CHAPTER XVIIA SHOCK OF CORN FULLY RIPE.The body of dragoons stationed in the village of Inverburn were so constantly upon the alert, and swept so wide a range of the surrounding district, that it was well-nigh impossible for the fugitives to leave their hiding either by night or day. They had removed to the safer hiding of Watty's hole in the Witches' Cleugh [glen or ravine], and thither Jane Gray, courageous as usual, carried their provisions, either in the very early morning, or after the moon was up at night. They had made the place as comfortable as it was possible under the circumstances, having formed themselves couches of dried leaves over which were spread the substantial coverings which Jane had carried to them by degrees. She was now abiding constantly at Hartrigge, where all Adam Hepburn's most valuable goods had been removed, and Rowallan shut up. As for the stock, the soldiers had relieved him of any anxiety regarding it by removing it all for their own use and profit. So Rowallan was now a deserted and desolate homestead, about which the owls screeched mournfully at night, and the bats flapped their weird wings unheeded and undisturbed against the shuttered windows.The people of the village were now driven to church at the point of the sword, consequently the curate's services were no longer disgraced by meagre attendances. As the people listened to the mockery of worship he conducted within the now desecrated walls, they bowed their heads in sorrow and shame, knowing very well that directly the services were over he would be away drinking with the officers of the regiment. His excesses, which were not confined to week-days, had now become a public scandal, so much so, that Sir Thomas Hamilton in disgust had ceased to attend the church of Inverburn, and had returned to the ministrations of John Methven, at Lochlee.The dragoons, being under command not to quit the place until they had laid hands on the four obstinate and cunning insurgents, who were lurking in the neighbourhood, growing tired of their quarters, began a more vigorous raid on the outlying farmhouses and homesteads, as well as a more thorough exploration of the woods and hills. But though they rode along the very heights above the hiding place of the wanderers they sought, and, dismounting, even made an attempt to explore the very thicket sheltering the cave, their search was unsuccessful.Being quite aware of the very strict search going on, the fugitives were compelled to abide yet more closely in their shelter. It was now the end of the year, and though as yet little snow had fallen, there had been heavy rain storms accompanied by wild and bitter winds which almost froze the marrow in their bones. It being considered unsafe to make a fire, the fugitives suffered much from the cold, and from the dampness of their hiding-place. The minister of Inverburn, especially, suffered from its effects, and grew so weak that he was scarcely able to stand upright. He also complained of great pain and uneasiness of the chest, which indicated that the long exposure had wrought very evil effects upon his aged and delicate frame.Towards midnight, one evening early in January, a slight snow being on the ground, and the roads rendered easy footing by a touch of frost, Mistress Gray of Hartrigge, accompanied by Jane, set out to carry provisions to the fugitives. Since her son's death, Susan Gray's feelings concerning the Covenanters and their persecutions had undergone a change. In times gone she had not been a very zealous Churchwoman, and had often remonstrated with her husband concerning what she considered his bigoted and unwise zeal; but now her hatred against the oppressors equalled, if not excelled, that of Andrew. Yet his was the outcome of true religious zeal, while hers was the result of outraged human feelings. And I fear that very many of those who followed the fortunes of the Covenanters were actuated by like feelings with Mistress Gray.No thought of fear troubled these two women as they traversed their lonely way through the wilds to the Witches' Cleugh. They spoke but little as they went, for the time had now come when talking over troubles only made them seem worse to bear. They found it better to shut them up in their own hearts, and make no moan to the world. The bright light of the moon made the surrounding landscape indescribably beautiful, yet what eye had these two for what in happier times would have afforded them pleasure and delight? To them the beauty of Nature was obscured by the pall of bitter personal sorrow. When they reached the cleugh, Jane Gray put a whistle to her mouth and blew the signal, which those in hiding had learned to know and welcome. Andrew Gray hastened through the thicket to guide them up to the cave; and Jane walked on a little in front, guessing that her brother would have many things to say to his wife, whom he had not seen for some weeks. When they together entered the cavern, which was dimly lighted, quiet but expressive greetings passed between them, but somewhat to Jane's surprise and alarm, her father did not offer to rise and speak to them. She advanced to the side of the low bed, and holding the flickering light above it, saw such a deep and significant change in the dear features, that she could not repress a cry of anguish."My father seems very ill. How long has he been thus?" she exclaimed, turning to her brothers. The tones of her familiar and much-loved voice seemed to awaken the old man to struggling consciousness, for he presently stirred, and opened his eyes."Is that my daughter's voice?" he asked anxiously."Yes, father, I am here," answered Jane, and dropping on her knees, she took the wasted hands in her firm gentle clasp. "Tell me, do you feel much distressed? Do you suffer much pain?""Not much pain, only great uneasiness and oppression, my daughter," he answered. "If it be the precursor of my summons home, how gladly do I bear it all, if only my Lord sees fit to call me speedily from these troubles, which I fear I bear with but a poor measure of cheerfulness and patience. But being old and stricken in years, I have not the same endurance with these young men, your brethren."Jane Gray's eyes filled with bitter tears, and for a space sobs prevented her from speaking. Susan Gray now moved over to the bed, and after looking steadfastly at the old man's face for a brief space, she said decidedly, "Grandfather is very ill. What say you to having him moved to a comfortable bed at Hartrigge?"For a moment they looked somewhat surprised at her proposal, which involved considerable risk, but she hastened to reassure them."The dragoons have grown weary of searching through Hartrigge, and, indeed, I hear, that having become convinced that you are not in the district, they are about to shift their quarters. So I think we needna' fear for them. You could carry him home this very nicht between you, and be back safe in hiding afore the first peep o' day.""God bless you for your suggestion, Susan," said Jane Gray, gratefully. "It is kind of you to risk your own safety, and that of your bairns and house, for our sakes."After a brief hesitation it was resolved to act upon Mistress Gray's plan.The old man being too weak to understand what they were talking about, lay perfectly still, only keeping his eyes fixed upon his daughter's face, as if they loved to dwell there. He seemed surprised when presently they began to roll the coverings round him, but did not ask any questions, nor did they tell him what was about to be done. He was so thin and attenuated that his light weight was as nothing to Andrew Gray, who carried him in his arms as easily as if he had been a child. After a little Adam relieved him, and thus that strange and mournful procession wended its way to the house of Hartrigge. The women-folk hurried on in front, and reaching the house considerably before the others, Jane made haste to get something hot prepared for them, while the mistress hung sheets and blankets at the cheerful kitchen fire, and carried up a shovelful of blazing peats to a little garret room, which was situated in the most remote and the safest part of the house. The bed was ready when the wanderers arrived, and the old man was at once undressed, and having had warm, dry, comfortable underclothing put on, was laid in the clean and cosy bed, where he stretched his limbs gladly, and wearily laid his head on the soft pillow, too thankful to ask where he was, so sweet and grateful was the unwonted comfort to his exhausted and pain-racked frame. His daughter held a warm drink to his lips, which when he had taken, he lay down and fell asleep. Meanwhile, in the chamber below the others were partaking of a hasty repast, wondering much at their own temerity in venturing within the house of Hartrigge, which, in spite of its familiarity, had a strange look, so long was it since their eyes had dwelt upon the interior of a dwelling made with hands. Leaving his food unfinished, Andrew Gray stole up to the chamber where he knew he should find his little ones asleep. As he looked upon the sweet, chubby faces of the two younger ones, and then on Jeanie's paler and more womanly features, his eyes grew strangely dim, and stooping he kissed them one after the other, so lightly that they did not even stir in their sleep. His wife presently joined him, and moving to his side, she leaned her head on his shoulder and he put his arm about her, and they stood for a brief space in utter silence.The thoughts of each were too deep for words or tears."God will take care of you, wife, and keep our bairns," he said at length. "Fain would I tarry, but it is time we were going hence."She nodded, and leaving the room, they rejoined David Gray and Adam, waiting with some impatience below. Then after many fervent farewells, and many injunctions to send word if any danger were likely to come near Hartrigge, so that, if possible, they might again remove the old man, the wanderers left the cheerful warmth and comfort of Hartrigge, and betook themselves to their bleak hiding in the dens and caves of the earth.Next morning mistress Gray took little Jeanie aside, and told her that her grandfather was in the garret, and said she had trusted her with the secret, lest she should discover it, and unthinkingly speak of it outside.Jeanie looked up into her mother's face with a wise, womanly expression, almost sad to see in so young a child."Oh, mother, you needna fear for me," she said quietly. "Though you hadna told me, I would have known very well not to tell any one of grandfather being here. But, mother, did