  Produced by Al Haines. [image] "Folding his withered hands, he said, in solemn and trembling tones, 'Let us pray'" (see page Adam Hepburn's Vow A TALE OF KIRK AND COVENANT BY ANNIE S. SWAN WITH FOUR FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS TWENTY-THIRD THOUSAND CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD TO C. M. AND TO THE DEAR ONES GATHERED ROUND HER CONTENTS CHAPTER I. CHAPTER II. CHAPTER III. CHAPTER IV. CHAPTER V. CHAPTER VI. CHAPTER VII. CHAPTER VIII. CHAPTER IX. CHAPTER X. CHAPTER XI. CHAPTER XII. CHAPTER XIII. CHAPTER XIV. CHAPTER XV. CHAPTER XVI. CHAPTER XVII. CHAPTER XVIII. CHAPTER XIX. CHAPTER XX. CHAPTER XXI. CHAPTER XXII. CHAPTER XXIII. CHAPTER XXIV. CHAPTER XXV. CHAPTER XXVI. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Adam Hepburn's Vow A TALE OF KIRK AND COVENANT. CHAPTER I. THE TRAVELLERS. Towards the close of a bleak grey February afternoon, in the year 1638, a small party of travellers might have been seen approaching Edinburgh by the high road from Glasgow. It consisted of a sturdy brown pony, whereon sat a fair-faced, sunny-haired little girl, whose age could not have exceeded nine years; a bright-faced, bold-looking lad, walking at the animal's head, and having the bridle-rein hung loosely over his arm; and a middle-aged gentleman, whose aspect and attire proclaimed him a clergyman. He walked slowly, a little apart from the others, and his hands were clasped before him, and his eyes bent thoughtfully on the ground. He was a man somewhat past his prime, of a noble and manly bearing, with a fine open countenance, and a speaking eye, wherein dwelt a singularly sweet and benevolent expression. The shadows of evening were already beginning to gather over the surrounding scene, making objects at a distance somewhat indistinct. Yet, truly, there was little at that season of the year to refresh the eye or gladden the heart. The icy hand of winter had scarcely yet relaxed its grasp on mother earth; there were no green buds on hedge or tree; no blades of promise springing up by the wayside: all was desolate, bleak, and cold. Yet the newly upturned furrows smelt fresh and sweet, and the purling brooks wandered cheerfully on their way; singing their song of gladness, as if they knew that spring was close at hand. Presently the little party ascended a gentle eminence, and then many lights were seen twinkling not far ahead. "See, father, are yon the lights of Edinburgh?" exclaimed the lad, in his eagerness letting go his hold on Roger's rein. The minister raised his head, and a light kindled in his eye as he looked upon the clustering roof-trees and towering spires of the beautiful city. "Yes, my son, that is Edinburgh," he said in his full, mellow tones. "Thanks be to the Lord who hath brought us thither in safety. Would my little Agnes like to walk now? The evening dews are falling, and methinks a little exercise would do you no harm. Very soon now you will be warmed and cheered by the ruddy glow by Aunt Jean's fireside." As he spoke, the minister turned to Roger (who at a word from his master stood perfectly still), and gently lifted his little daughter to the ground. It was then seen that her figure was very slight and fragile, her face pale and refined-looking, her whole expression thoughtful and even sad beyond her years. "Are you wearied, David?" asked the kind father then; but the lad drew himself up proudly, and shook his head. "Wearied! no, no, father. I could walk back to Inverburn, I believe, without resting." "Keep within the bounds, my boy," said the minister. "See, lead Roger down to yon little pool, and let him drink. The poor animal is thirsty and wayworn. Then we will make what haste we can into the city, which will of necessity be in somewhat of a turmoil to-night, owing to the many strangers within her gates." "Father, will there be a great crowd and a noise in Edinburgh?" asked the little Agnes, somewhat timidly and holding yet more closely by her father's hand. "There will be a crowd, my daughter, but no unseemly noise, I trust. The occasion upon which the nation is assembled in her ancient capital is too solemn for vain clamourings," said the minister, somewhat sadly; and as his eyes once more roamed over the spreading roof-trees of the city, they were filled with tears. The little Agnes, too young to understand the cause of his emotion, still more closely clasped his hand, and looked with awe into his face. "I wish it would not grow dark so soon, father," said David, now returning from watering the pony. "We will see nothing of Edinburgh till to-morrow." "But to-morrow, please the Lord, there will be a sight seen in Edinburgh, the like of which there has never been in Scotland," said the minister with kindling eye. "The voice of her people raised in a national testimony against the injustice and oppression of an earthly ruler. May the Heavenly King look down in approval on the faithfulness of the Kirk of Scotland, and give her strength to stand firm to her vow; ay, to seal it if need be with her blood." The minister spoke with solemnity and passionate earnestness, which impressed his young listeners not a little. "Father, will the soldiers be out on their horses?" David asked with boyish eagerness; to him the great event to transpire on the morrow meant a gay pageant to delight the eye and stir the pulse of youth. "My son, I cannot tell; only I know that peer and peasant, soldier and civilian, minister and ministered unto, will assemble to-morrow on equal ground, animated by one grand purpose, and stirred by a common zeal. May the God of Hosts look down upon and bless the assembled multitudes," replied the minister; and then a silence fell upon the little party which remained unbroken till they entered the city. Even in the outskirts there were not lacking signs of stir and unusual commotion. The streets were thronged with vehicles and foot-passengers, and the very air seemed full of murmurings, telling of a nation's heart stirred to its deepest depths. The young lad and his sister looked about them with lively interest; to them the city was a revelation indeed, in the great contrast it presented to the unfrequented roads and quiet solitudes of their native parish. Darkness had fallen when the minister guided Roger's steps into the Grass-market, where stood the hospitable dwelling