CHAPTER VII.A LONG FAREWELL.A special meeting of the Presbytery was convened at Lanark during the following week to consider what action the ministers were to take individually and collectively. It was a mere form, because they were unanimous in their resolution to leave all for conscience sake. In the entire Presbytery there was only one exception to be found, viz., John Methven, the minister of Lochlee. He absented himself from the conference of his brethren, an action which, coupled with his attitude in the past, indicated that it was his intention to retain his living at the Government price. The ejected ministers had three weeks wherein to prepare for the sad change in their circumstances and position. Many were at their wits' end, for, as the Act forbade that they should reside within the bounds of their presbyteries, whither could they turn for assistance or shelter? For themselves they felt it not, but what would become of the wives and little ones rendered homeless and destitute in the very outset of a bleak Scottish winter?Grey, calm, and still broke that November Sabbath morning, the last upon which the ministers were to break the Bread of Life to the people of their choice over the length and breadth of Scotland. In the vale of Inverburn the dawn was preceded by a thick, heavy mist, which hung low over hill and moorland, giving a very dreary aspect to the already too wintry face of Nature. But long before the hour of service it had cleared away, revealing a peaceful, grey sky, relieved by flecks of brightness in the east. Not a breath of air was stirring; a silence as of the grave seemed to brood over the land. Very early the worshippers began to repair to the house of God. They came from far and near that day; the shepherd from his lonely shieling in the mountain solitude, as well as the dweller in the village, was each found in his accustomed place. Long before the bell began to toll, the churchyard had its groups of earnest, sad-faced worshippers discussing in low and fearful tones the evil days which had come upon the land. Very many were too much overcome to be able to speak, for the thought that this was the last Sabbath Day upon which they would hear the voice of their shepherd in his accustomed place was more than they could bear.Watty McBean, the carrier, and brother to Betty, the manse maid, was bell-ringer and minister's man in the parish. He tolled the bell that day in a slow, solemn, and painful manner, the echo of each stroke being suffered to die away ere it was drowned by another. It was the "burial" bell Watty tolled that day, and surely nothing could be more fitting or more in unison with the feelings of all who heard it.At the usual hour Mr. Gray entered the church, but it seemed to those who so mournfully and affectionately watched him ascend the pulpit stair, that never had their minister looked so feeble and aged; never had his face seemed so worn and ill. As his sunken eye roamed over the sea of faces gathered round him, his tears suddenly overflowed, and departing from the usual routine of service, he folded his trembling hands, and said in broken and feeble tones, "Let us pray!"In the manse pew sat Jane Gray, who never since entering the church had once uplifted her face from her hands, and by her side her nephew Gavin, whose young face wore an expression of manly resolution, upon which many remarked.Adam Hepburn and his wile were also in their places, and there was none absent from the Hartrigge pew, at the head whereof sat Andrew Gray, erect and calm, with his arms folded across his breast, and a hard, stern expression on his face. And although his father's prayer caused many a bursting sob to echo through the church, he sat unmoved, save when his lips convulsively twitched, telling of a storm of passion held in curb. The psalm was the eighty-fourth, the tune Dundee's "wild wailing measure," fitting words, fitting music to express the tumultuous throbbings of the people's heart. The minister then read the seventeenth chapter of John, slowly and with tremulous distinctness, and without remark or comment of any kind. Next they sang again a portion of the ninety-fourth psalm, then the minister gave out his text."All these are the beginning of many sorrows."That sermon was never forgotten by any who heard it. It seemed as if the aged servant of God had risen above the frailty and feebleness of age, for as he proceeded his clear bell-like voice rang through the building with all the eloquence which had made such a stir among the dry bones in the earlier days of his ministry among them. He spoke passionately and prophetically of the sea of troubles upon which the Lord's Zion was now launched, he forewarned them that the time was at hand when they would need to testify to their faithfulness with their blood, yet he bade them be of good cheer, because it was through great tribulation that the brightness of their eternal crown would be gained in joy."And now my faithful and well beloved flock, the time has come for me to bid you farewell," he added in conclusion. "In the ordinary course of nature I could not expect to minister to you for a much more lengthened space. As it is, the fiat has gone forth, not from the Eternal King, but from the poor despicable worm who sits upon an earthly throne that you and I, beloved, shall no more worship together within this place. Looking upon its walls to-day for the last time I know how unspeakably dear it is to me. It is peopled with rich and hallowed memories of the past. In this place I have baptised many of you as children, and here, my own children, now worshipping with you, were all consecrated and received into the Lord's Church. Beloved, from Sabbath to Sabbath these many years I have broken the Bread of Life in your midst, and God be my witness that I have expounded the Word to you in accordance with the light vouchsafed to my own soul. I have also had sweet counsel with you in your own homes, in the ordinary course of pastoral visitation, and I call you to witness that in these visitations I have never failed to be faithful in my personal dealings, when I saw it to be for the glory of God, and for the good of souls. Beloved, all that has come to an end. Next Sabbath day neither you nor I will worship within these walls. When or how the doors will again be thrown open for public worship I cannot say. I tremble when I think upon our now desolate Kirk of Scotland, cast out from her heritage, and bidden make her habitation in the wilderness. It is not for me now, and in this place, to say what will be the reward of these sons of Belial, who have wrought this woe in our midst. 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.' Brethren, farewell. I would my tongue could utter what is in my heart this day. It is with no common sorrow I repeat the words; Brethren, farewell."The minister ceased, and looked with eyes of unutterable love upon the sobbing multitude. There was no dry eye in the assembly, save that of Andrew Gray the younger, and his seemed to burn with a strange and lurid fire. His hands beneath the book board were so firmly clenched together that the nails were sunk into the flesh. In the midst of these audible tokens of grief, the minister raised his trembling hands, and in slow, clear, solemn tones, breathed upon them his last benediction. Then he sank back in the pulpit, wholly overcome.The scene I have just described was no solitary instance; in its main features it was being enacted that day in almost every kirk and parish in Scotland.In the church of Broomhill that day David Gray also spoke his last farewell to his flock. His was not in any respect so united a congregation as that of Inverburn. There were many, who, for peace' sake would have had their minister bow to Middleton's decree, and make an outward semblance of acknowledging the bishop. David Gray entered his church that day with a heavy heart, not because of the sacrifice he was about to make--that occasioned him but little concern--but because of his wife's coldness and estrangement evinced towards him since he had announced his fixed determination to abide by the dictates of his own conscience. Upon the plea that the younger child could not be left, she absented herself from the church that Sabbath morning; and the minister was not surprised to behold the Haughhead seat unoccupied likewise. He delivered an impressive and heart-stirring discourse from the words, "He that taketh not his cross, and followeth after Me, is not worthy of Me," and when he concluded many were weeping. They crowded round him as he came out of the vestry, shaking him by the hand and assuring him of their continued and unaltered love, and offering assistance in every form. It was with difficulty he escaped their loving detention, and, making his way through the churchyard, entered his own garden by the private door. He reproached himself that he did not feel a lively satisfaction in the thought that he had renounced so much for conscience' sake; he felt sore angered at himself for his miserable and foreboding thoughts, which weighed him nigh to the very dust. As he set foot upon the threshold of the manse, he felt oppressed by the strange stillness of the house. On ordinary occasions, the prattle of his children's voices was the first sound which greeted him at his own door. As he stepped into the house, he heard a sound, like that of weeping, proceeding from the direction of the kitchen. Somewhat alarmed, he immediately proceeded thither, and found Ellen Carmichael, the maid, sitting apparently in the very abandonment of grief."Be quiet, Ellen Carmichael, and tell me the cause of this noise," he said, with some sternness. "And what has become of your mistress and the bairns?"A fresh burst of tears was Ellen's only answer; but at length she managed to sob out some words which whitened her master's face to the very lips."They're awa', sir; a' awa' tae Haughheid. The laird cam' wi' the coach jist efter the kirk was in, an' the mistress gaed awa' in't, wi' the bairns, an' a' her claes an' the bairns' claes, an' she said she wasna' comin' back. An' I, sir, what cud I dae but sit doon an' greet, thinkin' on you comin' home tae this empty an' desolate hoose?"The minister turned about and walked with unsteady step back to the pleasant family room, where, with his wife and little ones, he had spent so many happy hours. It had a desolate, deserted, dreary look, and the very fire seemed to have died in despair in the grate. He looked about him in a dazed manner, and then sinking into a chair, these words escaped his lips in a deep groan of anguish:"If I be bereaved of my children, I am bereaved."Verily that was a day of sharp and bitter searching for the minister of Broomhill; nevertheless, ere the hushed silence of the night fell, he had found peace in his desolate home.CHAPTER VIII.MR. DUNCAN MCLEAN.In the course of the ensuing week, the last of the honourable family who had so long dwelt beneath the roof-tree of Inverburn manse, quitted its shelter for ever. Pen fails me to describe fitly that sad farewell. It was indeed a very rending of the heart-strings to the venerable minister of Inverburn. In spite of the wording of the Act, that every ejected minister should remove without the bounds of his Presbytery, Mr. Gray and his daughter went no farther than Adam Hepburn's house at Rowallan, where they were very warmly welcomed. So long as was permitted, they would remain among their own kith and kin. The minister of Broomhill found a shelter at Hartrigge, so that united and affectionate family were not as yet separated one from the other.On the next Sabbath day no kirk bell rang its sweet, familiar chimes through the quiet Sabbath air. The gates of the churchyard remained closed, and the only sign of life about the venerable pile was the cawing of hoarse-throated rooks, which had assembled by scores on the leafless boughs of the "birks of Inverburn," as if met in convocation over this strange and sad Sabbath day. Betty McBean had gone home to her brother Watty's house in the village; and blithe enough he was to see her, being a bachelor, with no womenkind to make a bite for him or to clean up his house. On the Saturday word was carried through the parish by Watty that the Word would be preached next day in the barn at Rowallan by their beloved shepherd, and all whose soul thirsted for the living water were invited to attend. And, lo, at the hour of meeting, so great was the press thronging in Adam Hepburn's barn that it was hastily decided to hold the meeting out of doors. So a kitchen table with a settle behind it was erected as a pulpit in the corn-yard, and from this the minister of Inverburn preached to his flock. Something in the unusual nature of the proceedings seemed to stir all hearts and to imbue them with a holy enthusiasm. Never had the psalm been sung with such deep fervour; never had the attitude of the hearers been so rapt and reverential. There was something in the knowledge that it was against the law that they assembled together which lent a strange, sweet, yet fearful joy to their relish of that Sabbath day. Hartrigge, with all his family, was there, and the minister of Broomhill also