he come in the middle of the night, and was father with him? I dreamed that father was standing by my bed last night, and that he kissed me, and was crying when he did it.""It was nae dream, lassie," said her mother, through her tears; "your poor father was indeed here last night, and kissed and blessed you, and Sandy, and Nannie too."For several days it seemed as if the minister of Inverburn were likely to recover, under the kind nursing of his daughter at Hartrigge. But the pain in the chest did not abate its severity, and though they did the utmost for him within their knowledge and skill, there was no visible improvement in his condition. They dared not send for a doctor, but had just to use their own means, and pray for a blessing.In the course of a week, however, it became quite evident to the anxious watchers that death was not far off.The day came at last when the old man, conscious himself of his approaching end, desired that his children might be gathered about his bed. Jane Gray ran in haste to the Witches' Cleugh, and in the darkening those in hiding stole up to Hartrigge.When the dying servant of God saw all the faces beloved best on earth gathered round him, a well-pleased expression stole into his face. Looking at his first-born son, he desired him to raise him a little in the bed, in order that he might better utter his words of blessing and farewell. Then fixing his eyes on Andrew's face, he said, in low and solemn tones:--"You have ever been a faithful and dutiful son to me, Andrew, for which the Lord will reward you. I have but one word of warning to give regarding the part you will take in the struggle which will shortly rage with hotter violence than it has hitherto done in the land. See to it that you fight for the Covenant with singleness of heart and purpose, out of pure love for its sweet and simple doctrines, and do not allow any personal spleen to mingle with your nobler aim, lest the blessing of the Most High be withheld. To you, David, my son, I have also a word to say. I bid you be of good courage, and fail not to strengthen and encourage your brethren in arms with the ministrations of your holy office whenever time and opportunity permit. And fear not those who can kill the body, for it is written, 'Whosoever shall lose his life for My sake shall find it.' To you, Adam Hepburn, the widowed spouse of my sweet Agnes, and dear to me as my own sons, my words will also be brief. I would seek to remind you that vengeance belongs only to the Lord, and that from high Heaven alone cometh sure retribution for deeds of blood. Therefore I would warn you that you strive to overcome your evil and revengeful passion, reminding you that it is not a spirit which the ransomed soul of your beloved could approve. It is written that he that slayeth with the sword shall perish by the sword. To you, my sweet and well-beloved daughter, Jane, who have indeed followed closely in your mother's footsteps, since the mournful day when that dear saint left this world for a better, I have simply to leave my gratitude and fatherly blessing. Your reward for many deeds and words of love will come by-and-by. And, last of all, Susan, my daughter, I would but call to your remembrance that our God can bind up the broken heart, and that your tears are treasured up against that day when He cometh to judge the quick and the dead. And the parting is but for a little while. Farewell, my children; save for your sakes I am not sorry to quit this earthy tabernacle, and enter upon the inheritance which my sweet Lord has kept for me since before the foundation of the world."With these words the minister sank back exhausted among his pillows. It must not be supposed that he was able to utter the foregoing sentences as connectedly as they are written. Nay, they were spoken with much difficulty, and many long pauses, and his parched lips had to be continually moistened with the stimulant Jane kept ready at hand. He lay so still after the last words passed his lips that they almost feared he was gone. But at length his eyelids quivered slightly, and then they saw a seraphic smile dawning upon his face, as if some lovely vision had appeared to his soul. His lips moved slightly, and Jane, hastily bending down, caught the faintly whispered words:--"Coming, O my sweet Lord Jesus!"So, quietly and painlessly, he fell asleep."It is all over," said Hartrigge, huskily."For this present life only, Andrew," quietly answered the minister of Broomhill. "And, thanks be to His name, He has spared the green, and taken the ripe."CHAPTER XVIII.AT HAUGHHEAD.In the grey twilight of a sweet spring evening, a figure, wearing the garb of a minister, entered the policies surrounding Haughhead, and keeping well within the shadow of the trees, stole across the park to the mansion house. The face of the wanderer was not that of an old man, and yet his hair was as white as snow. He looked worn and delicate, and walked slowly and with a somewhat lingering step, as if he had travelled far, and was very weary.The house of Haughhead was a building of considerable pretension, and was beautifully situated on a richly wooded slope, directly facing the picturesque village of Broomhill. The grounds were ample and well kept, and looked their best that spring evening, for the trees were bursting into leaf, and the early spring flowers were blooming in the trim borders and among the smooth-grown turf. The wanderer looked about him with a sad and tender interest, for his surroundings were peculiarly familiar, and recalled to his mind many memories of the past. To this place, in the early days of his settlement in Broomhill, he had often come, lured by the sunny gleam in the blue eyes of Lilian Burnet. Through these very green and bosky glades he had wandered, with her light hand clinging to his arm, in the happy, careless days of their courtship; across that very threshold he had led his fair bride, accounting himself that day the happiest man in broad Scotland. Recalling these happy days, and contrasting them with the desolation which was his to-day, he could have fancied them but the vagaries of his own imagination. Although it was not yet dark outside, lights gleamed in the lower windows of the house, and all the shutters were closed, telling that the inmates had settled themselves within for the night. The minister hesitated for a moment at the base of the broad flight of steps which led up to the door, wavering in his purpose to seek admittance. Finally he stepped aside to one of the lower windows, at which the shutters had not been carefully closed, there being a broad chink left, through which a very good view of the interior of the room might be had. It was a large, pleasant, well-lighted chamber, with a log fire burning cheerfully on the hearth, and giving one the idea of comfort and homeliness. There were several persons in the room. Sitting in her high-backed chair was the prim-looking mistress of Haughhead, busy upon some embroidery. Opposite her, on the hearth, sat Burnet of Haughhead himself, with a small table drawn up before him, and a ponderous volume lying thereon, in whose pages he seemed engrossed. It was not upon these two, however, that the yearning eyes of the minister dwelt On the hearthrug two little children were busy at their play: two lovely children, a boy and girl, the former, having been very delicate in infancy, only able to toddle on his little legs, and his baby tongue only yet learning the mysterious language of words. A little apart, also busy with her sewing, sat their mother, a lovely creature, to all appearance scarcely yet out of her girlhood, with a round sweet innocent face, as delicate in hue as the tint of the lily and the rose combined, and clear liquid blue eyes, which had evidently never yet been dimmed by bitter tears. She was a picture of serene and happy repose, not a shadow crossed her fair face, and her low humming of a familiar melody seemed to indicate a heart at rest.Familiar though he was with the shallowness of his wife's nature, David Gray, looking on her face, was amazed. He had expected to see her a little changed; he thought that a small measure of anxiety, a shadow of regret concerning him, might have left its impress on her face. But no, she looked younger, fairer, more free from care than he had ever seen her before. If there had been any lingering hope in his mind that the wife whom he still loved, thought of, or longed for him in her separation, it was dispelled at once and for ever. But for the two little ones playing at her feet, the years of her wifehood might have seemed only the shadow of a dream, so unchanged was she from the light and giddy girl who had ruled the house of Haughhead since her babyhood. Pleasant and suggestive as was the picture in that family room, it caused a deep, deep shadow to come upon the sad face of the minister of Broomhill. He felt himself utterly forgotten by those bound to him by the nearest and dearest of ties. They had put him away out of their hearts and lives as one undeserving of their love. Presently his painful thoughts were interrupted by the gruff voice of Gilbert Burnet, and every word was distinctly audible."Give your song words, Lily," he said; "this is just the time of night for music. Is the harp there?""Yes, father," the sweet, careless tones made answer, blithely, and David Gray saw her throw aside her work, and approach the corner of the room where the harp stood. Then she sat down, ran her white fingers lightly over the strings, tossed back her sunny ringlets in the coquettish fashion he remembered so well, and then began the sweet, stirring strains of an old ballad, which had ever been a favourite in days gone by. Listening to these sweet strains, the minister of Broomhill seemed to forget himself and his surroundings, until the abrupt cessation of the music, and a loud clapping of hands, caused him to start, and cast another look into the room. The children had now risen from their play, and were clapping their baby hands in glee over the music.Looking upon their winsome faces, the faces of his own children, given to him by God, taken from him by man, a great wave of anguish, of unutterable yearning, swept over his soul. But he crushed it down, and turning about, stole away from the house by the way he had come. They had forgotten him, they had no need of him; henceforth he was without wife, or children, or home, a wanderer on the face of the earth. They were safe and sheltered under that roof-tree, because its heads had not identified themselves with rebellion and treason, while he was