatists of the Kirks, their suave expressions of brotherly love, their shrewd foresight of every move, their sleepless watchfulness of one another, their adroit concessions which yielded nothing, their childlike proposals which would have gained everything, and their cheerful acquiescence in every delay. But the temper of the people was not to be trifled with, and if the young party among the clergy were not skilled in the wiles of Church Courts, they had considerable vigour of speech, and the managers of affairs were given to understand that they must bring things quickly to a head. Early last spring the leader of the Free Kirk had submitted his terms, which the Established Kirk men studied together for three days and then read in seven different ways, and they in turn submitted their proposals, which were so simple and direct that the great Free Kirk man was genuinely disappointed, and wished that it had been his lot to negotiate with a Roman cardinal. But the people were getting impatient, and when the Assemblies met in the end of May, the pleasant spring-time, the terms had been adjusted, and Carmichael ran over them as he came down the near road through Hillocks' farm and pronounced them good. That the Free Church and the Established should unite together; that its legal title should be the Church of Scotland; that it should retain the ancient endowments and all the accumulated funds of both the former Churches; that the newly-constituted Church of Scotland should cease its legal connexion with the State, but maintain the old parochial system; that the new Church should re-arrange its resources so as to meet every religious and moral want in Scotland, and work with the State for the well-being of the Scots Commonwealth. The motions were proposed about the same time in the two Assemblies, in speeches worthy of the occasion: in the Established Kirk by a Scots noble; in the Free Kirk by the ablest ecclesiastical statesman of his day; Carmichael was thankful that he was in the Free Kirk Assembly when the motion was carried, with tears and cheers, none objecting, and that he was in time, with a fearful struggle, to get his head within the door of the Tolbooth, when the ministers and elders of the Established Kirk stood up as one man at the bidding of their moderator, and before Her Majesty's Lord High Commissioner, and declared for union; and thankful that he was one of the crowd that poured out of both Assemblies in the High Street of Edinburgh and heard the bells of St. Giles, which had been the witness of many a fierce conflict, ringing out the news of peace and concord through the grey capital of the nation.

There was still one risk to be run and one barrier to be surmounted, for the concordat of the Church required the sanction of Parliament. Through the summer days the battle had been fought in the lobbies and committee rooms of the House of Commons, and that afternoon it was to be decided; and up to the last there was a chance that the bill might be thrown out, and the heart's desire of Scotland once more refused at Westminster. For there were cross-currents which no man could calculate; there were stiff old Tories who hated the idea of the Church being disestablished; keen Radicals who were determined that the Church should be also disendowed; Episcopalians who were eager that the title of the Church of Scotland should be left open to be claimed by that respectable, though limited, dissenting community, which traces its descent through Archbishop Sharpe and John Graham of Claverhouse; and a balance of men who disliked all Churches equally, and were always ready to hinder religion, when they could get an opportunity. If the bill were thrown out it would be a sad calamity, and Lord Kilspindie had promised to telegraph to Dr. Davidson the moment the bill passed the Commons; for it had been taken first in the Lords (and carried with a brisk fight), and Carmichael proposed to meet the messenger at Tochty bridge, and escort him to the manse.

It did not, however, surprise Carmichael to find the minister of the parish of Drumtochty walking to and fro on the level ground from which the wonderful arch of the ancient bridge sprang, and talking affably with Hillocks on the prospects of harvest, but keeping all the time a watchful eye on the distant point on the other side of the Glen where the road emerged from the pine woods and the Kildrummie messenger would first be seen.

“Glad to see you, Carmichael,” said the doctor, with just the faintest suggestion of excitement in his manner; “I left a message at the manse that if you called they were to send you down to the bridge, but I rather suspected you would be here. For myself, I frankly confess I could neither sit nor read, so I just turned out to wait for the messenger. It's a historical day, Carmichael, charged with great issues for Scotland.”

They climbed the stiff ascent, and stood on the arch through which the Tochty ran, clear and sparkling, that summer evening.

“More than a century of Scots history has run since this bridge was built, some of it sad enough; but, please God, we shall see good days before they build the new bridge. What hinders the messenger? Kilspindie expected to telegraph by five at latest, and now it's six o'clock.” The doctor snuffed uneasily and wiped his eye-glasses. “I wish I had gone down to Kildrummie. What's that, Carmichael, on the crest of the hill? Your eyes are quicker than mine.”

“It's a man on horseback, and we'll soon know who he is, for he's riding hard. I should recognize that horse. Why, it's Macfarlane's chestnut that brings me up from the station in forty minutes and something to spare, and Macfarlane's riding her himself. If the old chap hasn't saddled a horse and ridden up to bring us the news post-haste! Isn't he going! He would never come that speed if it were bad news. They've let it out at the post office, as sure as we're standing here; and, look, Macfarlane has seen us. He's waving his hat, doctor; the bill has passed, and the Kirks are one.” They went down the other side of the bridge, and Carmichael did not look at Dr. Davidson, for the doctor's stately step was broken, and he was again polishing his eyeglasses. The chestnut was covered with dust, and so was Macfarlane, and the mare herself seemed to be triumphant when Macfarlane reined her in on the other side of the bridge.

“Half expeckit to see you here, gentlemen,” for even Macfarlane, dealer in horses, in coals, in manure, and hirer of carriages, was discomposed. “Message came in at 6.48; had the mare ready; left at 6.60; done the three miles in thirteen and a half minutes”—all this in one breath; then, jumping off his horse and taking off his hat, “A telegram for you, Dr. Davidson.”

He patted the chestnut on the neck for her good going, and tried to look as if he did not know what was in the envelope. Dr. Davidson handed the envelope to Carmichael, who understood the reason, and, stripping it off, handed him the message.