took part in the service. When they separated, just before the twilight, all felt that it had indeed been good for them to be there; and they said one to another, that so long as they could get the Word by walking to Rowallan for it, the king's decree might not prove such a hardship as had been anticipated. But, alas for their vain hopes, their happy congratulations! the day was near at hand when listening to, as well as preaching, the Word was to become a crime worthy of death itself.The Laird of Inverburn, with Lady Hamilton and the young heir, had driven in their coach that day to Lochlee, to hear John Methven preach. On their way home they passed so many dressed people on the roads, especially as they neared Inverburn, that a suspicion of the truth began to dawn upon the mind of the laird.Just outside their lodge gates they overtook Watty McBean and his sister Betty, leisurely wending their way homewards. At a word from the laird the coachman pulled up his horses."Here, McBean," said the laird, in his peremptory fashion, "tell me why there are so many people on the road at this hour. They look to me as if they had been at kirk somewhere, though very sure am I that none of them worshipped with me to-day at Lochlee.""Did they no', Sir Thomas? but how should I ken whaur a' the folk hae been wanderin' tae?" asked Watty, innocently. "Mebbe they've been awa' seein' their freens or takin' a bit walk tae theirsels, like Betty an' me."Very red grew the face of Betty McBean, as she heard her brother utter this deliberate falsehood, and she tugged vehemently at her cap strings, to give some vent to her feelings."I believe you are telling me a lie, sirrah!" said the laird, wrathfully, "and if you are it will be the worse for you. Here, you woman, you were the manse maid, I think," he added, directing his remarks to Betty. "Can you tell me whether it be true that your minister is still in the parish, in fact that he is under the roof-tree of Adam Hepburn, at Rowallan?""Oh, Sir Tammas, my lord, dinna mak me tell a lee," said Betty piteously; "ye wudna hae me get my auld maister into trouble. He----""Betty, if ye dinna haud yer tongue, and come on, it'll be the waur for ye," shouted Watty in her ear, and taking her by the arm, dragged her right away from the coach, and past the gate of Inverburn, without so much as making an apology to the laird.Sir Thomas looked angry, but his wife sank back, laughing, in the coach, not sorry that Betty had not committed herself.Lady Hamilton's sympathies were much with the Presbyterians, but she was of too sweet and gentle a disposition to set up her own opinions in opposition to those of her husband."Eh, Watty McBean, man, hoo cud ye tell sic a barefaced lee?" queried Betty when her brother released his grip on her arm. "Did the thocht o' the fire and brimstane, which the Word says is the portion o' leers, no pit the fear o' death on yer tongue?""Hoot ye silly crater, there's leesan'lees!" quoth Watty, with an air of superior wisdom. "Was I gaun to get the minister and the flock into a peck o' troubles wi' my lang tongue? I see I'll need to keep an e'e on you, Betty. Auld though you be, ye hinna muckle gumption.""Ye're no feared either tae daur [defy] the laird," said Betty, with a sigh."I'm no awn the laird naething, and he canna gar me speak against my will," said Watty, calmly; and Betty, completely overcome by her brother's undaunted spirit, relapsed into silence.For several weeks the parish kirk at Inverburn remained closed, and the people worshipped with the ministers they loved either in barn or outhouse, or, when weather permitted, under the canopy of heaven. Such a state of affairs, which betokened such utter disregard and contempt for the Prelacy, could not long be allowed to continue undisturbed. The next step taken by the bishops was to fill the places of the ejected ministers with curates of their own, so that the parishioners might no longer have the closed doors of the churches to point at as an excuse for their behaviour.Sir Thomas Hamilton, a staunch loyalist and an intimate friend of the Bishop of Glasgow, offered his shelter and patronage to any gentleman his lordship might elect to minister in the church at Inverburn.It was on the third Saturday in January that a notice was posted up on the church door intimating that public worship would be resumed next Lord's Day by Mr. Duncan McLean, at the hour of noon.The bellman was also sent round, and the news well circulated throughout the parish. It occasioned no little excitement and talk; but the people, with the exception of a few of the laird's pensioners in the village, had not the smallest intention of attending upon the curate's ministrations. Service was to be held at three of the afternoon in the sheltered glen behind the house of Hartrigge, and as Watty McBean expressed it--"When folk could lift Presbyterian wheat for the gaun [going], it wasna likely they wad be content wi' the curate's puir chaff."About eleven o'clock on the Sabbath morning, Betty McBean, watching from the window, beheld the coach from Inverburn coming rapidly over the manse brae, towards the village."The laird's in't, Watty, an' a jimpy black body, wha'll dootless be the curate, and Peter Rintoull, the bailiff, 's on the box aside the coachman," she cried, excitedly. "I'll bet ye what ye like they'll be comin' seekin' you tae gang up by an' ring the bell.""Let them come, I'm ready for them," said Watty serenely. "But gang you intae the ben-end [parlour], or yer waggin' tongue'll play mischief."Only too thankful to be relieved from the necessity of again meeting the laird's questioning gaze, Betty hastily retired into the ben-end just as the coach drew up at the door."Watty, Watty McBean!" called out the coachman. "Coome oot; Sir Tammas wants ye!"Watty took his pipe from his cheek, and retired slowly out to the door, a very uncouth looking figure in his rough homespun garb, and his unwashed unshaven face surmounted by a dirty red night-cap!"Why are you not more decently attired, McBean? It is time you were getting ready for the service," said the laird sternly. "This is the new minister of the parish, Mr. Duncan McLean.""Ay, so I was thinkin'. I canna say I'm prood tae see Mr. Duncan McLean," said Watty, in his canny way, and giving his somewhat loose nether garments an expressive hitch. "If he's come tae a cauld pairt, it's no' his blame, puir chield. I'm thinkin' he'll no' be lang afore he gangs back tae them that sent him."Mr. McLean looked much surprised, and not too well pleased at the man's freedom of address."The man is witless, Mr. McLean, a half crazy loon, whom nobody heeds," the laird explained, and then he turned his stern eye on Watty's unruffled countenance. "Look here, McBean, go into the house and put on your Sabbath garments as fast as you can; and see that you be up to ring the kirk bell at the usual time.""Eh, me? they telt me the Bishop wad send a bell-ringer an' a minister's man wi' the curate," said Watty, with well-feigned astonishment. "Sir Tammas, it's perfectly unpossible that I could be ready at the time. Just look at me; I've a week's dirt tae scrape aff my skin, no' tae mention that my claes taks an hour tae aire afore I cud pit them on without catchin' my death."The laird bit his lip."This is gross impertinence, McBean, for which, as I sit here, I swear you shall not go unpunished. Once for all, will you or will you not be ready to perform your usual duties in the bell tower and the session house in half an hour?""That I winna, Sir Tammas; seein' the lord bishop, or whatever be his title, has made the kirk session of Inverburn null and void, he has made the minister's man null and void too; so Maister McLean maun e'en get a man for hissel," answered Watty, with fearless resolution. Then he fixed his keen eye on the ill-favoured face of the curate, and addressed a concluding remark to him. "Ye hae taen muckle upon yersel', young man, tae step into the honoured shoon o' the Reverend Maister Gray. An' if ye get but a cauldrife hearin' this day ye may blame no' the faithfu' folks o' Inverburn, but them that sent ye."With which comforting assurance Watty turned about, and entering his own house, shut the door."If this is the disposition of the parish, Sir Thomas," said the curate sourly, "I fear stronger measures will be necessary ere long.""If necessary, doubtless they will be taken, Mr. McLean," said the laird. "But do not be cast down by the insolent utterance of a half-witted fellow like Watty McBean. I cannot think the people of Inverburn will so far forget their respect to me, as well as to those in power, as to follow such an example."One of the laird's servants was procured to undertake Watty's duties, and the bell was duly rung at the appointed time. But it appeared to convey to the hearts of the people no welcome summons to the House of God. Only a few stragglers, and these persons of no note in the parish, came dropping into the church, and when the hour struck there were not more than thirty persons present, and these included the laird and his retinue from Inverburn. Nevertheless the service was proceeded with, and conducted after the true Episcopal fashion; prayers being read from the new book of service. The curate was humiliated and ashamed, the laird furious, and on their way home to Inverburn the two discussed various plans whereby the people might be compelled to attend service in the church.The following morning Sir Thomas started on horseback to make a tour of the tenantry on his estate, in order to see what they had to say in defence of their absence from the church on the previous day. His first place of call was Rowallan, but before he reached the house he met Adam Hepburn leading one of his work-horses to the smithy. Adam doffed his cap to the laird, and stood still, not unprepared for what was coming."I have called to see for what reason you absented yourself from Divine service yesterday, Hepburn?" the laird said briefly, and without greeting of any kind. "Do you know that in so absenting yourself you were guilty of a civil offence?""I know not as to that, Sir Thomas; but if a man's heart be not in the service, he is better at home," replied Adam, quietly. "And the king has no power over a man's own conscience.""See here, Hepburn," said the laird; "is that old man, your father-in-law, still under your roof-tree?""He is, Sir Thomas," answered Adam, in the same quiet tone."You know the wording of the Act which commands that the ejected ministers shall remove themselves without the bounds of the Presbytery? Rowallan is not without these bounds. I have it in my power to have your father-in-law punished, imprisoned if I like, by simply letting my friend the bishop know how his commands are disobeyed."A dark red flush rose to Adam Hepburn's brow, and he bit his lip. The hot blood of his race sprang up at the laird's threatening and mocking words."And you would make betrayal of the old man the price of my non-attendance at the curate's preaching, Sir Thomas," he said with curling lip. "Such a threat is scarcely worthy of your name. I fear that such measures will not avail with the God-fearing people in the parish.""You defy me then, sirrah; then be prepared to take the consequences," said the laird furiously, and digging his spurs into his horse's sides, turned the animal's head, and rode away full gallop to Hartrigge, only to have his ire additionally kindled there by the cool defiance and dogged determination of Andrew Gray.CHAPTER IX.PREPARING FOR EMERGENCIES.When the laird rode away, Adam Hepburn turned and walked slowly back to Rowallan. He was somewhat disturbed by what he had heard, not on his own account, but on that of the venerable father of his beloved Agnes. When he entered the room where the minister sat with his daughter Jane, Mrs. Hepburn being busy with her household work, both saw that he was troubled about something."Have you heard aught about the preaching yesterday, Adam, that you look so grave?" queried the minister."Yes; I met the laird down the road, and he seems sore displeased over the thin attendance at Mr. McLean's ministrations yesterday," replied Adam, a little quickly. "He threatened me, too, that unless I attended the services he would get you into trouble, Mr. Gray.""I said to you, Adam, my son, when you so nobly offered me the shelter of your roof-tree, that it might get you and yours into trouble, harbouring an ejected and rebellious minister," said the old man sadly. "Better let me go forth ere that trouble comes upon your house.""Go forth! and whither? At your age, and in the dead of winter, to wander in the open air as some are compelled to do would mean certain death," said Adam Hepburn. "No, no; though I am not such a red-hot churchman as Hartrigge, still, whoever seeks to molest you, be he king's or bishop's official, must first deal with me."Tears started in Jane Gray's eyes as she looked with pride and gratitude at the erect figure and manly face of her brother-in-law. At that minute Agnes, hearing such serious voices, came in from the kitchen, asking what was the matter. Adam Hepburn turned his blue eyes fondly on his wife's sweet pale face, and smiled to reassure her."We