DOI article:
Buchan, John: At the article of death
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.25498#0277
At the Article of Death
By John Buchan
A noiseless evening fell chill and dank on the moorlands. The
Dreichil was mist to the very rim of its precipitous face,
and the long, dun sides of the Little Muneraw faded into grey
vapour. Underfoot were plashy moss and dripping heather, and
all the air was choked with autumnal heaviness. The herd of the
Lanely Bield stumbled wearily homeward in this, the late after-
noon, with the roof-tree of his cottage to guide him over the
waste.
For weeks, months, he had been ill, fighting the battle of a
lonely sickness. Two years ago his wife had died, and as there
had been no child, he was left to fend for himself. He had no
need for any woman, he declared, for his wants were few and his
means of the scantiest, so he had cooked his own meals and done
his own household work since the day he had stood by the grave
in the Gladsmuir kirkyard. And for a little he did well ; and
then, inch by inch, trouble crept upon him. He would come
home late in the winter nights, soaked to the skin, and sit in the
peat-reek till his clothes dried on his body. The countless little
ways in which a woman’s hand makes a place healthy and habicable
were unknown to him, and soon he began to pay the price of his
folly. For he was not a strong man, though a careless onlooker
might
By John Buchan
A noiseless evening fell chill and dank on the moorlands. The
Dreichil was mist to the very rim of its precipitous face,
and the long, dun sides of the Little Muneraw faded into grey
vapour. Underfoot were plashy moss and dripping heather, and
all the air was choked with autumnal heaviness. The herd of the
Lanely Bield stumbled wearily homeward in this, the late after-
noon, with the roof-tree of his cottage to guide him over the
waste.
For weeks, months, he had been ill, fighting the battle of a
lonely sickness. Two years ago his wife had died, and as there
had been no child, he was left to fend for himself. He had no
need for any woman, he declared, for his wants were few and his
means of the scantiest, so he had cooked his own meals and done
his own household work since the day he had stood by the grave
in the Gladsmuir kirkyard. And for a little he did well ; and
then, inch by inch, trouble crept upon him. He would come
home late in the winter nights, soaked to the skin, and sit in the
peat-reek till his clothes dried on his body. The countless little
ways in which a woman’s hand makes a place healthy and habicable
were unknown to him, and soon he began to pay the price of his
folly. For he was not a strong man, though a careless onlooker
might