hunted, pursued, and tracked to the dens and caves of the earth, with a price set upon his head. And yet what of that? what though perils by sea and land, perils by persecution, encompassed him, when he possessed the sweet approval of his own conscience, and the ever-present consciousness of the presence and blessing of the Most High? To be accounted worthy had been his earnest cry ere these desolations had fallen upon him, and now was he one to shrink and stand back from the bearing of his cross, however heavy it might be? Nay, but a sweet peace stole into his heart, as these precious words of promise were whispered to him: "And every one that hath forsaken houses, or brethren, or sister, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands, for My name's sake, shall receive an hundredfold, and shall inherit everlasting life."Henceforth God and the Covenant were all he had to live and suffer for, all he could call his own indeed upon the earth. Therefore he would go forth gladly with his brethren on the morrow to join the Covenanting army assembling in the south.Not many days after that, the women folk at Hartrigge were busy about their usual tasks, when a horse and rider came up to the front door, the latter loudly demanding admittance. Jane Gray went out at once, and great was her astonishment to behold Gilbert Burnet, the laird of Haughhead."Well, Jane Gray, 'tis a long time since we met," he said, grimly."It is, indeed, Mr. Burnet," answered Jane, quietly."And many ups and downs have taken place since then, eh?" he asked, more grimly still."You speak the truth," said Jane, coldly, not liking very well the manner in which he spoke. "Will you be pleased to alight from your horse, and step in? In my brother's name I can bid you welcome to his house, and his wife will speak to you within. She has been in poor health these few weeks, and is confined to her own chamber.""I'll not come in to-day," said Haughhead, bluntly. "My business can be done here well enough. It will not take up much of your time.""My time is at your disposal, Mr. Burnet. We are not hard pressed in these times," she said, with a faint smile."No, there is a mighty difference in Hartrigge since I saw it last. A great fool Andrew Gray was to leave his substantial holding and comfortable life for his present precarious existence," said Haughhead. "I suppose he is not about the place.""No; nor has been for many, many months," answered Jane, briefly."Ah, I thought not. It was you I expected to see. Well, I suppose you have heard of the most gracious indulgence granted by the king to the outed and rebellious ministers?""Yes; we heard of it some days ago," answered Jane Gray, in a calm and unreadable voice."You know the generous terms it offers?" said Burnet, inquiringly. "If they will acknowledge the bishops, they are to be forgiven for past rebellion and inducted into the full enjoyment of their former benefices. If not, they are still to be allowed to preach in the kirks, and can come back to their manses and glebes.""Yes; we heard that such were the king's terms, Mr. Burnet," said Jane Gray, but did not offer the information he was anxious to obtain."What, what are your brothers saying to it? What--in fact, hang it, woman!--will your brother David come back peaceably to Broomhill? You know very well what I want to be at!" said Haughhead, losing his temper and raising his voice.Jane Gray looked him straight in the face with clear, calm, steadfast eyes."I fear not; in fact, Mr. Burnet, I know that the indulgence will make no difference whatsoever to my brother David. On no account will he now accept a living from the hands of a king who has proved himself so utterly unworthy of trust or loyal service. My brother, in common with many other thoughtful men, regards the new proclamation simply as a trap set to ensure the complete downfall of Presbyterianism in Scotland."It was curious to watch the varying expressions on Gilbert Burnet's face as he listened to Jane Gray's fearless and unmistakable words."Gad, Jane Gray! you are not afraid! I should not wonder to see your proud head roll in the dust yet," he said, sarcastically. "Then your brothers will still keep themselves rebels at large, liable to be shot or hanged any day?""Until God sees fit to restore to the Church of Scotland a glorious liberty, crowned and sanctioned by His own blessing and approval, my brothers are content to undertake the risks involved by their firm upstanding for the Covenant," answered Jane Gray, with quiet but striking eloquence."Then you brothers are arrant fools, and deserve whatever fate may befall them!" fumed Haughhead. "Is David Gray in the neighbourhood? Could I see him? Although I am no bigoted zealot, I can pass my word of honour and keep it, as a gentleman should. He will come by no harm through me. I only desire to speak with him for a little space.""It is impossible, Mr. Burnet. My brothers, and also my brother-in-law, Adam Hepburn, have left this district, and I know not where they may now be.""I see you speak the truth. I had a message from my daughter, his wife," said Haughhead, carelessly. "I can deliver it to you. Possibly you may have some opportunity of communicating with him at no very distant date.""I shall be very pleased to receive your message, Mr. Burnet, and to deliver it to David when opportunity offers.""Well, it is just this, that if he will accept the king's generous indulgence and return to the manse of Broomhill, she will come back to him with her children, thus showing herself willing to overlook his long desertion."Jane Gray drew herself up, and a slight colour rose in her cheek."Truly, Mr. Burnet, I think Lilian Gray cannot be a changed woman when she sent such a message to my brother," she said, proudly. "She should rather have couched her message in terms of humility, seeing she so wrongly and unkindly quitted him in the hour of his need.""That isyourway of looking at it. We hold that, by his folly, David Gray forfeited all claim on his wife's consideration," retorted Haughhead, angrily. "But it is no use arguing with a Gray, so I will be off, Jane Gray, wishing you a very good day.""Stay, Mr. Burnet; will you tell me, please, how it is with the little ones, my brother's bairns?" said Jane, laying a pleading hand on his bridle rein. "I have a great yearning to see or hear something of them.""Oh, they are well, and as bonnie bairns as eyes could wish to see--true Burnets both of them," answered Haughhead, stretching a point just to vex the heart of the woman before him. "Tell David that, and tell him that they'll soon forget they have a father at all."With which parting shot, which brought an unbidden tear to Jane Gray's eye, the Laird of Haughhead gave his horse the rein and rode rapidly away.CHAPTER XIX.UNLOOKED-FOR NEWS.In spite of the many stringent measures taken by the Government to suppress the field preachings and break the spirit of the Covenanters, the persecuted people continued to meet for worship in the mountain solitudes or in the moorland wilds, thus strengthening each others' hearts and hands, and renewing the bond of their precious Covenant, for which these hardships were endured.Now no conventicle was held unless protected by an armed band ready to give the alarm and fight, if need be, the soldiers who might seek to disturb or disperse them. Consequently skirmishes were of very frequent occurrence, sometimes resulting in victory for the Presbyterians, sometimes in their utter defeat. In these encounters many lost their lives. Often were the heather and the mountain streams dyed with their blood, and yet the army never seemed to diminish in numbers, for there were ever some ready to fill the vacant places of those who had fallen.The curates still continued to conduct Episcopal services in the kirks, but the supremacy of the bishops seemed no nearer being established in the last, because, with some exceptions, those who attended the ministrations were people of little note or reputation, with perhaps a few whom terror compelled to take their unwilling places in the kirks.The struggles betwixt the Government and the Scottish Presbyterians had now extended over several years, and seemed yet no nearer a satisfactory termination. The Covenanters, with their intimate knowledge of their native hills and dales, had the advantage over the troopers sent to hunt and destroy them, and some of their mountain fastnesses were more impregnable than a fortified city. In open warfare they might easily have been cut to pieces, but time went on, and except the few skirmishes already referred to, the opponents had never met in battle. Such a state of affairs could not be satisfactory to the King of England, much less so to Lauderdale and the Archbishop of St. Andrews, who were his executors in Scotland.When every troop of marauding dragoons was empowered to take captive, torture, or kill any man, woman, or child whom they even suspected of being a Covenanter, or of attending the Conventicles; when the property of unoffending individuals was confiscated and distributed among the spoilers; when the dwellings of peaceable country folk were robbed, and often burned to the ground without explanation or excuse; when those who were supposed to have afforded shelter or refreshment to the fugitives were fined and imprisoned without mercy, it might have been thought that there were no severer measures left in the Government repertoire, and that they might have abandoned the persecutions in despair of ever rooting Presbyterian principles out of Scotland. But as yet the Government had no such intention. Those in power met to discuss, and finally issued orders for the infliction of yet more stringent and cruel treatment upon the rebels. Every forgotten and long-abhorred torture was revived, and used as punishments by the unholy Courts, which made a mockery of administering justice in the land.Well might the endurance of God's people quail beneath the yoke of the oppressor; well might their hearts be uplifted to Heaven in that despairing cry, "O Lord, how long!"One evening about the middle of May, in the year 1679, several men were gathered together in a lonely farmhouse among the wilds of Lanarkshire. Among them we recognise Andrew Gray of Hartrigge, and his brother, David, the minister of Broomhill, also other two familiar faces, those of Adam Hepburn of Rowallan, and Watty McBean, the carrier of Inverburn. Having had his houses burned about his ears, his faithful nag and all his valuables stolen, Watty had become, instead of a man of peace, a man of war, and had joined the army lying in the