are like to get into trouble, wife, by our dourness to attend the curate's preaching, that is all," he answered lightly.A slightly troubled look stole into Agnes Hepburn's gentle eyes."I know not why, but I have of late had many dark forebodings, Adam," she said. "These are sad, sad days in which we live, and especially trying for timorous women-folk like me.""It is your poor health, dear one, that makes you fanciful. No harm can come upon Rowallan so long as my stout right arm retains its cunning," Adam answered, lightly still; but Agnes, shaking her head, stole back to her duties with a heavy heart."I am concerned about Agnes, Jane," said Adam Hepburn, turning his troubled eyes on his sister-in-law's face. "She is not well, and in her sleep is restless and troubled, as if haunted by some strange dread; and she is so thin and worn. Looking on her face, at times I am afraid.""When the spring time is past she will gather strength, please God," said Jane, cheerfully. "Agnes never was strong in the spring time.""No; and these exciting and troublous times are too severe a strain upon her sensitive heart," said the minister. "As Agnes herself says, they are not for timorous women-folk to live in."For some weeks they heard no more of the laird or of his threats, although report had it that severe measures were about to be taken to compel the people to respect the authority of the bishops and to attend upon the ministrations of their curates. Ere long these rumours became terrible realities, and a troop of brutal and unprincipled dragoons, under Sir James Turner, was let loose upon the western and southern shires of Scotland, which they scoured in search of the ejected ministers, and of their faithful flocks, who travelled miles to hear them in the mountain solitudes, worshipping with them in temples not made with hands, but which were consecrated to the Lord by the faithfulness and fearless piety of these Christian people. For a time the parish of Inverburn, although very offensive in its treatment of the curate, escaped the severity with which many other parishes, notably those in the shires of Galloway and Dumfries, were visited. It was at length, however, publicly announced from the pulpit that all who failed to attend Divine service on the following Sabbath day would be apprehended and punished either by fine or other penalty, and that all who gave aid to the ejected ministers or who attended upon their services in the open air were liable to be dragged before the High Commission Court, of which Sharp was the head, and there punished according to the prelates' good pleasure.Adam Hepburn heard unmoved that report, as also did his brother-in-law at Hartrigge, where David Gray, the minister of Broomhill, was still sheltered, almost, however, at the peril of his life. When the dragoons at length came to Inverburn, he hid in the day-time in a cunningly-concealed cave on the face of the hill upon which Hartrigge stood, and the existence of which was known only to a very few. It was in a spot so difficult of access, and was, besides, so well hidden by brambles and nettles and other brushwood, that for a time at least the fugitive was perfectly safe.When Sir James Turner and his troop arrived at Inverburn, he, with his subordinate officers, was immediately offered shelter by the laird, while the men were drafted upon various households in the village, notably those who were known to be very zealous Presbyterians. Watty McBean's house was taken possession of by four coarse, swearing, drunken soldiers, who raised Watty's ire to the utmost pitch and nearly frightened Betty out of her wits, besides eating her out of house and home.At nightfall on the day of their arrival, Watty stole away through the fields to Rowallan to give timely warning to its inmates to get the minister removed out of the way before he should be taken prisoner. He crept up to the room window and gave a familiar tap on the lower pane, lest a knocking at the door might alarm the household. Adam Hepburn himself came to the door, and, at a sign from Watty, stepped outside."I've jest come tae warn ye, Adam Hepburn, that Turner an' the sodgers came this nicht," he whispered. "An' by what I hear the rascals, wha hae taen my hoose frae me, sayin' tae ane anither, it's oor minister an' the minister o' Broomhill they're after. Hae ye ony means o' getten Maister Gray outen the road?"Adam Hepburn nodded."We knew the soldiers were on their way to Inverburn, and I'll warrant they'll no lay hands on the minister, or they'll be sharper than I think them. Come in, Watty, and speak to Mr. Gray. He's still with us in the house.""Ye dinna mean to say so!" exclaimed Watty in consternation. "Certy ye're no feared. If ye take my advice ye'll get him awa' intae safe hidin' as sune as possible. I was sayin' tae Bettie I kent a bonnie howdie hole on the Douglas Water doon the Sanquhar road a bit, that it wad puzzle the sodgers tae find.""Keep your secret for awhile, Watty. It may be useful some day," said Adam Hepburn, and beckoning to Watty, he ushered him into the warm ingle-neuk, where sat the minister of Inverburn in undisturbed serenity, with his daughters by his side."Good evening to you, Watty McBean, my faithful friend," said the minister, rising to shake hands with Watty. "What tidings have ye brought?""No very braw [nice] for leddie's ears. The sodgers have come upon Inverburn at last, an' gin they bide lang ther'll be neither bite nor sup, nor an article o' gear in the parish," answered Watty dolefully. "The four villains quartered on us have already pocketed my watch an' my mither's spunes, no' tae speak o' Betty's brooch she got frae yer lamented wife."Agnes Hepburn's pale cheek grew, if possible, a shade whiter, and instinctively her husband moved to the back of her chair, and laid his firm hand on her trembling shoulder as if to re-assure her."Adam, if this be so, my place is no longer here!" said the minister rising. "My son, I have already stayed too long, not only at the peril of my own life, but it is imperilling yours likewise. It will be better for me to keep my hiding-place now, both night and day.""You will lie down first, father, and snatch a few hours rest," said the sweet voice of Adam Hepburn's wife. "At the cock-crowing Adam will awake you, and you can hide until the nightfall.""Oh, ye'r safe eneuch till the daw'in', sir," Watty assured him. "The laird's wine, an' soft beds, an' routh [abundance] o' breakfast 'll keep Sir Jeems at the big hoose, I'se warrant, till the sun be up.""Certainly you will do as Agnes says, Mr. Gray?" said Adam, in his decided way. "Now, Watty, if you'll say good-night, and come with me, I'll show you a 'howdie hole' which would match yours on the Douglas Water.""Guid nicht, then, Maister Gray, an' may the Lord blind the e'en o' the sodgers, and keep you oot o' their clutches," said Watty with fervour. "Mistress Hepburn an' Miss Jean, guid nicht wi' ye baith; an' should ye need a strong arm and a willint heart at any time, to defend ye, mind that Watty McBean's ay ready!""Good night, my faithful Watty; and may the Lord give you patience to bear the infliction of the soldiery on your abode. Provoke them not to anger, Watty, I entreat, for I am told that they are very swift to shed blood," said the minister, earnestly."I'll thole [bear] as long as I can, I never was a fechter," said the good soul, with a comical smile, and pulling his forelock in token of respect, he followed Adam Hepburn out of doors.The moon had now risen, and its clear radiance struggled through the rifts in the cloudy sky, and shone weirdly and fitfully on the wintry landscape, making strange fantastic shadows too on the walls of the outhouses grouped about the farmhouse. Adam Hepburn stepped across the courtyard, and opened the barn door. He then motioned to Watty to enter, and after carefully closing the door, lighted the lantern he had brought with him from the house. The barn at Rowallan was a large and commodious place, with a steep ladder-like stair ascending to the granary above. In one corner a small door gave admittance to an inner apartment, something resembling a closet in a house, and into which the chaff was swept after it was separated from the wheat by the flail. At the present time it was, however, almost empty, there being only a slight sprinkling on the wooden floor. Into this place Adam Hepburn threw the light of his lantern, and then looked enquiringly at Watty."What do you see there, Watty, anything by ordinar?" he asked."Naething but a common chaff-hole," answered Watty, "and no' a very safe hidin'-place, I wad think. The Douglas Water hole beats it yet.""Come in, though, Watty, and I'll show you something," said Adam, with a smile, and Watty stepped into the place, in which he could scarcely stand upright. Adam then set down his lantern, and with his hands swept aside the chaff, but still Watty saw nothing save a moth-eaten and discoloured wooden floor. But when Adam inserted into some of the seams the strong blade of his gully knife, and Watty saw a distinct movement in the flooring, he began to have an inkling of what was coming. After some little exertion, Adam Hepburn raised a small trap-door, sufficient to admit the body of a man, and Watty peering into the chasm, with excited interest, saw a ladder which appeared to lead into the bowels of the earth."Now creep down after me, Watty, and shut the door after you, and I'll show you something worth seeing," said Adam, and Watty made haste to obey. The ladder was of considerable length, but at last Watty felt his feet on the firm earth, and looking about, saw by the light that he was in a subterranean passage, narrow certainly, but of sufficient height to accommodate even Adam Hepburn's tall figure. Still following his guide, Watty walked a little way along the passage, and then found himself in a kind of cave, a wide open space, sufficient to hold about a dozen people. There was a rude couch composed of stones, built in one corner, upon which now had been piled a substantial tick filled with chaff, above which was spread plenty of blankets and thick coverings, which would make a very comfortable resting place, even in winter. A piece of rough matting covered the floor in front of the bed, and there were some benches which formed a table, or could be used for seats. The floor of the place was perfectly dry, and the atmosphere felt warm and free from dampness. Watty gazed round him in unmitigated astonishment and admiration, and at lasted gasped out--"Thisisa howdie hole, an' nae mistak'! Whaur did it come frae, an' wha made it?""It has always been here. I believe my great-grandfather, who was killed at Flodden, had something to do with it," replied Adam Hepburn. "At any rate, not a living soul knows of its existence but our own family and you, Watty. But you don't know half its advantages yet. See, the underground passage continues right through here," he added, shedding the light of his lantern into another dark recess; "and what do you think? it runs right through the fields of Rowallan, and under the bed of the Douglas Water, and comes out in the middle of all the brushwood and tangle on the face of the Corbie's Cliff. Ye didna ken there was a hole there, did ye, Watty?""No; although I hae speeled [climbed] the Corbie mony a time for nests when I was a laddie," said Watty, solemnly. "It seems as if the Lord had made the place Hissel'.""Mr. Gray can be made very comfortable here, Watty," continued Adam Hepburn; "and, by the simple pulling of a string I have fastened up in the chaff-hole, I can make a noise which will warn him to escape by the Corbie should the soldiers discover the trap. But I don't think there can be any fear of that.""No' likely, for I couldna see onything but the flure," said Watty, in much glee; "an' I'm no' blind. Eh, weel, may be mair than the minister 'll be glad o' this grand shelter.""It is likely the minister of Broomhill will come here under cover of the night some of these days. I would think he was not very safe much longer at Hartrigge," said Adam Hepburn. "Well, Watty, I think we'd better get upstairs again, and you can tell Betty that we are ready for the soldiers whenever they like to come.""'Deed, Maister Hepburn, I'll no' tell her naething. Weemin folk are no' to be trusted. No' that they mean tae dae mischief; it's jist their tongues, puir craters, fashed [troubled] wi' a weakness, an' they canna help themselves," said Watty, so seriously that his companion could not refrain from laughing.After some little delay, they again mounted the ladder, and, pushing up the trap-door, emerged into the chaff-hole, and thence out into the open air, where, after a few more words concerning the shelter of the ministers, they parted for the night.CHAPTER X.ADAM HEPBURN'S VOW.The business of life seemed to be standing still in Inverburn. Although it was not the season of the year in which much outdoor labour could be accomplished, the barren fields still lay waiting to be upturned by the plough, and all interest in the ordinary routine of work seemed to be absorbed in other things. The morning after the quartering of the soldiery on the householders there were many strange