“Quiet, lass, quiet!” said Macfarlane. Carmichael straightened himself, and raised his hand to that weather-beaten soft hat of his, which was the scandal of the Presbytery; the doctor unfolded the paper with a shaking hand, a flush passed over his face, the tears—which already were in his eyes—broke and rolled down his face, and he read out with a trembling voice—“Bill carried by a majority of two hundred and thirty-three. God bless the Kirk of Scotland, one again and for ever!—Kilspindie.”

“Hip, hip, hurrah!” Carmichael was very young, but Macfarlane might have known better, who was waving his cap with one hand and holding the dancing mare with the other; while Hillocks was a spectacle of glory, standing on the summit of the bridge and throwing in a hoarse shout. Dr. Davidson took no part in the cheer, for he had turned aside and was looking to the hill where the Parish Kirk peeped out from the trees, and there were many thoughts in his mind.

“Dr. Davidson,” said Carmichael, still holding his hat in his hand, and tuning his voice to affectionate respect, “you are minister this day unto every man in the parish of Drumtochty, and you will add to all your past kindnesses by letting me be your faithful assistant.”

The old man took Carmichael's hand in both his own, but for once he could find no words.

“Ye saw them gang oot, doctor, and ye'll see them come back,” said Hillocks, descending from the top of the bridge.

“I honoured them when they went out,” replied the doctor, finding speech again, “and I love them coming back to their old Kirk.” It was agreed between Carmichael and the doctor that half an hour from that time the bells of the two kirks should be rung, and though neither bell dominated more than the distance of three fields, Dr. Davidson declared that the Free Church bell was distinctly audible in the kirkyard; while a group of Free Kirk men gathered round their door remarked to one another that they had never noticed before how sweet was the sound of the Old Kirk bell. And they were speaking true, for the bells were ringing in their hearts. While Parliament had been deliberating on the bill, the two Kirks had been making their arrangements in faith for the uniting of congregations, and it had already been determined that Dr. Davidson and Carmichael should be joint ministers of the parish of Drumtochty, and that the congregations should worship in the Parish Kirk. When there was a will in Drumtochty there was always a way, and arrangements were quickly made that the parish should gather again on the following Sabbath into the kirk where their fathers had worshipped, and round which the dust of generations lay. At eleven o'clock the Free Church congregation met for the last time as a separate flock, in the building which they had erected with great sacrifice, and which was sanctified by many sacred memories; and then, after Carmichael had conducted a short service, and Donald Menzies, one of the elders, had offered up a prayer of thanksgiving wherein he carried the congregation with him to the Mercy Seat, and moved even the stiffest, they sang the second Paraphrase, “O God of Bethel! by whose hand,” and Carmichael pronounced the benediction, with more than one pause between the words. Then they went out through the door by which, more than a generation ago, the congregation had entered, obeying their conscience, and testifying for the freedom of Christ's Kirk. Without any marshalling or vain ceremony they fell into a procession, and this was the order in which they went. First came Carmichael in his gown and bands, his M.A. hood and college cap, carrying in his hand his mother's Bible, and beside him Bumbrae, Donald Menzies, Lauchlan Campbell, and the other elders, all dressed as for the Sacrament. Behind them followed the choir, and then the people as they pleased, family by family, parents and children together. Thrice on the road they broke into singing, and these were the Psalms they sang—the xcviii.—

and the lxxxiv.—

and the cxxxiii.—

They began to sing this Psalm as they were ascending the height on which the Parish Kirk stood, and when they reached the top of the hill the sound of the Psalm was still in the air. Then Carmichael and the elders beheld a heartening spectacle. Dr. Davidson and, his people had also met for worship in their kirk, and, being told by a swift messenger that their brethren were at hand, they had come out through the kirkyard and ranged themselves in two rows along the roadside; while in the centre of the high road, and in front of his people, stood the parish minister, with his ruling elder, Drum-sheugh, by his side. The two ministers faced one another, and the people stood perfectly still; the glorious sunshine poured down upon their heads, and on either side the fields were golden unto the harvest. Clear but tender was Dr. Davidson's voice. “Reverend and dearly-beloved brother, I greet you, your elders, and your congregation in the name of the Lord, and, as senior minister of this parish, I bid you welcome to the Kirk of Drumtochty.”

And then Carmichael—“Reverend and honoured father in the Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ, my people and I thank God that there is now one congregation in Drumtochty, and that you are our minister.”

Drumsheugh grasped Bumbrae's hand, but what passed between those two worthy men no one heard, and then Dr. Davidson and Carmichael headed the united procession, with the elders behind them; and as they moved down the sideway between the hedges, the Old Kirk folk fell in with the Free Kirk, so that they passed through the kirkyard one united company, and as they went they sang the Psalm cxxii.—

And by a happy coincidence they were singing the last words as the ministers and elders went in through the door—

It had been arranged between them, who were indeed as father and son, that Dr. Davidson should take the service and Carmichael should preach the sermon, and when the people were all seated, neither Established nor Free now, but all Scots Kirk men with one heart, one faith, one love, Dr. Davidson gave out another of the glorious Psalms, whose ancient traditions and wealth of spiritual emotion had served the people so well that day.

“Let us worship God this day, and sing unto the praise of His glorious name Psalm cxxvi.”

But he was not able to read further, and the congregation, who understood, and whose own hearts were full, broke into the singing; and at the noise thereof Carmichael awoke, for it was only a dream.

“What might have been,” he said to himself, with wistful regret, as he descended the hill, and then his heart lifted, “and, please God, what is going to be before my day is done.”