Vale of Avondale. Betty had retired to Hartrigge, which was now entirely left to the women-folk, and was at the utter mercy of the soldiery. But as yet the homestead remained untouched, though fair Rowallan was razed to the ground.From the appearance of the company gathered in the room, as well as from their remarks, it could be gathered that they were (with the exception of Watty, who would on no account let Adam Hepburn out of his sight) leaders among the insurgents. They were discussing the next steps to be taken by the army, and Sir Robert Hamilton, brother to the Laird of Inverburn, and a staunch, though moderate Presbyterian, was counselling cautious measures, to which Andrew Gray, Adam Hepburn, and some other fiery spirits listened with but a small show of patience, when there came a loud and peremptory knocking at the door. Involuntarily all sprang to their feet, and grasped their swords. If they were discovered, and the soldiers were without, there were twenty valiant and desperate men of them, who would fight dearly for their lives.Adam Hepburn, sword in hand, fearlessly went to the outer door, and threw it open. In the faint and uncertain beams of the young May moon he saw only a solitary horseman, whose steed was panting and covered with foam, as if it had galloped many miles that day."Is this Windyedge, the house of Gideon Dickson?" the horseman asked in a thick whisper."Is it friend or foe?" queried Adam, briefly."Friend," replied the horseman, as briefly. "Is Sir Robert Hamilton within?""He is; but be good enough first to give me your name as a guerdon of your honour," said Adam."Tush! man," said the horseman impatiently; "well, John Balfour of Kinloch, synonymous with liberty at any price, is it not?"Those within, hearing the whispered conference, now came crowding out to the door, and Sir Robert Hamilton, at sight of the figure on the horse, uttered an exclamation of surprise, and at once stepped across the threshold."John Balfour! What on earth brings you from Fife to this remote place? No paltry reason, I could swear.""You speak the truth," returned Balfour grimly. "Is there any fellow who can put up my steed, who is in a sorry plight, poor wretch, as well he may, after his desperate ride. And is there any refreshment to be had within, for I am fainting with hunger and fatigue."Gideon Dickson, the farmer of Windyedge, came out himself, and taking the exhausted animal's bridle-rein, led him away towards the stable. Then Balfour was conducted into the house, and refreshment immediately set before him. While he partook of his repast he spoke not, and those in the room who had hitherto only known him by hearsay as a fearless soldier, who would fight under the most desperate circumstances, now looked, not without astonishment, upon his person. In figure he was considerably under the middle height, but his frame was powerfully knit, and evidently possessed of great strength. His countenance was by no means prepossessing, being dark and forbidding, while a cast in his eye gave him a peculiarly fierce and unpleasant aspect. When he had finished his repast he looked round upon the assembled company, and then fixing his eyes on the face of Sir Robert Hamilton, briefly asked the question:--"Are these present to be trusted?""Ay, truly," answered Sir Robert. "They are the picked men of our forces; therefore you may fearlessly open your mouth in their midst, John.""And there are no traitors or spies within hearing?" further queried Kinloch, looking suspiciously round him."None; we are gathered here for consultation," replied Sir Robert. "Our forces are lying about a mile distant, under cover of the Loudon hill.""That is well. But, tell me, have you had no news, of a very comfortable and pleasant nature, conveyed hither from Fife?" queried Balfour grimly.Sir Robert shook his head and made answer that they had received no communication whatsoever from the shire of Fife."Nothing relating to that arch-fiend, James Sharp, of St. Andrews?""Nothing. Come, John, do not keep us in suspense. Can it be that the Lord has permitted judgment to fall on him at last?""Even so," said Balfour. "Know, then, that certain faithful servants of the Covenant, meeting the archbishop's carriage on Magus muir, on the third day of this present month, sent the perjured traitor to his just and righteous doom."Sir Robert Hamilton was struck dumb in the intensity of his surprise and horror, for in a moment the consequences of that rash and indefensible act were made clear to his well-balanced mind. One or two others, notably the minister of Broomhill, also exhibited dismay, but the majority of those present received the news with a lively satisfaction, and even with a species of fierce joy which told that in their zeal they thirsted for blood."Who authorised, or led them to such a rash and unwise attack?" queried Sir Robert Hamilton. "They must have been blind and blood-thirsty zealots, surely, who killed a man in cold blood, without giving him a chance to defend himself."An expression of fierce and bitter scorn crossed the dark face of Balfour as he made answer contemptuously."What of the many thousands who have been murdered in cold blood at Sharp's instigation and with his approval? The like mercy he showed to others was meted out to him. For my part, I would that he had ten other lives, to be taken from him in the same summary fashion.""I am of your opinion, Mr. Balfour," said the deep voice of Adam Hepburn of Rowallan, and Kinloch immediately turned his deep-set eyes with approval on the speaker. Something in the dogged and resolute expression on his fine face, and in the gleam of his keen blue eye, riveted Balfour's attention and caused him to mentally resolve that they should become better acquainted with each other."And I, also," chimed in Andrew Gray in his quiet but weighty manner. "There could be no fate too harsh for such a traitor. Verily he has been a Judas in the Kirk of Scotland all his days, and his hands are dyed with the blood of hundreds of innocents whom he has betrayed."Still Sir Robert Hamilton shook his head, and a troubled and anxious expression continued to dwell on his face."Come, tell me, John, who were the perpetrators of this deed of violence?" he asked. "Are any of them personally known to you?"A grim smile stole into Kinloch's face as he made answer--"Faith, they were all as well known to me as my own brothers, seeing I was in their midst, as also was my brother-in-law, David Hackstoun of Rathillet.""David Hackstoun of Rathillet!" ejaculated Sir Robert in tones of utter amazement. "Very sure am I that so sweet and kindly a soul would not lay a hand even on the archbishop.""Well, like Saul, he looked on, consenting unto his death," said Balfour. "I myself gave the traitor a sword thrust, just to wipe off old scores, but it was not these hands that finished him. Nevertheless, the crime is wholly charged upon my brother-in-law and myself, and I take it there will be a heavy ransom set upon our precious heads. After the deed was done we separated, David Hackstoun and I agreeing to join the forces here; but he would go home to see his wife first, else he had been here with me. It may be that his silly dallying may cost him his life.""You are right in saying there will be a heavy price set on your heads," said Sir Robert Hamilton; "and, what is more, we will all need to gird about our swords and see to our armour, for now there will be no quarter for any professing Covenanting principles. I prophesy that the king will take steps to terribly avenge his primate's death.""What of that?" queried Balfour, carelessly. "What ingenuity or revenge could suggest more terrible and bloody oppression than has been pressed on Scotland these past ten years?""Well, well, what's done can't be undone," said Sir Robert, with a somewhat mournful smile. "Now, lads, we had better to our discussions again. We were but planning a great field meeting for Sabbath week, at which a Communion Service might be held, and we were somewhat divided as to a suitable place of meeting.""Are there many soldiers in the district?" asked Balfour."Ah, that we cannot tell. They rise mysteriously, as it were out of the bowels of the earth, when least expected," replied Sir Robert. "But I heard on good authority that that miscreant--for I can call him nothing else--John Graham of Claverhouse is in the west.""Right well would I like to measure swords with him," said Balfour, with feverish eagerness. "Such a man is not fit to live.""It's no' very easy gettin' at him," piped the shrill voice of Watty McBean. "I'm tell he rides a muckle black horse the deevil sent him, an' that nae man can owertak' him."Balfour immediately turned his piercing eyes on Watty's face with a glance which covered him with confusion, for he had been surprised into speech without thinking."Be quiet, Watty," said Adam Hepburn promptly, which rebuke caused Watty to slink behind the door, chiefly to escape the gaze of Balfour, whom he had regarded with terror ever since his entrance."Those who are best acquainted with the district should be the fittest to choose a place of meeting," said Balfour. "What numbers have you at Loudon Hill?""About three hundred, and at a short notice we could speedily double or treble the number. There having been no fighting of late, very many have returned to their homes. Indeed, those with us are chiefly men whose goods have been confiscated and their dwellings pillaged and burned.""I see no better spot than where our army now lies," said Adam Hepburn. "It is a sheltered and suitable place, and from the top of the hill our watchers could readily descry the enemy approaching from one side, while upon the other that wide and dreary morass is a bulwark in our defence.""I agree with you," said Sir Robert. "Then we can fix upon the place and day, and send word through the surrounding district.""Have you forgotten that the anniversary of the king's restoration is to be celebrated throughout Scotland on the 29th of this present month?" asked Balfour."No: we have had that under discussion likewise, John," replied Sir Robert, "and we intend to celebrate it in our own fashion. But of that more anon. And now we must separate for the night. My quarters in the meantime are here, John. You had better remain with me in case Rathillet should come hither seeking you. He should be here by the latest to-morrow."Balfour acquiesced, and, being much fatigued, gladly retired to rest, while the others separated to the various places where they were to obtain shelter for the night.
CHAPTER XVII
A SHOCK OF CORN FULLY RIPE.