sights and sounds witnessed and heard in the quiet hamlet of Inverburn. Needless to say that the inn was the chief rendezvous, and honest Mistress Lyall had to pour out her ale and whisky, and even her small stock of wine and brandy, without stint or payment. The swearing horde took possession of the bar, and, in the terror of her soul, poor Katie Lyall flew to a neighbour's house, and left them in undisturbed possession. Having drunk their fill, the ruffians made a raid on every house, lifting what valuables they could lay hands upon, and insulting the women, and bringing many a burning blush to the fair cheek of youth. The unarmed and defenceless men folk in the village were only deterred from open resistance by the sight of the long gleaming swords and loaded pistols of the troopers. But curses, not loud but deep, filled the quiet air, and many a manly hand was clenched, many a manly voice uttered a deep and ominous vow of vengeance.About half-past nine Sir James Turner and his subordinate officers rode down the manse brae, and, drawing rein at the head of the village street, sounded thereveille. In a short time the regiment was in marching order, and the horses' heads were turned towards Rowallan. And then many a fervent prayer rose to Heaven that the God of Hosts would throw the strong arm of His defence about Adam Hepburn's house, and shelter its dear inmates from the bloody men. Early that morning Adam Hepburn had walked across the fields to Hartrigge to warn David Gray of his danger, and to bid the inmates of the house be prepared for a visit from the soldiery. He arrived to find the minister of Broomhill quietly seated at breakfast with the family, having just crept up from his hiding-place. It was at once hastily resolved that, as it was still early, Adam Hepburn and David Gray should creep down into the valley behind Hartrigge, and, keeping within shelter of the trees and brushwood, follow the course of the Douglas Water until they reached the Corbie's Cliff; then, entering the mouth of the subterranean passage, join the minister of Inverburn in his hiding at Rowallan.The children at Hartrigge, all but Gavin, being too young to understand the peril of the hour, wondered why uncle David bade them farewell so solemnly and with tears in his eyes; and little Jeanie, listening to his last words to her mother, pondered them long in her heart."Farewell, Susan, my sister. The Lord requite thee for thy sisterly kindness to me, who, now a wanderer on the face of the earth, can never hope either to acknowledge or repay it. And may the Lord also vouchsafe the wings of His shelter to this house and its inmates, and shield them in the day of trouble."Mistress Gray wrung the minister's hand, but was unable to speak. Andrew Gray himself accompanied them to the door, but their parting words were interrupted by the shrill echo of the trumpets sounding thereveillein the village along the vale. Then Adam Hepburn and the minister understanding that ominous sound, plunged into the thicket, and scrambled down the steep into the richly wooded valley below. Meanwhile the women folk at Rowallan busied themselves with their household tasks, and Agnes at least longing for her husband's return. The nervous fear had so grown upon her of late that she was never a moment at rest, save when he was by her side. As she stepped out into the courtyard with a basin of warm food for the poultry, the clatter of hoofs fell upon her ears, and turning her startled eyes in the direction of the road, she saw what appeared to be a moving mass of steel, glittering in the chill winter sunshine, and coming rapidly towards the house.With a slight scream she dropped the basin with its contents, and fled into the house. Jane Gray, hearing the noise, came hurrying downstairs, and caught her trembling sister in her arms."Agnes, my lamb, what is it? What has so frightened you?" she asked, anxiously."The soldiers, Jane! they are here!" exclaimed the terrified girl. "Oh, Jane, hide me from them! I wish Adam had not gone away!"Even Jane Gray's brave heart quailed at the thought of their defenceless state, but she tried to console and assure her sister."Don't be afraid, my dearie, they will never harm two defenceless women, and Adam must now be near home. It is nigh two hours since he went away."Before she could say more the troops swept across the stack-yard, and drew up with a great clatter before the door. The pawing and snorting of the horses, the rattling of their trappings, and the voices of the men, made a strange and alarming din about the quiet house of Rowallan.Jane Gray placed her sister in a chair, shut the sitting-room door, and drawing herself up, as if with a sudden courage, went out boldly to the door. She was deadly pale, but her demeanour was outwardly perfectly unmoved.At sight of the woman, Sir James Turner, a coarse and forbidding-looking man, rode his horse up to the very doorstep, and fixed his insolent eyes on the fair, calm face."Well, mistress, this is the rebellious house of Rowallan, is it not? Are you the wife of that notorious Whig, Adam Hepburn, who so persistently disavows the king's commands, and shelters the rebel preachers?""This is Rowallan, sir," Jane Gray made answer in a clear, steadfast voice. "But I am not Adam Hepburn's wife. There is none within this house but me and my sister, who is in delicate health. May I appeal to your honour as a soldier and a gentleman not to needlessly distress or alarm us?"A coarse laugh fell from Turner's lips, which was re-echoed by his subordinates."A modest request, truly; I might grant it if I get a kiss from those sweet lips for my payment. But say, is that renegade old man, Andrew Gray, the field preacher, not hidden in the house?""He isnot," said Jane Gray, calmly, while a red spot began to burn hotly on either cheek."I am sorry I cannot take your word for it, mistress," said Turner, coolly. "With your permission we will make a search of the house. Here, Dawson and McTavish," he added, turning to a corporal and a sergeant, "dismount, and search the house, and you, Captain Blane, and young Drew, with the others make a thorough inspection of the outhouses. Now, ma'am, let me have a glass of ale or wine to cool my thirst, and show you a loyal subject of the king."For peace' sake, as well as on the account of her sister, Jane Gray crushed back the indignant refusal burning for utterance, and, holding the door open, briefly bade him enter. She led the way direct to the room where Agnes sat, judging it better that she should be present with her, before the soldiers in their search reached the sitting-room. At sight of the spurred and booted soldier, with his fierce aspect and forbidding eye, Agnes Hepburn again uttered a slight scream, but Jane hastily laid her hand on her lips."Hush, hush, Agnes; Sir James Turner will not harm you. He has but come in for some slight refreshment," she said, hurriedly."Is this Adam Hepburn's wife, then?" asked Sir James, with insolent curiosity. "Do not tremble so, my sweet mistress. Unless compelled by duty, I would not lay a finger on you. But come, tell me where your brave husband, and the old man, your father, are in hiding, and we will go away and leave the house in peace.""I do not know; my husband has not been at home for--for--long," Agnes faltered back, and breathing an inward and passionate prayer that the Lord might detain him on the way until the dragoons had left the place."How glibly these pretty lips can utter a falsehood!" said Turner, mockingly. But just then he was somewhat mollified by the sight of a cup of rich Burgundy, which Jane Gray had brought from the cupboard to appease his wrath."By the powers, I never tasted the like in a Whig house before!" he said, smacking his lips. "For your courtesy to me, mistress, I will not insist upon your revealing the rebel hiding-place. I know your kind, and how obstinate they can be when they choose; yet I swear that, if Adam Hepburn or the minister be about Rowallan, they shall not escape this day."The two men who had been searching the house now appeared in the doorway, saying they had met with no success, and that there was no possible corner within the four walls where a fugitive could be hid.Turner then rose and left the house to superintend the search outside.With agonised eyes the two women watched from the window, trembling at the long delay the searchers made in the barn.But at length, to their unspeakable relief, those who had entered it again emerged into the open air, and it was quite evident from their faces that their search had been unsuccessful.After some little delay and consultation, Turner gave the word of command, and the dragoons sprang to horse once more, and stood ready in the courtyard to depart. Then Turner again approached the door, where the sisters now stood, for they could not rest within."Though we have been unsuccessful to-day, mistresses," he said, in an angry tone, "we will yet lay hands upon the renegades. I know not what keeps me from compelling you to divulge the secret of their hiding-place; but, hark! I will not be so lenient when I come back. It's not the first time I have had to make a wench confess at the point of the sword."At that moment, to the dismay and horror of the women, Wyllie, Adam's collie, came running round from the stack-yard barking furiously. Knowing he had accompanied his master to Hartrigge, they stood in intense and silent agony, momentarily expecting to see Adam stride round the corner, and then----. Jane's lip quivered, Agnes covered her face with her hands, and a low moan escaped her lips.Turner, thinking his threat had frightened them sufficiently, turned his horse's head, and gave the order to march. The dog, now in a perfect fury, and seeming to have taken a special dislike to the commander, ran barking and snapping at the horse's heels."Some of you put a bullet through that yelping cur!" he said, with a great oath. Almost as if understanding the brutal order, Wyllie turned tail and ran to his mistress's side, crouching in at her skirts. Turner's order was obeyed, and two pistols were recklessly fired towards the door, heedless of the danger to the women. They missed their aim, but found a mark in Agnes Hepburn's side. Without a sound she fell at her sister's feet. For a moment Turner looked dumbfounded and as if uncertain what to do; then, with another great oath, he repeated the word of command, and the whole troop rode off towards Hartrigge. Before they were well out of sight Adam Hepburn, just arrived in the underground shelter with David Gray, pushed up the trap-door, and stepped out into his own barn-yard. From the great confusion and marks of hoofs, he at once saw that the dragoons had visited Rowallan in his absence, and, with sinking heart, lest any harm should have befallen his darling, he hurried into the house.At the door Wyllie met him, and looked up into his face with a piteous moan. The dread stillness in the house almost made the man's heart stand still. He strode through the kitchen, and when he stood upon the threshold of the sitting-room door, what a sight met his view! Upon the couch lay the prostrate form of his wife, and Jane kneeling by her side, apparently laving something with water. But stay; what was that staining the whiteness of the handkerchief? Was it blood?"My God, Jane, what is this?" he asked, hoarsely, and, with one step, was at the side of the couch.Then he saw the wound in his wife's side, from which her life blood was slowly ebbing."They have been here! That is their work, Adam!" Jane Gray answered, in a voiceless whisper. "The bullet intended for poor Wyllie pierced her side! Oh, my poor sister!"Adam Hepburn knelt down by the couch, and, folding his strong arms about the unconscious figure, called his wife by every endearing name to look up to tell him she was not dead. The tones of that well-beloved voice seemed to recall for a brief space the ebbing breath of life.The long lashes stirred on the white cheek; after a tremor of the lids they were lifted, and the sweet eyes met his in a look of unutterable love. It was the last effort of the feeble strength. In the moment of agony which followed, the breath gently left the lips, the beat of the heart was stilled for ever, and Agnes Hepburn was safe from the trouble to come.In the deep and awful silence which ensued a strange and terrible change was wrought upon the face of Adam Hepburn. The pleasant lines and curves, which had but added to its beauty, were deepened into the furrows of a desperate resolution. Gently he laid his dead wife back upon the pillow, and, walking over to the hearth, took down his father's sword from its accustomed place on the wall, and returned with it to the side of the couch."I call you to witness, Jane Gray, that I swear here, by the body of my murdered wife, that this sword shall never again be allowed to dry in its sheath until it has been wetted with the life blood of as many dragoons as there were years upon my darling's head," he said, in slow, deep, measured tones, and with eyes gleaming with a fierce resolve. "And God do so to me, and more also, if I fail to stand to the very letter of my vow!"
CHAPTER VII.
A LONG FAREWELL.
A special meeting of the Presbytery was convened at Lanark during the following week to consider what action the ministers were to take individually and collectively. It was a mere form, because they were unanimous in their resolution to leave all for conscience sake. In the entire Presbytery there was only one exception to be found, viz., John Methven, the minister of Lochlee. He absented himself from the conference of his brethren, an action which, coupled with his attitude in the past, indicated that it was his intention to retain his living at the Government price. The ejected ministers had three weeks wherein to prepare for the sad change in their circumstances and position. Many were at their wits' end, for, as the Act forbade that they should reside within the bounds of their presbyteries, whither could they turn for assistance or shelter? For themselves they felt it not, but what would become of the wives and little ones rendered homeless and destitute in the very outset of a bleak Scottish winter?
Grey, calm, and still broke that November Sabbath morning, the last upon which the ministers were to break the Bread of Life to the people of their choice over the length and breadth of Scotland. In the vale of Inverburn the dawn was preceded by a thick, heavy mist, which hung low over hill and moorland, giving a very dreary aspect to the already too wintry face of Nature. But long before the hour of service it had cleared away, revealing a peaceful, grey sky, relieved by flecks of brightness in the east. Not a breath of air was stirring; a silence as of the grave seemed to brood over the land. Very early the worshippers began to repair to the house of God. They came from far and near that day; the shepherd from his lonely shieling in the mountain solitude, as well as the dweller in the village, was each found in his accustomed place. Long before the bell began to toll, the churchyard had its groups of earnest, sad-faced worshippers discussing in low and fearful tones the evil days which had come upon the land. Very many were too much overcome to be able to speak, for the thought that this was the last Sabbath Day upon which they would hear the voice of their shepherd in his accustomed place was more than they could bear.
Watty McBean, the carrier, and brother to Betty, the manse maid, was bell-ringer and minister's man in the parish. He tolled the bell that day in a slow, solemn, and painful manner, the echo of each stroke being suffered to die away ere it was drowned by another. It was the "burial" bell Watty tolled that day, and surely nothing could be more fitting or more in unison with the feelings of all who heard it.
At the usual hour Mr. Gray entered the church, but it seemed to those who so mournfully and affectionately watched him ascend the pulpit stair, that never had their minister looked so feeble and aged; never had his face seemed so worn and ill. As his sunken eye roamed over the sea of faces gathered round him, his tears suddenly overflowed, and departing from the usual routine of service, he folded his trembling hands, and said in broken and feeble tones, "Let us pray!"
In the manse pew sat Jane Gray, who never since entering the church had once uplifted her face from her hands, and by her side her nephew Gavin, whose young face wore an expression of manly resolution, upon which many remarked.
Adam Hepburn and his wile were also in their places, and there was none absent from the Hartrigge pew, at the head whereof sat Andrew Gray, erect and calm, with his arms folded across his breast, and a hard, stern expression on his face. And although his father's prayer caused many a bursting sob to echo through the church, he sat unmoved, save when his lips convulsively twitched, telling of a storm of passion held in curb. The psalm was the eighty-fourth, the tune Dundee's "wild wailing measure," fitting words, fitting music to express the tumultuous throbbings of the people's heart. The minister then read the seventeenth chapter of John, slowly and with tremulous distinctness, and without remark or comment of any kind. Next they sang again a portion of the ninety-fourth psalm, then the minister gave out his text.
"All these are the beginning of many sorrows."
That sermon was never forgotten by any who heard it. It seemed as if the aged servant of God had risen above the frailty and feebleness of age, for as he proceeded his clear bell-like voice rang through the building with all the eloquence which had made such a stir among the dry bones in the earlier days of his ministry among them. He spoke passionately and prophetically of the sea of troubles upon which the Lord's Zion was now launched, he forewarned them that the time was at hand when they would need to testify to their faithfulness with their blood, yet he bade them be of good cheer, because it was through great tribulation that the brightness of their eternal crown would be gained in joy.
"And now my faithful and well beloved flock, the time has come for me to bid you farewell," he added in conclusion. "In the ordinary course of nature I could not expect to minister to you for a much more lengthened space. As it is, the fiat has gone forth, not from the Eternal King, but from the poor despicable worm who sits upon an earthly throne that you and I, beloved, shall no more worship together within this place. Looking upon its walls to-day for the last time I know how unspeakably dear it is to me. It is peopled with rich and hallowed memories of the past. In this place I have baptised many of you as children, and here, my own children, now worshipping with you, were all consecrated and received into the Lord's Church. Beloved, from Sabbath to Sabbath these many years I have broken the Bread of Life in your midst, and God be my witness that I have expounded the Word to you in accordance with the light vouchsafed to my own soul. I have also had sweet counsel with you in your own homes, in the ordinary course of pastoral visitation, and I call you to witness that in these visitations I have never failed to be faithful in my personal dealings, when I saw it to be for the glory of God, and for the good of souls. Beloved, all that has come to an end. Next Sabbath day neither you nor I will worship within these walls. When or how the doors will again be thrown open for public worship I cannot say. I tremble when I think upon our now desolate Kirk of Scotland, cast out from her heritage, and bidden make her habitation in the wilderness. It is not for me now, and in this place, to say what will be the reward of these sons of Belial, who have wrought this woe in our midst. 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.' Brethren, farewell. I would my tongue could utter what is in my heart this day. It is with no common sorrow I repeat the words; Brethren, farewell."
The minister ceased, and looked with eyes of unutterable love upon the sobbing multitude. There was no dry eye in the assembly, save that of Andrew Gray the younger, and his seemed to burn with a strange and lurid fire. His hands beneath the book board were so firmly clenched together that the nails were sunk into the flesh. In the midst of these audible tokens of grief, the minister raised his trembling hands, and in slow, clear, solemn tones, breathed upon them his last benediction. Then he sank back in the pulpit, wholly overcome.
The scene I have just described was no solitary instance; in its main features it was being enacted that day in almost every kirk and parish in Scotland.
In the church of Broomhill that day David Gray also spoke his last farewell to his flock. His was not in any respect so united a congregation as that of Inverburn. There were many, who, for peace' sake would have had their minister bow to Middleton's decree, and make an outward semblance of acknowledging the bishop. David Gray entered his church that day with a heavy heart, not because of the sacrifice he was about to make--that occasioned him but little concern--but because of his wife's coldness and estrangement evinced towards him since he had announced his fixed determination to abide by the dictates of his own conscience. Upon the plea that the younger child could not be left, she absented herself from the church that Sabbath morning; and the minister was not surprised to behold the Haughhead seat unoccupied likewise. He delivered an impressive and heart-stirring discourse from the words, "He that taketh not his cross, and followeth after Me, is not worthy of Me," and when he concluded many were weeping. They crowded round him as he came out of the vestry, shaking him by the hand and assuring him of their continued and unaltered love, and offering assistance in every form. It was with difficulty he escaped their loving detention, and, making his way through the churchyard, entered his own garden by the private door. He reproached himself that he did not feel a lively satisfaction in the thought that he had renounced so much for conscience' sake; he felt sore angered at himself for his miserable and foreboding thoughts, which weighed him nigh to the very dust. As he set foot upon the threshold of the manse, he felt oppressed by the strange stillness of the house. On ordinary occasions, the prattle of his children's voices was the first sound which greeted him at his own door. As he stepped into the house, he heard a sound, like that of weeping, proceeding from the direction of the kitchen. Somewhat alarmed, he immediately proceeded thither, and found Ellen Carmichael, the maid, sitting apparently in the very abandonment of grief.
"Be quiet, Ellen Carmichael, and tell me the cause of this noise," he said, with some sternness. "And what has become of your mistress and the bairns?"
A fresh burst of tears was Ellen's only answer; but at length she managed to sob out some words which whitened her master's face to the very lips.
"They're awa', sir; a' awa' tae Haughheid. The laird cam' wi' the coach jist efter the kirk was in, an' the mistress gaed awa' in't, wi' the bairns, an' a' her claes an' the bairns' claes, an' she said she wasna' comin' back. An' I, sir, what cud I dae but sit doon an' greet, thinkin' on you comin' home tae this empty an' desolate hoose?"
The minister turned about and walked with unsteady step back to the pleasant family room, where, with his wife and little ones, he had spent so many happy hours. It had a desolate, deserted, dreary look, and the very fire seemed to have died in despair in the grate. He looked about him in a dazed manner, and then sinking into a chair, these words escaped his lips in a deep groan of anguish:
"If I be bereaved of my children, I am bereaved."
Verily that was a day of sharp and bitter searching for the minister of Broomhill; nevertheless, ere the hushed silence of the night fell, he had found peace in his desolate home.
CHAPTER VIII.
MR. DUNCAN MCLEAN.
In the course of the ensuing week, the last of the honourable family who had so long dwelt beneath the roof-tree of Inverburn manse, quitted its shelter for ever. Pen fails me to describe fitly that sad farewell. It was indeed a very rending of the heart-strings to the venerable minister of Inverburn. In spite of the wording of the Act, that every ejected minister should remove without the bounds of his Presbytery, Mr. Gray and his daughter went no farther than Adam Hepburn's house at Rowallan, where they were very warmly welcomed. So long as was permitted, they would remain among their own kith and kin. The minister of Broomhill found a shelter at Hartrigge, so that united and affectionate family were not as yet separated one from the other.
On the next Sabbath day no kirk bell rang its sweet, familiar chimes through the quiet Sabbath air. The gates of the churchyard remained closed, and the only sign of life about the venerable pile was the cawing of hoarse-throated rooks, which had assembled by scores on the leafless boughs of the "birks of Inverburn," as if met in convocation over this strange and sad Sabbath day. Betty McBean had gone home to her brother Watty's house in the village; and blithe enough he was to see her, being a bachelor, with no womenkind to make a bite for him or to clean up his house. On the Saturday word was carried through the parish by Watty that the Word would be preached next day in the barn at Rowallan by their beloved shepherd, and all whose soul thirsted for the living water were invited to attend. And, lo, at the hour of meeting, so great was the press thronging in Adam Hepburn's barn that it was hastily decided to hold the meeting out of doors. So a kitchen table with a settle behind it was erected as a pulpit in the corn-yard, and from this the minister of Inverburn preached to his flock. Something in the unusual nature of the proceedings seemed to stir all hearts and to imbue them with a holy enthusiasm. Never had the psalm been sung with such deep fervour; never had the attitude of the hearers been so rapt and reverential. There was something in the knowledge that it was against the law that they assembled together which lent a strange, sweet, yet fearful joy to their relish of that Sabbath day. Hartrigge, with all his family, was there, and the minister of Broomhill also took part in the service. When they separated, just before the twilight, all felt that it had indeed been good for them to be there; and they said one to another, that so long as they could get the Word by walking to Rowallan for it, the king's decree might not prove such a hardship as had been anticipated. But, alas for their vain hopes, their happy congratulations! the day was near at hand when listening to, as well as preaching, the Word was to become a crime worthy of death itself.
The Laird of Inverburn, with Lady Hamilton and the young heir, had driven in their coach that day to Lochlee, to hear John Methven preach. On their way home they passed so many dressed people on the roads, especially as they neared Inverburn, that a suspicion of the truth began to dawn upon the mind of the laird.
Just outside their lodge gates they overtook Watty McBean and his sister Betty, leisurely wending their way homewards. At a word from the laird the coachman pulled up his horses.