The body of dragoons stationed in the village of Inverburn were so constantly upon the alert, and swept so wide a range of the surrounding district, that it was well-nigh impossible for the fugitives to leave their hiding either by night or day. They had removed to the safer hiding of Watty's hole in the Witches' Cleugh [glen or ravine], and thither Jane Gray, courageous as usual, carried their provisions, either in the very early morning, or after the moon was up at night. They had made the place as comfortable as it was possible under the circumstances, having formed themselves couches of dried leaves over which were spread the substantial coverings which Jane had carried to them by degrees. She was now abiding constantly at Hartrigge, where all Adam Hepburn's most valuable goods had been removed, and Rowallan shut up. As for the stock, the soldiers had relieved him of any anxiety regarding it by removing it all for their own use and profit. So Rowallan was now a deserted and desolate homestead, about which the owls screeched mournfully at night, and the bats flapped their weird wings unheeded and undisturbed against the shuttered windows.
The people of the village were now driven to church at the point of the sword, consequently the curate's services were no longer disgraced by meagre attendances. As the people listened to the mockery of worship he conducted within the now desecrated walls, they bowed their heads in sorrow and shame, knowing very well that directly the services were over he would be away drinking with the officers of the regiment. His excesses, which were not confined to week-days, had now become a public scandal, so much so, that Sir Thomas Hamilton in disgust had ceased to attend the church of Inverburn, and had returned to the ministrations of John Methven, at Lochlee.
The dragoons, being under command not to quit the place until they had laid hands on the four obstinate and cunning insurgents, who were lurking in the neighbourhood, growing tired of their quarters, began a more vigorous raid on the outlying farmhouses and homesteads, as well as a more thorough exploration of the woods and hills. But though they rode along the very heights above the hiding place of the wanderers they sought, and, dismounting, even made an attempt to explore the very thicket sheltering the cave, their search was unsuccessful.
Being quite aware of the very strict search going on, the fugitives were compelled to abide yet more closely in their shelter. It was now the end of the year, and though as yet little snow had fallen, there had been heavy rain storms accompanied by wild and bitter winds which almost froze the marrow in their bones. It being considered unsafe to make a fire, the fugitives suffered much from the cold, and from the dampness of their hiding-place. The minister of Inverburn, especially, suffered from its effects, and grew so weak that he was scarcely able to stand upright. He also complained of great pain and uneasiness of the chest, which indicated that the long exposure had wrought very evil effects upon his aged and delicate frame.
Towards midnight, one evening early in January, a slight snow being on the ground, and the roads rendered easy footing by a touch of frost, Mistress Gray of Hartrigge, accompanied by Jane, set out to carry provisions to the fugitives. Since her son's death, Susan Gray's feelings concerning the Covenanters and their persecutions had undergone a change. In times gone she had not been a very zealous Churchwoman, and had often remonstrated with her husband concerning what she considered his bigoted and unwise zeal; but now her hatred against the oppressors equalled, if not excelled, that of Andrew. Yet his was the outcome of true religious zeal, while hers was the result of outraged human feelings. And I fear that very many of those who followed the fortunes of the Covenanters were actuated by like feelings with Mistress Gray.
No thought of fear troubled these two women as they traversed their lonely way through the wilds to the Witches' Cleugh. They spoke but little as they went, for the time had now come when talking over troubles only made them seem worse to bear. They found it better to shut them up in their own hearts, and make no moan to the world. The bright light of the moon made the surrounding landscape indescribably beautiful, yet what eye had these two for what in happier times would have afforded them pleasure and delight? To them the beauty of Nature was obscured by the pall of bitter personal sorrow. When they reached the cleugh, Jane Gray put a whistle to her mouth and blew the signal, which those in hiding had learned to know and welcome. Andrew Gray hastened through the thicket to guide them up to the cave; and Jane walked on a little in front, guessing that her brother would have many things to say to his wife, whom he had not seen for some weeks. When they together entered the cavern, which was dimly lighted, quiet but expressive greetings passed between them, but somewhat to Jane's surprise and alarm, her father did not offer to rise and speak to them. She advanced to the side of the low bed, and holding the flickering light above it, saw such a deep and significant change in the dear features, that she could not repress a cry of anguish.
"My father seems very ill. How long has he been thus?" she exclaimed, turning to her brothers. The tones of her familiar and much-loved voice seemed to awaken the old man to struggling consciousness, for he presently stirred, and opened his eyes.
"Is that my daughter's voice?" he asked anxiously.
"Yes, father, I am here," answered Jane, and dropping on her knees, she took the wasted hands in her firm gentle clasp. "Tell me, do you feel much distressed? Do you suffer much pain?"
"Not much pain, only great uneasiness and oppression, my daughter," he answered. "If it be the precursor of my summons home, how gladly do I bear it all, if only my Lord sees fit to call me speedily from these troubles, which I fear I bear with but a poor measure of cheerfulness and patience. But being old and stricken in years, I have not the same endurance with these young men, your brethren."
Jane Gray's eyes filled with bitter tears, and for a space sobs prevented her from speaking. Susan Gray now moved over to the bed, and after looking steadfastly at the old man's face for a brief space, she said decidedly, "Grandfather is very ill. What say you to having him moved to a comfortable bed at Hartrigge?"
For a moment they looked somewhat surprised at her proposal, which involved considerable risk, but she hastened to reassure them.
"The dragoons have grown weary of searching through Hartrigge, and, indeed, I hear, that having become convinced that you are not in the district, they are about to shift their quarters. So I think we needna' fear for them. You could carry him home this very nicht between you, and be back safe in hiding afore the first peep o' day."
"God bless you for your suggestion, Susan," said Jane Gray, gratefully. "It is kind of you to risk your own safety, and that of your bairns and house, for our sakes."
After a brief hesitation it was resolved to act upon Mistress Gray's plan.
The old man being too weak to understand what they were talking about, lay perfectly still, only keeping his eyes fixed upon his daughter's face, as if they loved to dwell there. He seemed surprised when presently they began to roll the coverings round him, but did not ask any questions, nor did they tell him what was about to be done. He was so thin and attenuated that his light weight was as nothing to Andrew Gray, who carried him in his arms as easily as if he had been a child. After a little Adam relieved him, and thus that strange and mournful procession wended its way to the house of Hartrigge. The women-folk hurried on in front, and reaching the house considerably before the others, Jane made haste to get something hot prepared for them, while the mistress hung sheets and blankets at the cheerful kitchen fire, and carried up a shovelful of blazing peats to a little garret room, which was situated in the most remote and the safest part of the house. The bed was ready when the wanderers arrived, and the old man was at once undressed, and having had warm, dry, comfortable underclothing put on, was laid in the clean and cosy bed, where he stretched his limbs gladly, and wearily laid his head on the soft pillow, too thankful to ask where he was, so sweet and grateful was the unwonted comfort to his exhausted and pain-racked frame. His daughter held a warm drink to his lips, which when he had taken, he lay down and fell asleep. Meanwhile, in the chamber below the others were partaking of a hasty repast, wondering much at their own temerity in venturing within the house of Hartrigge, which, in spite of its familiarity, had a strange look, so long was it since their eyes had dwelt upon the interior of a dwelling made with hands. Leaving his food unfinished, Andrew Gray stole up to the chamber where he knew he should find his little ones asleep. As he looked upon the sweet, chubby faces of the two younger ones, and then on Jeanie's paler and more womanly features, his eyes grew strangely dim, and stooping he kissed them one after the other, so lightly that they did not even stir in their sleep. His wife presently joined him, and moving to his side, she leaned her head on his shoulder and he put his arm about her, and they stood for a brief space in utter silence.
The thoughts of each were too deep for words or tears.
"God will take care of you, wife, and keep our bairns," he said at length. "Fain would I tarry, but it is time we were going hence."
She nodded, and leaving the room, they rejoined David Gray and Adam, waiting with some impatience below. Then after many fervent farewells, and many injunctions to send word if any danger were likely to come near Hartrigge, so that, if possible, they might again remove the old man, the wanderers left the cheerful warmth and comfort of Hartrigge, and betook themselves to their bleak hiding in the dens and caves of the earth.
Next morning mistress Gray took little Jeanie aside, and told her that her grandfather was in the garret, and said she had trusted her with the secret, lest she should discover it, and unthinkingly speak of it outside.
Jeanie looked up into her mother's face with a wise, womanly expression, almost sad to see in so young a child.
"Oh, mother, you needna fear for me," she said quietly. "Though you hadna told me, I would have known very well not to tell any one of grandfather being here. But, mother, did he come in the middle of the night, and was father with him? I dreamed that father was standing by my bed last night, and that he kissed me, and was crying when he did it."
"It was nae dream, lassie," said her mother, through her tears; "your poor father was indeed here last night, and kissed and blessed you, and Sandy, and Nannie too."
For several days it seemed as if the minister of Inverburn were likely to recover, under the kind nursing of his daughter at Hartrigge. But the pain in the chest did not abate its severity, and though they did the utmost for him within their knowledge and skill, there was no visible improvement in his condition. They dared not send for a doctor, but had just to use their own means, and pray for a blessing.
In the course of a week, however, it became quite evident to the anxious watchers that death was not far off.
The day came at last when the old man, conscious himself of his approaching end, desired that his children might be gathered about his bed. Jane Gray ran in haste to the Witches' Cleugh, and in the darkening those in hiding stole up to Hartrigge.
When the dying servant of God saw all the faces beloved best on earth gathered round him, a well-pleased expression stole into his face. Looking at his first-born son, he desired him to raise him a little in the bed, in order that he might better utter his words of blessing and farewell. Then fixing his eyes on Andrew's face, he said, in low and solemn tones:--
"You have ever been a faithful and dutiful son to me, Andrew, for which the Lord will reward you. I have but one word of warning to give regarding the part you will take in the struggle which will shortly rage with hotter violence than it has hitherto done in the land. See to it that you fight for the Covenant with singleness of heart and purpose, out of pure love for its sweet and simple doctrines, and do not allow any personal spleen to mingle with your nobler aim, lest the blessing of the Most High be withheld. To you, David, my son, I have also a word to say. I bid you be of good courage, and fail not to strengthen and encourage your brethren in arms with the ministrations of your holy office whenever time and opportunity permit. And fear not those who can kill the body, for it is written, 'Whosoever shall lose his life for My sake shall find it.' To you, Adam Hepburn, the widowed spouse of my sweet Agnes, and dear to me as my own sons, my words will also be brief. I would seek to remind you that vengeance belongs only to the Lord, and that from high Heaven alone cometh sure retribution for deeds of blood. Therefore I would warn you that you strive to overcome your evil and revengeful passion, reminding you that it is not a spirit which the ransomed soul of your beloved could approve. It is written that he that slayeth with the sword shall perish by the sword. To you, my sweet and well-beloved daughter, Jane, who have indeed followed closely in your mother's footsteps, since the mournful day when that dear saint left this world for a better, I have simply to leave my gratitude and fatherly blessing. Your reward for many deeds and words of love will come by-and-by. And, last of all, Susan, my daughter, I would but call to your remembrance that our God can bind up the broken heart, and that your tears are treasured up against that day when He cometh to judge the quick and the dead. And the parting is but for a little while. Farewell, my children; save for your sakes I am not sorry to quit this earthy tabernacle, and enter upon the inheritance which my sweet Lord has kept for me since before the foundation of the world."
With these words the minister sank back exhausted among his pillows. It must not be supposed that he was able to utter the foregoing sentences as connectedly as they are written. Nay, they were spoken with much difficulty, and many long pauses, and his parched lips had to be continually moistened with the stimulant Jane kept ready at hand. He lay so still after the last words passed his lips that they almost feared he was gone. But at length his eyelids quivered slightly, and then they saw a seraphic smile dawning upon his face, as if some lovely vision had appeared to his soul. His lips moved slightly, and Jane, hastily bending down, caught the faintly whispered words:--
"Coming, O my sweet Lord Jesus!"
So, quietly and painlessly, he fell asleep.
"It is all over," said Hartrigge, huskily.
"For this present life only, Andrew," quietly answered the minister of Broomhill. "And, thanks be to His name, He has spared the green, and taken the ripe."
CHAPTER XVIII.
AT HAUGHHEAD.
In the grey twilight of a sweet spring evening, a figure, wearing the garb of a minister, entered the policies surrounding Haughhead, and keeping well within the shadow of the trees, stole across the park to the mansion house. The face of the wanderer was not that of an old man, and yet his hair was as white as snow. He looked worn and delicate, and walked slowly and with a somewhat lingering step, as if he had travelled far, and was very weary.
The house of Haughhead was a building of considerable pretension, and was beautifully situated on a richly wooded slope, directly facing the picturesque village of Broomhill. The grounds were ample and well kept, and looked their best that spring evening, for the trees were bursting into leaf, and the early spring flowers were blooming in the trim borders and among the smooth-grown turf. The wanderer looked about him with a sad and tender interest, for his surroundings were peculiarly familiar, and recalled to his mind many memories of the past. To this place, in the early days of his settlement in Broomhill, he had often come, lured by the sunny gleam in the blue eyes of Lilian Burnet. Through these very green and bosky glades he had wandered, with her light hand clinging to his arm, in the happy, careless days of their courtship; across that very threshold he had led his fair bride, accounting himself that day the happiest man in broad Scotland. Recalling these happy days, and contrasting them with the desolation which was his to-day, he could have fancied them but the vagaries of his own imagination. Although it was not yet dark outside, lights gleamed in the lower windows of the house, and all the shutters were closed, telling that the inmates had settled themselves within for the night. The minister hesitated for a moment at the base of the broad flight of steps which led up to the door, wavering in his purpose to seek admittance. Finally he stepped aside to one of the lower windows, at which the shutters had not been carefully closed, there being a broad chink left, through which a very good view of the interior of the room might be had. It was a large, pleasant, well-lighted chamber, with a log fire burning cheerfully on the hearth, and giving one the idea of comfort and homeliness. There were several persons in the room. Sitting in her high-backed chair was the prim-looking mistress of Haughhead, busy upon some embroidery. Opposite her, on the hearth, sat Burnet of Haughhead himself, with a small table drawn up before him, and a ponderous volume lying thereon, in whose pages he seemed engrossed. It was not upon these two, however, that the yearning eyes of the minister dwelt On the hearthrug two little children were busy at their play: two lovely children, a boy and girl, the former, having been very delicate in infancy, only able to toddle on his little legs, and his baby tongue only yet learning the mysterious language of words. A little apart, also busy with her sewing, sat their mother, a lovely creature, to all appearance scarcely yet out of her girlhood, with a round sweet innocent face, as delicate in hue as the tint of the lily and the rose combined, and clear liquid blue eyes, which had evidently never yet been dimmed by bitter tears. She was a picture of serene and happy repose, not a shadow crossed her fair face, and her low humming of a familiar melody seemed to indicate a heart at rest.
Familiar though he was with the shallowness of his wife's nature, David Gray, looking on her face, was amazed. He had expected to see her a little changed; he thought that a small measure of anxiety, a shadow of regret concerning him, might have left its impress on her face. But no, she looked younger, fairer, more free from care than he had ever seen her before. If there had been any lingering hope in his mind that the wife whom he still loved, thought of, or longed for him in her separation, it was dispelled at once and for ever. But for the two little ones playing at her feet, the years of her wifehood might have seemed only the shadow of a dream, so unchanged was she from the light and giddy girl who had ruled the house of Haughhead since her babyhood. Pleasant and suggestive as was the picture in that family room, it caused a deep, deep shadow to come upon the sad face of the minister of Broomhill. He felt himself utterly forgotten by those bound to him by the nearest and dearest of ties. They had put him away out of their hearts and lives as one undeserving of their love. Presently his painful thoughts were interrupted by the gruff voice of Gilbert Burnet, and every word was distinctly audible.
"Give your song words, Lily," he said; "this is just the time of night for music. Is the harp there?"
"Yes, father," the sweet, careless tones made answer, blithely, and David Gray saw her throw aside her work, and approach the corner of the room where the harp stood. Then she sat down, ran her white fingers lightly over the strings, tossed back her sunny ringlets in the coquettish fashion he remembered so well, and then began the sweet, stirring strains of an old ballad, which had ever been a favourite in days gone by. Listening to these sweet strains, the minister of Broomhill seemed to forget himself and his surroundings, until the abrupt cessation of the music, and a loud clapping of hands, caused him to start, and cast another look into the room. The children had now risen from their play, and were clapping their baby hands in glee over the music.
Looking upon their winsome faces, the faces of his own children, given to him by God, taken from him by man, a great wave of anguish, of unutterable yearning, swept over his soul. But he crushed it down, and turning about, stole away from the house by the way he had come. They had forgotten him, they had no need of him; henceforth he was without wife, or children, or home, a wanderer on the face of the earth. They were safe and sheltered under that roof-tree, because its heads had not identified themselves with rebellion and treason, while he was hunted, pursued, and tracked to the dens and caves of the earth, with a price set upon his head. And yet what of that? what though perils by sea and land, perils by persecution, encompassed him, when he possessed the sweet approval of his own conscience, and the ever-present consciousness of the presence and blessing of the Most High? To be accounted worthy had been his earnest cry ere these desolations had fallen upon him, and now was he one to shrink and stand back from the bearing of his cross, however heavy it might be? Nay, but a sweet peace stole into his heart, as these precious words of promise were whispered to him: "And every one that hath forsaken houses, or brethren, or sister, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands, for My name's sake, shall receive an hundredfold, and shall inherit everlasting life."