"Here, McBean," said the laird, in his peremptory fashion, "tell me why there are so many people on the road at this hour. They look to me as if they had been at kirk somewhere, though very sure am I that none of them worshipped with me to-day at Lochlee."
"Did they no', Sir Thomas? but how should I ken whaur a' the folk hae been wanderin' tae?" asked Watty, innocently. "Mebbe they've been awa' seein' their freens or takin' a bit walk tae theirsels, like Betty an' me."
Very red grew the face of Betty McBean, as she heard her brother utter this deliberate falsehood, and she tugged vehemently at her cap strings, to give some vent to her feelings.
"I believe you are telling me a lie, sirrah!" said the laird, wrathfully, "and if you are it will be the worse for you. Here, you woman, you were the manse maid, I think," he added, directing his remarks to Betty. "Can you tell me whether it be true that your minister is still in the parish, in fact that he is under the roof-tree of Adam Hepburn, at Rowallan?"
"Oh, Sir Tammas, my lord, dinna mak me tell a lee," said Betty piteously; "ye wudna hae me get my auld maister into trouble. He----"
"Betty, if ye dinna haud yer tongue, and come on, it'll be the waur for ye," shouted Watty in her ear, and taking her by the arm, dragged her right away from the coach, and past the gate of Inverburn, without so much as making an apology to the laird.
Sir Thomas looked angry, but his wife sank back, laughing, in the coach, not sorry that Betty had not committed herself.
Lady Hamilton's sympathies were much with the Presbyterians, but she was of too sweet and gentle a disposition to set up her own opinions in opposition to those of her husband.
"Eh, Watty McBean, man, hoo cud ye tell sic a barefaced lee?" queried Betty when her brother released his grip on her arm. "Did the thocht o' the fire and brimstane, which the Word says is the portion o' leers, no pit the fear o' death on yer tongue?"
"Hoot ye silly crater, there's leesan'lees!" quoth Watty, with an air of superior wisdom. "Was I gaun to get the minister and the flock into a peck o' troubles wi' my lang tongue? I see I'll need to keep an e'e on you, Betty. Auld though you be, ye hinna muckle gumption."
"Ye're no feared either tae daur [defy] the laird," said Betty, with a sigh.
"I'm no awn the laird naething, and he canna gar me speak against my will," said Watty, calmly; and Betty, completely overcome by her brother's undaunted spirit, relapsed into silence.
For several weeks the parish kirk at Inverburn remained closed, and the people worshipped with the ministers they loved either in barn or outhouse, or, when weather permitted, under the canopy of heaven. Such a state of affairs, which betokened such utter disregard and contempt for the Prelacy, could not long be allowed to continue undisturbed. The next step taken by the bishops was to fill the places of the ejected ministers with curates of their own, so that the parishioners might no longer have the closed doors of the churches to point at as an excuse for their behaviour.
Sir Thomas Hamilton, a staunch loyalist and an intimate friend of the Bishop of Glasgow, offered his shelter and patronage to any gentleman his lordship might elect to minister in the church at Inverburn.
It was on the third Saturday in January that a notice was posted up on the church door intimating that public worship would be resumed next Lord's Day by Mr. Duncan McLean, at the hour of noon.
The bellman was also sent round, and the news well circulated throughout the parish. It occasioned no little excitement and talk; but the people, with the exception of a few of the laird's pensioners in the village, had not the smallest intention of attending upon the curate's ministrations. Service was to be held at three of the afternoon in the sheltered glen behind the house of Hartrigge, and as Watty McBean expressed it--
"When folk could lift Presbyterian wheat for the gaun [going], it wasna likely they wad be content wi' the curate's puir chaff."
About eleven o'clock on the Sabbath morning, Betty McBean, watching from the window, beheld the coach from Inverburn coming rapidly over the manse brae, towards the village.
"The laird's in't, Watty, an' a jimpy black body, wha'll dootless be the curate, and Peter Rintoull, the bailiff, 's on the box aside the coachman," she cried, excitedly. "I'll bet ye what ye like they'll be comin' seekin' you tae gang up by an' ring the bell."
"Let them come, I'm ready for them," said Watty serenely. "But gang you intae the ben-end [parlour], or yer waggin' tongue'll play mischief."
Only too thankful to be relieved from the necessity of again meeting the laird's questioning gaze, Betty hastily retired into the ben-end just as the coach drew up at the door.
"Watty, Watty McBean!" called out the coachman. "Coome oot; Sir Tammas wants ye!"
Watty took his pipe from his cheek, and retired slowly out to the door, a very uncouth looking figure in his rough homespun garb, and his unwashed unshaven face surmounted by a dirty red night-cap!
"Why are you not more decently attired, McBean? It is time you were getting ready for the service," said the laird sternly. "This is the new minister of the parish, Mr. Duncan McLean."
"Ay, so I was thinkin'. I canna say I'm prood tae see Mr. Duncan McLean," said Watty, in his canny way, and giving his somewhat loose nether garments an expressive hitch. "If he's come tae a cauld pairt, it's no' his blame, puir chield. I'm thinkin' he'll no' be lang afore he gangs back tae them that sent him."
Mr. McLean looked much surprised, and not too well pleased at the man's freedom of address.
"The man is witless, Mr. McLean, a half crazy loon, whom nobody heeds," the laird explained, and then he turned his stern eye on Watty's unruffled countenance. "Look here, McBean, go into the house and put on your Sabbath garments as fast as you can; and see that you be up to ring the kirk bell at the usual time."
"Eh, me? they telt me the Bishop wad send a bell-ringer an' a minister's man wi' the curate," said Watty, with well-feigned astonishment. "Sir Tammas, it's perfectly unpossible that I could be ready at the time. Just look at me; I've a week's dirt tae scrape aff my skin, no' tae mention that my claes taks an hour tae aire afore I cud pit them on without catchin' my death."
The laird bit his lip.
"This is gross impertinence, McBean, for which, as I sit here, I swear you shall not go unpunished. Once for all, will you or will you not be ready to perform your usual duties in the bell tower and the session house in half an hour?"
"That I winna, Sir Tammas; seein' the lord bishop, or whatever be his title, has made the kirk session of Inverburn null and void, he has made the minister's man null and void too; so Maister McLean maun e'en get a man for hissel," answered Watty, with fearless resolution. Then he fixed his keen eye on the ill-favoured face of the curate, and addressed a concluding remark to him. "Ye hae taen muckle upon yersel', young man, tae step into the honoured shoon o' the Reverend Maister Gray. An' if ye get but a cauldrife hearin' this day ye may blame no' the faithfu' folks o' Inverburn, but them that sent ye."
With which comforting assurance Watty turned about, and entering his own house, shut the door.
"If this is the disposition of the parish, Sir Thomas," said the curate sourly, "I fear stronger measures will be necessary ere long."
"If necessary, doubtless they will be taken, Mr. McLean," said the laird. "But do not be cast down by the insolent utterance of a half-witted fellow like Watty McBean. I cannot think the people of Inverburn will so far forget their respect to me, as well as to those in power, as to follow such an example."
One of the laird's servants was procured to undertake Watty's duties, and the bell was duly rung at the appointed time. But it appeared to convey to the hearts of the people no welcome summons to the House of God. Only a few stragglers, and these persons of no note in the parish, came dropping into the church, and when the hour struck there were not more than thirty persons present, and these included the laird and his retinue from Inverburn. Nevertheless the service was proceeded with, and conducted after the true Episcopal fashion; prayers being read from the new book of service. The curate was humiliated and ashamed, the laird furious, and on their way home to Inverburn the two discussed various plans whereby the people might be compelled to attend service in the church.
The following morning Sir Thomas started on horseback to make a tour of the tenantry on his estate, in order to see what they had to say in defence of their absence from the church on the previous day. His first place of call was Rowallan, but before he reached the house he met Adam Hepburn leading one of his work-horses to the smithy. Adam doffed his cap to the laird, and stood still, not unprepared for what was coming.
"I have called to see for what reason you absented yourself from Divine service yesterday, Hepburn?" the laird said briefly, and without greeting of any kind. "Do you know that in so absenting yourself you were guilty of a civil offence?"
"I know not as to that, Sir Thomas; but if a man's heart be not in the service, he is better at home," replied Adam, quietly. "And the king has no power over a man's own conscience."
"See here, Hepburn," said the laird; "is that old man, your father-in-law, still under your roof-tree?"
"He is, Sir Thomas," answered Adam, in the same quiet tone.
"You know the wording of the Act which commands that the ejected ministers shall remove themselves without the bounds of the Presbytery? Rowallan is not without these bounds. I have it in my power to have your father-in-law punished, imprisoned if I like, by simply letting my friend the bishop know how his commands are disobeyed."
A dark red flush rose to Adam Hepburn's brow, and he bit his lip. The hot blood of his race sprang up at the laird's threatening and mocking words.
"And you would make betrayal of the old man the price of my non-attendance at the curate's preaching, Sir Thomas," he said with curling lip. "Such a threat is scarcely worthy of your name. I fear that such measures will not avail with the God-fearing people in the parish."
"You defy me then, sirrah; then be prepared to take the consequences," said the laird furiously, and digging his spurs into his horse's sides, turned the animal's head, and rode away full gallop to Hartrigge, only to have his ire additionally kindled there by the cool defiance and dogged determination of Andrew Gray.
CHAPTER IX.
PREPARING FOR EMERGENCIES.
When the laird rode away, Adam Hepburn turned and walked slowly back to Rowallan. He was somewhat disturbed by what he had heard, not on his own account, but on that of the venerable father of his beloved Agnes. When he entered the room where the minister sat with his daughter Jane, Mrs. Hepburn being busy with her household work, both saw that he was troubled about something.
"Have you heard aught about the preaching yesterday, Adam, that you look so grave?" queried the minister.
"Yes; I met the laird down the road, and he seems sore displeased over the thin attendance at Mr. McLean's ministrations yesterday," replied Adam, a little quickly. "He threatened me, too, that unless I attended the services he would get you into trouble, Mr. Gray."
"I said to you, Adam, my son, when you so nobly offered me the shelter of your roof-tree, that it might get you and yours into trouble, harbouring an ejected and rebellious minister," said the old man sadly. "Better let me go forth ere that trouble comes upon your house."
"Go forth! and whither? At your age, and in the dead of winter, to wander in the open air as some are compelled to do would mean certain death," said Adam Hepburn. "No, no; though I am not such a red-hot churchman as Hartrigge, still, whoever seeks to molest you, be he king's or bishop's official, must first deal with me."
Tears started in Jane Gray's eyes as she looked with pride and gratitude at the erect figure and manly face of her brother-in-law. At that minute Agnes, hearing such serious voices, came in from the kitchen, asking what was the matter. Adam Hepburn turned his blue eyes fondly on his wife's sweet pale face, and smiled to reassure her.
"We are like to get into trouble, wife, by our dourness to attend the curate's preaching, that is all," he answered lightly.
A slightly troubled look stole into Agnes Hepburn's gentle eyes.
"I know not why, but I have of late had many dark forebodings, Adam," she said. "These are sad, sad days in which we live, and especially trying for timorous women-folk like me."