Henceforth God and the Covenant were all he had to live and suffer for, all he could call his own indeed upon the earth. Therefore he would go forth gladly with his brethren on the morrow to join the Covenanting army assembling in the south.
Not many days after that, the women folk at Hartrigge were busy about their usual tasks, when a horse and rider came up to the front door, the latter loudly demanding admittance. Jane Gray went out at once, and great was her astonishment to behold Gilbert Burnet, the laird of Haughhead.
"Well, Jane Gray, 'tis a long time since we met," he said, grimly.
"It is, indeed, Mr. Burnet," answered Jane, quietly.
"And many ups and downs have taken place since then, eh?" he asked, more grimly still.
"You speak the truth," said Jane, coldly, not liking very well the manner in which he spoke. "Will you be pleased to alight from your horse, and step in? In my brother's name I can bid you welcome to his house, and his wife will speak to you within. She has been in poor health these few weeks, and is confined to her own chamber."
"I'll not come in to-day," said Haughhead, bluntly. "My business can be done here well enough. It will not take up much of your time."
"My time is at your disposal, Mr. Burnet. We are not hard pressed in these times," she said, with a faint smile.
"No, there is a mighty difference in Hartrigge since I saw it last. A great fool Andrew Gray was to leave his substantial holding and comfortable life for his present precarious existence," said Haughhead. "I suppose he is not about the place."
"No; nor has been for many, many months," answered Jane, briefly.
"Ah, I thought not. It was you I expected to see. Well, I suppose you have heard of the most gracious indulgence granted by the king to the outed and rebellious ministers?"
"Yes; we heard of it some days ago," answered Jane Gray, in a calm and unreadable voice.
"You know the generous terms it offers?" said Burnet, inquiringly. "If they will acknowledge the bishops, they are to be forgiven for past rebellion and inducted into the full enjoyment of their former benefices. If not, they are still to be allowed to preach in the kirks, and can come back to their manses and glebes."
"Yes; we heard that such were the king's terms, Mr. Burnet," said Jane Gray, but did not offer the information he was anxious to obtain.
"What, what are your brothers saying to it? What--in fact, hang it, woman!--will your brother David come back peaceably to Broomhill? You know very well what I want to be at!" said Haughhead, losing his temper and raising his voice.
Jane Gray looked him straight in the face with clear, calm, steadfast eyes.
"I fear not; in fact, Mr. Burnet, I know that the indulgence will make no difference whatsoever to my brother David. On no account will he now accept a living from the hands of a king who has proved himself so utterly unworthy of trust or loyal service. My brother, in common with many other thoughtful men, regards the new proclamation simply as a trap set to ensure the complete downfall of Presbyterianism in Scotland."
It was curious to watch the varying expressions on Gilbert Burnet's face as he listened to Jane Gray's fearless and unmistakable words.
"Gad, Jane Gray! you are not afraid! I should not wonder to see your proud head roll in the dust yet," he said, sarcastically. "Then your brothers will still keep themselves rebels at large, liable to be shot or hanged any day?"
"Until God sees fit to restore to the Church of Scotland a glorious liberty, crowned and sanctioned by His own blessing and approval, my brothers are content to undertake the risks involved by their firm upstanding for the Covenant," answered Jane Gray, with quiet but striking eloquence.
"Then you brothers are arrant fools, and deserve whatever fate may befall them!" fumed Haughhead. "Is David Gray in the neighbourhood? Could I see him? Although I am no bigoted zealot, I can pass my word of honour and keep it, as a gentleman should. He will come by no harm through me. I only desire to speak with him for a little space."
"It is impossible, Mr. Burnet. My brothers, and also my brother-in-law, Adam Hepburn, have left this district, and I know not where they may now be."
"I see you speak the truth. I had a message from my daughter, his wife," said Haughhead, carelessly. "I can deliver it to you. Possibly you may have some opportunity of communicating with him at no very distant date."
"I shall be very pleased to receive your message, Mr. Burnet, and to deliver it to David when opportunity offers."
"Well, it is just this, that if he will accept the king's generous indulgence and return to the manse of Broomhill, she will come back to him with her children, thus showing herself willing to overlook his long desertion."
Jane Gray drew herself up, and a slight colour rose in her cheek.
"Truly, Mr. Burnet, I think Lilian Gray cannot be a changed woman when she sent such a message to my brother," she said, proudly. "She should rather have couched her message in terms of humility, seeing she so wrongly and unkindly quitted him in the hour of his need."
"That isyourway of looking at it. We hold that, by his folly, David Gray forfeited all claim on his wife's consideration," retorted Haughhead, angrily. "But it is no use arguing with a Gray, so I will be off, Jane Gray, wishing you a very good day."
"Stay, Mr. Burnet; will you tell me, please, how it is with the little ones, my brother's bairns?" said Jane, laying a pleading hand on his bridle rein. "I have a great yearning to see or hear something of them."
"Oh, they are well, and as bonnie bairns as eyes could wish to see--true Burnets both of them," answered Haughhead, stretching a point just to vex the heart of the woman before him. "Tell David that, and tell him that they'll soon forget they have a father at all."
With which parting shot, which brought an unbidden tear to Jane Gray's eye, the Laird of Haughhead gave his horse the rein and rode rapidly away.
CHAPTER XIX.
UNLOOKED-FOR NEWS.
In spite of the many stringent measures taken by the Government to suppress the field preachings and break the spirit of the Covenanters, the persecuted people continued to meet for worship in the mountain solitudes or in the moorland wilds, thus strengthening each others' hearts and hands, and renewing the bond of their precious Covenant, for which these hardships were endured.
Now no conventicle was held unless protected by an armed band ready to give the alarm and fight, if need be, the soldiers who might seek to disturb or disperse them. Consequently skirmishes were of very frequent occurrence, sometimes resulting in victory for the Presbyterians, sometimes in their utter defeat. In these encounters many lost their lives. Often were the heather and the mountain streams dyed with their blood, and yet the army never seemed to diminish in numbers, for there were ever some ready to fill the vacant places of those who had fallen.
The curates still continued to conduct Episcopal services in the kirks, but the supremacy of the bishops seemed no nearer being established in the last, because, with some exceptions, those who attended the ministrations were people of little note or reputation, with perhaps a few whom terror compelled to take their unwilling places in the kirks.
The struggles betwixt the Government and the Scottish Presbyterians had now extended over several years, and seemed yet no nearer a satisfactory termination. The Covenanters, with their intimate knowledge of their native hills and dales, had the advantage over the troopers sent to hunt and destroy them, and some of their mountain fastnesses were more impregnable than a fortified city. In open warfare they might easily have been cut to pieces, but time went on, and except the few skirmishes already referred to, the opponents had never met in battle. Such a state of affairs could not be satisfactory to the King of England, much less so to Lauderdale and the Archbishop of St. Andrews, who were his executors in Scotland.
When every troop of marauding dragoons was empowered to take captive, torture, or kill any man, woman, or child whom they even suspected of being a Covenanter, or of attending the Conventicles; when the property of unoffending individuals was confiscated and distributed among the spoilers; when the dwellings of peaceable country folk were robbed, and often burned to the ground without explanation or excuse; when those who were supposed to have afforded shelter or refreshment to the fugitives were fined and imprisoned without mercy, it might have been thought that there were no severer measures left in the Government repertoire, and that they might have abandoned the persecutions in despair of ever rooting Presbyterian principles out of Scotland. But as yet the Government had no such intention. Those in power met to discuss, and finally issued orders for the infliction of yet more stringent and cruel treatment upon the rebels. Every forgotten and long-abhorred torture was revived, and used as punishments by the unholy Courts, which made a mockery of administering justice in the land.
Well might the endurance of God's people quail beneath the yoke of the oppressor; well might their hearts be uplifted to Heaven in that despairing cry, "O Lord, how long!"
One evening about the middle of May, in the year 1679, several men were gathered together in a lonely farmhouse among the wilds of Lanarkshire. Among them we recognise Andrew Gray of Hartrigge, and his brother, David, the minister of Broomhill, also other two familiar faces, those of Adam Hepburn of Rowallan, and Watty McBean, the carrier of Inverburn. Having had his houses burned about his ears, his faithful nag and all his valuables stolen, Watty had become, instead of a man of peace, a man of war, and had joined the army lying in the Vale of Avondale. Betty had retired to Hartrigge, which was now entirely left to the women-folk, and was at the utter mercy of the soldiery. But as yet the homestead remained untouched, though fair Rowallan was razed to the ground.