"It is your poor health, dear one, that makes you fanciful. No harm can come upon Rowallan so long as my stout right arm retains its cunning," Adam answered, lightly still; but Agnes, shaking her head, stole back to her duties with a heavy heart.
"I am concerned about Agnes, Jane," said Adam Hepburn, turning his troubled eyes on his sister-in-law's face. "She is not well, and in her sleep is restless and troubled, as if haunted by some strange dread; and she is so thin and worn. Looking on her face, at times I am afraid."
"When the spring time is past she will gather strength, please God," said Jane, cheerfully. "Agnes never was strong in the spring time."
"No; and these exciting and troublous times are too severe a strain upon her sensitive heart," said the minister. "As Agnes herself says, they are not for timorous women-folk to live in."
For some weeks they heard no more of the laird or of his threats, although report had it that severe measures were about to be taken to compel the people to respect the authority of the bishops and to attend upon the ministrations of their curates. Ere long these rumours became terrible realities, and a troop of brutal and unprincipled dragoons, under Sir James Turner, was let loose upon the western and southern shires of Scotland, which they scoured in search of the ejected ministers, and of their faithful flocks, who travelled miles to hear them in the mountain solitudes, worshipping with them in temples not made with hands, but which were consecrated to the Lord by the faithfulness and fearless piety of these Christian people. For a time the parish of Inverburn, although very offensive in its treatment of the curate, escaped the severity with which many other parishes, notably those in the shires of Galloway and Dumfries, were visited. It was at length, however, publicly announced from the pulpit that all who failed to attend Divine service on the following Sabbath day would be apprehended and punished either by fine or other penalty, and that all who gave aid to the ejected ministers or who attended upon their services in the open air were liable to be dragged before the High Commission Court, of which Sharp was the head, and there punished according to the prelates' good pleasure.
Adam Hepburn heard unmoved that report, as also did his brother-in-law at Hartrigge, where David Gray, the minister of Broomhill, was still sheltered, almost, however, at the peril of his life. When the dragoons at length came to Inverburn, he hid in the day-time in a cunningly-concealed cave on the face of the hill upon which Hartrigge stood, and the existence of which was known only to a very few. It was in a spot so difficult of access, and was, besides, so well hidden by brambles and nettles and other brushwood, that for a time at least the fugitive was perfectly safe.
When Sir James Turner and his troop arrived at Inverburn, he, with his subordinate officers, was immediately offered shelter by the laird, while the men were drafted upon various households in the village, notably those who were known to be very zealous Presbyterians. Watty McBean's house was taken possession of by four coarse, swearing, drunken soldiers, who raised Watty's ire to the utmost pitch and nearly frightened Betty out of her wits, besides eating her out of house and home.
At nightfall on the day of their arrival, Watty stole away through the fields to Rowallan to give timely warning to its inmates to get the minister removed out of the way before he should be taken prisoner. He crept up to the room window and gave a familiar tap on the lower pane, lest a knocking at the door might alarm the household. Adam Hepburn himself came to the door, and, at a sign from Watty, stepped outside.
"I've jest come tae warn ye, Adam Hepburn, that Turner an' the sodgers came this nicht," he whispered. "An' by what I hear the rascals, wha hae taen my hoose frae me, sayin' tae ane anither, it's oor minister an' the minister o' Broomhill they're after. Hae ye ony means o' getten Maister Gray outen the road?"
Adam Hepburn nodded.
"We knew the soldiers were on their way to Inverburn, and I'll warrant they'll no lay hands on the minister, or they'll be sharper than I think them. Come in, Watty, and speak to Mr. Gray. He's still with us in the house."
"Ye dinna mean to say so!" exclaimed Watty in consternation. "Certy ye're no feared. If ye take my advice ye'll get him awa' intae safe hidin' as sune as possible. I was sayin' tae Bettie I kent a bonnie howdie hole on the Douglas Water doon the Sanquhar road a bit, that it wad puzzle the sodgers tae find."
"Keep your secret for awhile, Watty. It may be useful some day," said Adam Hepburn, and beckoning to Watty, he ushered him into the warm ingle-neuk, where sat the minister of Inverburn in undisturbed serenity, with his daughters by his side.
"Good evening to you, Watty McBean, my faithful friend," said the minister, rising to shake hands with Watty. "What tidings have ye brought?"
"No very braw [nice] for leddie's ears. The sodgers have come upon Inverburn at last, an' gin they bide lang ther'll be neither bite nor sup, nor an article o' gear in the parish," answered Watty dolefully. "The four villains quartered on us have already pocketed my watch an' my mither's spunes, no' tae speak o' Betty's brooch she got frae yer lamented wife."
Agnes Hepburn's pale cheek grew, if possible, a shade whiter, and instinctively her husband moved to the back of her chair, and laid his firm hand on her trembling shoulder as if to re-assure her.
"Adam, if this be so, my place is no longer here!" said the minister rising. "My son, I have already stayed too long, not only at the peril of my own life, but it is imperilling yours likewise. It will be better for me to keep my hiding-place now, both night and day."
"You will lie down first, father, and snatch a few hours rest," said the sweet voice of Adam Hepburn's wife. "At the cock-crowing Adam will awake you, and you can hide until the nightfall."
"Oh, ye'r safe eneuch till the daw'in', sir," Watty assured him. "The laird's wine, an' soft beds, an' routh [abundance] o' breakfast 'll keep Sir Jeems at the big hoose, I'se warrant, till the sun be up."
"Certainly you will do as Agnes says, Mr. Gray?" said Adam, in his decided way. "Now, Watty, if you'll say good-night, and come with me, I'll show you a 'howdie hole' which would match yours on the Douglas Water."
"Guid nicht, then, Maister Gray, an' may the Lord blind the e'en o' the sodgers, and keep you oot o' their clutches," said Watty with fervour. "Mistress Hepburn an' Miss Jean, guid nicht wi' ye baith; an' should ye need a strong arm and a willint heart at any time, to defend ye, mind that Watty McBean's ay ready!"
"Good night, my faithful Watty; and may the Lord give you patience to bear the infliction of the soldiery on your abode. Provoke them not to anger, Watty, I entreat, for I am told that they are very swift to shed blood," said the minister, earnestly.
"I'll thole [bear] as long as I can, I never was a fechter," said the good soul, with a comical smile, and pulling his forelock in token of respect, he followed Adam Hepburn out of doors.
The moon had now risen, and its clear radiance struggled through the rifts in the cloudy sky, and shone weirdly and fitfully on the wintry landscape, making strange fantastic shadows too on the walls of the outhouses grouped about the farmhouse. Adam Hepburn stepped across the courtyard, and opened the barn door. He then motioned to Watty to enter, and after carefully closing the door, lighted the lantern he had brought with him from the house. The barn at Rowallan was a large and commodious place, with a steep ladder-like stair ascending to the granary above. In one corner a small door gave admittance to an inner apartment, something resembling a closet in a house, and into which the chaff was swept after it was separated from the wheat by the flail. At the present time it was, however, almost empty, there being only a slight sprinkling on the wooden floor. Into this place Adam Hepburn threw the light of his lantern, and then looked enquiringly at Watty.
"What do you see there, Watty, anything by ordinar?" he asked.
"Naething but a common chaff-hole," answered Watty, "and no' a very safe hidin'-place, I wad think. The Douglas Water hole beats it yet."
"Come in, though, Watty, and I'll show you something," said Adam, with a smile, and Watty stepped into the place, in which he could scarcely stand upright. Adam then set down his lantern, and with his hands swept aside the chaff, but still Watty saw nothing save a moth-eaten and discoloured wooden floor. But when Adam inserted into some of the seams the strong blade of his gully knife, and Watty saw a distinct movement in the flooring, he began to have an inkling of what was coming. After some little exertion, Adam Hepburn raised a small trap-door, sufficient to admit the body of a man, and Watty peering into the chasm, with excited interest, saw a ladder which appeared to lead into the bowels of the earth.
"Now creep down after me, Watty, and shut the door after you, and I'll show you something worth seeing," said Adam, and Watty made haste to obey. The ladder was of considerable length, but at last Watty felt his feet on the firm earth, and looking about, saw by the light that he was in a subterranean passage, narrow certainly, but of sufficient height to accommodate even Adam Hepburn's tall figure. Still following his guide, Watty walked a little way along the passage, and then found himself in a kind of cave, a wide open space, sufficient to hold about a dozen people. There was a rude couch composed of stones, built in one corner, upon which now had been piled a substantial tick filled with chaff, above which was spread plenty of blankets and thick coverings, which would make a very comfortable resting place, even in winter. A piece of rough matting covered the floor in front of the bed, and there were some benches which formed a table, or could be used for seats. The floor of the place was perfectly dry, and the atmosphere felt warm and free from dampness. Watty gazed round him in unmitigated astonishment and admiration, and at lasted gasped out--
"Thisisa howdie hole, an' nae mistak'! Whaur did it come frae, an' wha made it?"
"It has always been here. I believe my great-grandfather, who was killed at Flodden, had something to do with it," replied Adam Hepburn. "At any rate, not a living soul knows of its existence but our own family and you, Watty. But you don't know half its advantages yet. See, the underground passage continues right through here," he added, shedding the light of his lantern into another dark recess; "and what do you think? it runs right through the fields of Rowallan, and under the bed of the Douglas Water, and comes out in the middle of all the brushwood and tangle on the face of the Corbie's Cliff. Ye didna ken there was a hole there, did ye, Watty?"
"No; although I hae speeled [climbed] the Corbie mony a time for nests when I was a laddie," said Watty, solemnly. "It seems as if the Lord had made the place Hissel'."
"Mr. Gray can be made very comfortable here, Watty," continued Adam Hepburn; "and, by the simple pulling of a string I have fastened up in the chaff-hole, I can make a noise which will warn him to escape by the Corbie should the soldiers discover the trap. But I don't think there can be any fear of that."
"No' likely, for I couldna see onything but the flure," said Watty, in much glee; "an' I'm no' blind. Eh, weel, may be mair than the minister 'll be glad o' this grand shelter."
"It is likely the minister of Broomhill will come here under cover of the night some of these days. I would think he was not very safe much longer at Hartrigge," said Adam Hepburn. "Well, Watty, I think we'd better get upstairs again, and you can tell Betty that we are ready for the soldiers whenever they like to come."
"'Deed, Maister Hepburn, I'll no' tell her naething. Weemin folk are no' to be trusted. No' that they mean tae dae mischief; it's jist their tongues, puir craters, fashed [troubled] wi' a weakness, an' they canna help themselves," said Watty, so seriously that his companion could not refrain from laughing.
After some little delay, they again mounted the ladder, and, pushing up the trap-door, emerged into the chaff-hole, and thence out into the open air, where, after a few more words concerning the shelter of the ministers, they parted for the night.
CHAPTER X.
ADAM HEPBURN'S VOW.