From the appearance of the company gathered in the room, as well as from their remarks, it could be gathered that they were (with the exception of Watty, who would on no account let Adam Hepburn out of his sight) leaders among the insurgents. They were discussing the next steps to be taken by the army, and Sir Robert Hamilton, brother to the Laird of Inverburn, and a staunch, though moderate Presbyterian, was counselling cautious measures, to which Andrew Gray, Adam Hepburn, and some other fiery spirits listened with but a small show of patience, when there came a loud and peremptory knocking at the door. Involuntarily all sprang to their feet, and grasped their swords. If they were discovered, and the soldiers were without, there were twenty valiant and desperate men of them, who would fight dearly for their lives.
Adam Hepburn, sword in hand, fearlessly went to the outer door, and threw it open. In the faint and uncertain beams of the young May moon he saw only a solitary horseman, whose steed was panting and covered with foam, as if it had galloped many miles that day.
"Is this Windyedge, the house of Gideon Dickson?" the horseman asked in a thick whisper.
"Is it friend or foe?" queried Adam, briefly.
"Friend," replied the horseman, as briefly. "Is Sir Robert Hamilton within?"
"He is; but be good enough first to give me your name as a guerdon of your honour," said Adam.
"Tush! man," said the horseman impatiently; "well, John Balfour of Kinloch, synonymous with liberty at any price, is it not?"
Those within, hearing the whispered conference, now came crowding out to the door, and Sir Robert Hamilton, at sight of the figure on the horse, uttered an exclamation of surprise, and at once stepped across the threshold.
"John Balfour! What on earth brings you from Fife to this remote place? No paltry reason, I could swear."
"You speak the truth," returned Balfour grimly. "Is there any fellow who can put up my steed, who is in a sorry plight, poor wretch, as well he may, after his desperate ride. And is there any refreshment to be had within, for I am fainting with hunger and fatigue."
Gideon Dickson, the farmer of Windyedge, came out himself, and taking the exhausted animal's bridle-rein, led him away towards the stable. Then Balfour was conducted into the house, and refreshment immediately set before him. While he partook of his repast he spoke not, and those in the room who had hitherto only known him by hearsay as a fearless soldier, who would fight under the most desperate circumstances, now looked, not without astonishment, upon his person. In figure he was considerably under the middle height, but his frame was powerfully knit, and evidently possessed of great strength. His countenance was by no means prepossessing, being dark and forbidding, while a cast in his eye gave him a peculiarly fierce and unpleasant aspect. When he had finished his repast he looked round upon the assembled company, and then fixing his eyes on the face of Sir Robert Hamilton, briefly asked the question:--
"Are these present to be trusted?"
"Ay, truly," answered Sir Robert. "They are the picked men of our forces; therefore you may fearlessly open your mouth in their midst, John."
"And there are no traitors or spies within hearing?" further queried Kinloch, looking suspiciously round him.
"None; we are gathered here for consultation," replied Sir Robert. "Our forces are lying about a mile distant, under cover of the Loudon hill."
"That is well. But, tell me, have you had no news, of a very comfortable and pleasant nature, conveyed hither from Fife?" queried Balfour grimly.
Sir Robert shook his head and made answer that they had received no communication whatsoever from the shire of Fife.
"Nothing relating to that arch-fiend, James Sharp, of St. Andrews?"
"Nothing. Come, John, do not keep us in suspense. Can it be that the Lord has permitted judgment to fall on him at last?"
"Even so," said Balfour. "Know, then, that certain faithful servants of the Covenant, meeting the archbishop's carriage on Magus muir, on the third day of this present month, sent the perjured traitor to his just and righteous doom."
Sir Robert Hamilton was struck dumb in the intensity of his surprise and horror, for in a moment the consequences of that rash and indefensible act were made clear to his well-balanced mind. One or two others, notably the minister of Broomhill, also exhibited dismay, but the majority of those present received the news with a lively satisfaction, and even with a species of fierce joy which told that in their zeal they thirsted for blood.
"Who authorised, or led them to such a rash and unwise attack?" queried Sir Robert Hamilton. "They must have been blind and blood-thirsty zealots, surely, who killed a man in cold blood, without giving him a chance to defend himself."
An expression of fierce and bitter scorn crossed the dark face of Balfour as he made answer contemptuously.
"What of the many thousands who have been murdered in cold blood at Sharp's instigation and with his approval? The like mercy he showed to others was meted out to him. For my part, I would that he had ten other lives, to be taken from him in the same summary fashion."
"I am of your opinion, Mr. Balfour," said the deep voice of Adam Hepburn of Rowallan, and Kinloch immediately turned his deep-set eyes with approval on the speaker. Something in the dogged and resolute expression on his fine face, and in the gleam of his keen blue eye, riveted Balfour's attention and caused him to mentally resolve that they should become better acquainted with each other.
"And I, also," chimed in Andrew Gray in his quiet but weighty manner. "There could be no fate too harsh for such a traitor. Verily he has been a Judas in the Kirk of Scotland all his days, and his hands are dyed with the blood of hundreds of innocents whom he has betrayed."
Still Sir Robert Hamilton shook his head, and a troubled and anxious expression continued to dwell on his face.
"Come, tell me, John, who were the perpetrators of this deed of violence?" he asked. "Are any of them personally known to you?"
A grim smile stole into Kinloch's face as he made answer--
"Faith, they were all as well known to me as my own brothers, seeing I was in their midst, as also was my brother-in-law, David Hackstoun of Rathillet."
"David Hackstoun of Rathillet!" ejaculated Sir Robert in tones of utter amazement. "Very sure am I that so sweet and kindly a soul would not lay a hand even on the archbishop."
"Well, like Saul, he looked on, consenting unto his death," said Balfour. "I myself gave the traitor a sword thrust, just to wipe off old scores, but it was not these hands that finished him. Nevertheless, the crime is wholly charged upon my brother-in-law and myself, and I take it there will be a heavy ransom set upon our precious heads. After the deed was done we separated, David Hackstoun and I agreeing to join the forces here; but he would go home to see his wife first, else he had been here with me. It may be that his silly dallying may cost him his life."
"You are right in saying there will be a heavy price set on your heads," said Sir Robert Hamilton; "and, what is more, we will all need to gird about our swords and see to our armour, for now there will be no quarter for any professing Covenanting principles. I prophesy that the king will take steps to terribly avenge his primate's death."
"What of that?" queried Balfour, carelessly. "What ingenuity or revenge could suggest more terrible and bloody oppression than has been pressed on Scotland these past ten years?"
"Well, well, what's done can't be undone," said Sir Robert, with a somewhat mournful smile. "Now, lads, we had better to our discussions again. We were but planning a great field meeting for Sabbath week, at which a Communion Service might be held, and we were somewhat divided as to a suitable place of meeting."
"Are there many soldiers in the district?" asked Balfour.
"Ah, that we cannot tell. They rise mysteriously, as it were out of the bowels of the earth, when least expected," replied Sir Robert. "But I heard on good authority that that miscreant--for I can call him nothing else--John Graham of Claverhouse is in the west."
"Right well would I like to measure swords with him," said Balfour, with feverish eagerness. "Such a man is not fit to live."
"It's no' very easy gettin' at him," piped the shrill voice of Watty McBean. "I'm tell he rides a muckle black horse the deevil sent him, an' that nae man can owertak' him."
Balfour immediately turned his piercing eyes on Watty's face with a glance which covered him with confusion, for he had been surprised into speech without thinking.
"Be quiet, Watty," said Adam Hepburn promptly, which rebuke caused Watty to slink behind the door, chiefly to escape the gaze of Balfour, whom he had regarded with terror ever since his entrance.
"Those who are best acquainted with the district should be the fittest to choose a place of meeting," said Balfour. "What numbers have you at Loudon Hill?"
"About three hundred, and at a short notice we could speedily double or treble the number. There having been no fighting of late, very many have returned to their homes. Indeed, those with us are chiefly men whose goods have been confiscated and their dwellings pillaged and burned."
"I see no better spot than where our army now lies," said Adam Hepburn. "It is a sheltered and suitable place, and from the top of the hill our watchers could readily descry the enemy approaching from one side, while upon the other that wide and dreary morass is a bulwark in our defence."
"I agree with you," said Sir Robert. "Then we can fix upon the place and day, and send word through the surrounding district."
"Have you forgotten that the anniversary of the king's restoration is to be celebrated throughout Scotland on the 29th of this present month?" asked Balfour.
"No: we have had that under discussion likewise, John," replied Sir Robert, "and we intend to celebrate it in our own fashion. But of that more anon. And now we must separate for the night. My quarters in the meantime are here, John. You had better remain with me in case Rathillet should come hither seeking you. He should be here by the latest to-morrow."
Balfour acquiesced, and, being much fatigued, gladly retired to rest, while the others separated to the various places where they were to obtain shelter for the night.