The business of life seemed to be standing still in Inverburn. Although it was not the season of the year in which much outdoor labour could be accomplished, the barren fields still lay waiting to be upturned by the plough, and all interest in the ordinary routine of work seemed to be absorbed in other things. The morning after the quartering of the soldiery on the householders there were many strange sights and sounds witnessed and heard in the quiet hamlet of Inverburn. Needless to say that the inn was the chief rendezvous, and honest Mistress Lyall had to pour out her ale and whisky, and even her small stock of wine and brandy, without stint or payment. The swearing horde took possession of the bar, and, in the terror of her soul, poor Katie Lyall flew to a neighbour's house, and left them in undisturbed possession. Having drunk their fill, the ruffians made a raid on every house, lifting what valuables they could lay hands upon, and insulting the women, and bringing many a burning blush to the fair cheek of youth. The unarmed and defenceless men folk in the village were only deterred from open resistance by the sight of the long gleaming swords and loaded pistols of the troopers. But curses, not loud but deep, filled the quiet air, and many a manly hand was clenched, many a manly voice uttered a deep and ominous vow of vengeance.
About half-past nine Sir James Turner and his subordinate officers rode down the manse brae, and, drawing rein at the head of the village street, sounded thereveille. In a short time the regiment was in marching order, and the horses' heads were turned towards Rowallan. And then many a fervent prayer rose to Heaven that the God of Hosts would throw the strong arm of His defence about Adam Hepburn's house, and shelter its dear inmates from the bloody men. Early that morning Adam Hepburn had walked across the fields to Hartrigge to warn David Gray of his danger, and to bid the inmates of the house be prepared for a visit from the soldiery. He arrived to find the minister of Broomhill quietly seated at breakfast with the family, having just crept up from his hiding-place. It was at once hastily resolved that, as it was still early, Adam Hepburn and David Gray should creep down into the valley behind Hartrigge, and, keeping within shelter of the trees and brushwood, follow the course of the Douglas Water until they reached the Corbie's Cliff; then, entering the mouth of the subterranean passage, join the minister of Inverburn in his hiding at Rowallan.
The children at Hartrigge, all but Gavin, being too young to understand the peril of the hour, wondered why uncle David bade them farewell so solemnly and with tears in his eyes; and little Jeanie, listening to his last words to her mother, pondered them long in her heart.
"Farewell, Susan, my sister. The Lord requite thee for thy sisterly kindness to me, who, now a wanderer on the face of the earth, can never hope either to acknowledge or repay it. And may the Lord also vouchsafe the wings of His shelter to this house and its inmates, and shield them in the day of trouble."
Mistress Gray wrung the minister's hand, but was unable to speak. Andrew Gray himself accompanied them to the door, but their parting words were interrupted by the shrill echo of the trumpets sounding thereveillein the village along the vale. Then Adam Hepburn and the minister understanding that ominous sound, plunged into the thicket, and scrambled down the steep into the richly wooded valley below. Meanwhile the women folk at Rowallan busied themselves with their household tasks, and Agnes at least longing for her husband's return. The nervous fear had so grown upon her of late that she was never a moment at rest, save when he was by her side. As she stepped out into the courtyard with a basin of warm food for the poultry, the clatter of hoofs fell upon her ears, and turning her startled eyes in the direction of the road, she saw what appeared to be a moving mass of steel, glittering in the chill winter sunshine, and coming rapidly towards the house.
With a slight scream she dropped the basin with its contents, and fled into the house. Jane Gray, hearing the noise, came hurrying downstairs, and caught her trembling sister in her arms.
"Agnes, my lamb, what is it? What has so frightened you?" she asked, anxiously.
"The soldiers, Jane! they are here!" exclaimed the terrified girl. "Oh, Jane, hide me from them! I wish Adam had not gone away!"
Even Jane Gray's brave heart quailed at the thought of their defenceless state, but she tried to console and assure her sister.
"Don't be afraid, my dearie, they will never harm two defenceless women, and Adam must now be near home. It is nigh two hours since he went away."
Before she could say more the troops swept across the stack-yard, and drew up with a great clatter before the door. The pawing and snorting of the horses, the rattling of their trappings, and the voices of the men, made a strange and alarming din about the quiet house of Rowallan.
Jane Gray placed her sister in a chair, shut the sitting-room door, and drawing herself up, as if with a sudden courage, went out boldly to the door. She was deadly pale, but her demeanour was outwardly perfectly unmoved.
At sight of the woman, Sir James Turner, a coarse and forbidding-looking man, rode his horse up to the very doorstep, and fixed his insolent eyes on the fair, calm face.
"Well, mistress, this is the rebellious house of Rowallan, is it not? Are you the wife of that notorious Whig, Adam Hepburn, who so persistently disavows the king's commands, and shelters the rebel preachers?"
"This is Rowallan, sir," Jane Gray made answer in a clear, steadfast voice. "But I am not Adam Hepburn's wife. There is none within this house but me and my sister, who is in delicate health. May I appeal to your honour as a soldier and a gentleman not to needlessly distress or alarm us?"
A coarse laugh fell from Turner's lips, which was re-echoed by his subordinates.
"A modest request, truly; I might grant it if I get a kiss from those sweet lips for my payment. But say, is that renegade old man, Andrew Gray, the field preacher, not hidden in the house?"
"He isnot," said Jane Gray, calmly, while a red spot began to burn hotly on either cheek.
"I am sorry I cannot take your word for it, mistress," said Turner, coolly. "With your permission we will make a search of the house. Here, Dawson and McTavish," he added, turning to a corporal and a sergeant, "dismount, and search the house, and you, Captain Blane, and young Drew, with the others make a thorough inspection of the outhouses. Now, ma'am, let me have a glass of ale or wine to cool my thirst, and show you a loyal subject of the king."
For peace' sake, as well as on the account of her sister, Jane Gray crushed back the indignant refusal burning for utterance, and, holding the door open, briefly bade him enter. She led the way direct to the room where Agnes sat, judging it better that she should be present with her, before the soldiers in their search reached the sitting-room. At sight of the spurred and booted soldier, with his fierce aspect and forbidding eye, Agnes Hepburn again uttered a slight scream, but Jane hastily laid her hand on her lips.
"Hush, hush, Agnes; Sir James Turner will not harm you. He has but come in for some slight refreshment," she said, hurriedly.
"Is this Adam Hepburn's wife, then?" asked Sir James, with insolent curiosity. "Do not tremble so, my sweet mistress. Unless compelled by duty, I would not lay a finger on you. But come, tell me where your brave husband, and the old man, your father, are in hiding, and we will go away and leave the house in peace."
"I do not know; my husband has not been at home for--for--long," Agnes faltered back, and breathing an inward and passionate prayer that the Lord might detain him on the way until the dragoons had left the place.
"How glibly these pretty lips can utter a falsehood!" said Turner, mockingly. But just then he was somewhat mollified by the sight of a cup of rich Burgundy, which Jane Gray had brought from the cupboard to appease his wrath.
"By the powers, I never tasted the like in a Whig house before!" he said, smacking his lips. "For your courtesy to me, mistress, I will not insist upon your revealing the rebel hiding-place. I know your kind, and how obstinate they can be when they choose; yet I swear that, if Adam Hepburn or the minister be about Rowallan, they shall not escape this day."
The two men who had been searching the house now appeared in the doorway, saying they had met with no success, and that there was no possible corner within the four walls where a fugitive could be hid.
Turner then rose and left the house to superintend the search outside.
With agonised eyes the two women watched from the window, trembling at the long delay the searchers made in the barn.
But at length, to their unspeakable relief, those who had entered it again emerged into the open air, and it was quite evident from their faces that their search had been unsuccessful.
After some little delay and consultation, Turner gave the word of command, and the dragoons sprang to horse once more, and stood ready in the courtyard to depart. Then Turner again approached the door, where the sisters now stood, for they could not rest within.
"Though we have been unsuccessful to-day, mistresses," he said, in an angry tone, "we will yet lay hands upon the renegades. I know not what keeps me from compelling you to divulge the secret of their hiding-place; but, hark! I will not be so lenient when I come back. It's not the first time I have had to make a wench confess at the point of the sword."
At that moment, to the dismay and horror of the women, Wyllie, Adam's collie, came running round from the stack-yard barking furiously. Knowing he had accompanied his master to Hartrigge, they stood in intense and silent agony, momentarily expecting to see Adam stride round the corner, and then----. Jane's lip quivered, Agnes covered her face with her hands, and a low moan escaped her lips.
Turner, thinking his threat had frightened them sufficiently, turned his horse's head, and gave the order to march. The dog, now in a perfect fury, and seeming to have taken a special dislike to the commander, ran barking and snapping at the horse's heels.
"Some of you put a bullet through that yelping cur!" he said, with a great oath. Almost as if understanding the brutal order, Wyllie turned tail and ran to his mistress's side, crouching in at her skirts. Turner's order was obeyed, and two pistols were recklessly fired towards the door, heedless of the danger to the women. They missed their aim, but found a mark in Agnes Hepburn's side. Without a sound she fell at her sister's feet. For a moment Turner looked dumbfounded and as if uncertain what to do; then, with another great oath, he repeated the word of command, and the whole troop rode off towards Hartrigge. Before they were well out of sight Adam Hepburn, just arrived in the underground shelter with David Gray, pushed up the trap-door, and stepped out into his own barn-yard. From the great confusion and marks of hoofs, he at once saw that the dragoons had visited Rowallan in his absence, and, with sinking heart, lest any harm should have befallen his darling, he hurried into the house.
At the door Wyllie met him, and looked up into his face with a piteous moan. The dread stillness in the house almost made the man's heart stand still. He strode through the kitchen, and when he stood upon the threshold of the sitting-room door, what a sight met his view! Upon the couch lay the prostrate form of his wife, and Jane kneeling by her side, apparently laving something with water. But stay; what was that staining the whiteness of the handkerchief? Was it blood?
"My God, Jane, what is this?" he asked, hoarsely, and, with one step, was at the side of the couch.
Then he saw the wound in his wife's side, from which her life blood was slowly ebbing.
"They have been here! That is their work, Adam!" Jane Gray answered, in a voiceless whisper. "The bullet intended for poor Wyllie pierced her side! Oh, my poor sister!"
Adam Hepburn knelt down by the couch, and, folding his strong arms about the unconscious figure, called his wife by every endearing name to look up to tell him she was not dead. The tones of that well-beloved voice seemed to recall for a brief space the ebbing breath of life.
The long lashes stirred on the white cheek; after a tremor of the lids they were lifted, and the sweet eyes met his in a look of unutterable love. It was the last effort of the feeble strength. In the moment of agony which followed, the breath gently left the lips, the beat of the heart was stilled for ever, and Agnes Hepburn was safe from the trouble to come.
In the deep and awful silence which ensued a strange and terrible change was wrought upon the face of Adam Hepburn. The pleasant lines and curves, which had but added to its beauty, were deepened into the furrows of a desperate resolution. Gently he laid his dead wife back upon the pillow, and, walking over to the hearth, took down his father's sword from its accustomed place on the wall, and returned with it to the side of the couch.
"I call you to witness, Jane Gray, that I swear here, by the body of my murdered wife, that this sword shall never again be allowed to dry in its sheath until it has been wetted with the life blood of as many dragoons as there were years upon my darling's head," he said, in slow, deep, measured tones, and with eyes gleaming with a fierce resolve. "And God do so to me, and more also, if I fail to stand to the very letter of my vow!"