which was to shelter them during their sojourn in Edinburgh. It was the abode of the minister's only sister, who was married to a well-to-do merchant, by name Edward Kilgour. Having been duly apprised of his brother-in-law's coming on that day, Edward Kilgour was waiting at the close mouth, anxiously peering up the street, which was now almost in total darkness, there being no appliances then for lighting the thoroughfares and byeways of the city. Hearing the click of the pony's hoofs, he walked a few steps up the street, and then catching sight of the little party, he called out in his cheery tones, "Andrew Gray of Inverburn, and his little ones, if I mistake not!" "Yes; thus far hath the Lord permitted us to travel in safety, Edward," said the minister. "How is it with thee and thine?" "All well; Jean a little impatient and fearful about you, as is the way of womenkind," replied the merchant, heartily shaking his brother-in-law by the hand. "But what! David, and little Agnes too! How did their mother ever trust them so far?" he exclaimed, in surprise, at sight of the children. "She knew them safe with me, Edward, and I thought that the events of to-morrow might, please God, make an impression on their young minds which time would never efface. And the Kirk, I am thinking, will need both old and young to stand firm in her defence ere she be crowned and blessed with liberty," said the minister, with a sigh. "You speak the truth, Andrew," replied the merchant, soberly. "Well, I will take Roger to his stall and see that he is rubbed down and fed. Do you take the bairns upstairs: you know the way." The minister nodded, and taking his boy and girl by the hand, led them up the dark close and into a low doorway, which, unless he had been familiar with the way, would have been difficult to find. Aunt Jean heard their steps on the stair, and presently appeared on the landing with a candle. "Bless me! Andrew Gray, is that the bairns all the way from the manse of Inverburn?" she exclaimed, her motherly heart warming at sight of them. "Even so, Jean. There will be room and welcome for them as well as for their father under this roof-tree," answered the minister. "Edward tells me you are well; and, truly, you look it." "Oh, ay, I am well in body!" she answered, blithely, and stooping she lifted the little Agnes in her motherly arms, and affectionately kissed her cheeks. "Eh, Andrew, this bairn's her mother's living image. How is Ailie and Jane, and that stirring laddie, Andrew? Why did you leave him at home?" "His master could not spare him, being busy preparing the ground for the seed," replied the minister. "It was a sore disappointment to the lad. He has a constant craving for something new." By this time they had entered the wide and comfortable kitchen, where the log-fire burned merrily, casting its ruddy glow on the hospitable board spread for the expected guest. A wooden cradle stood in the warmest corner by the ingle-neuk, wherein slept peacefully the one child of the household, a babe of eight months, and the first which had blessed their hearth and home since their marriage, five years before. The little Agnes looked very long and earnestly into her aunt's face, never remembering having seen her before. Mrs. Kilgour had been married out of the manse of Inverburn, at which time Agnes was only four years old, but she had never visited it since, and had only once seen her brother's wife, when she accompanied her husband to Edinburgh on his being appointed to represent the Presbytery of Lanark at the General Assembly. Travelling in these days was very slow and laborious, and not unaccompanied by dangers on the roads, owing to the disturbed and unprotected state of the country. "Ay, but she is like her mother, Andrew," repeated Mrs. Kilgour, as she stooped to unfasten the child's cloak. "She has her very een; may the spirt of the bairn be her mother's likewise! And this is David! He is greatly grown. I would hardly have known him again! Dearie me, what changes time works on bairns, as on other things!" "You are right, Jean. How has business been prospering with you throughout the winter?" "We cannot complain of the measure of prosperity the Lord has vouchsafed to us," Andrew answered Mistress Kilgour. "Edward has had to employ another young lad to help him in his work and still is hard-pressed; but here he comes himself to tell you all about it." The merchant now entered the kitchen, and hung up his hat on the peg behind the door. Now that the light shone upon him, it revealed a short and somewhat stout figure, clad in homely grey, a broad kindly face adorned by a short brown beard, and made peculiarly expressive by the twinkling of a pair of merry, blue eyes. He was a Lanark man by birth, but had come to Edinburgh to try his fortunes, and by steady well-doing and shrewd business capacity was likely to succeed. "And how are they all at Inverburn? Come, tell me about every man, woman, and child in the parish, Andrew," said the merchant. "It's like a gliff of the heather-scented wind to look upon your faces, bairns, and to think you were reared in the shade of the birks of Inverburn!" The merchant spoke lightly, but a tear started in his honest eye, as he lifted Agnes on his knee, and drew David to his side. "'Deed they must have something to eat first, Edward, my man," interrupted Mistress Kilgour. "Come, bairns, to your milk and bread. It's no like the milk and home-made scones at the manse, but it's the best I have, an' ye get it wi' Auntie Jean's kind, kind love." They drew in their chairs to the table, and after the minister had asked a fervent blessing on the board, they ate with a will, for their mode of travelling had given them all appetites. "You are never asking for our bairn, Andrew," said the fond mother slily, when presently the little one stirred slightly in its cradle. "Truly I forgot, Jean," said the minister, with a smile; "and yet it was among Ailie's last messages--sympathy and love to you about the little one. God grant she may grow up a blessing to you both." The little Agnes presently slipped from her chair, and, stealing over to the cradle, looked in upon the smiling face of the infant. Her own was suffused with a glow of tender wondering pleasure, which made her aunt look at her again. And when, presently, Mistress Kilgour lifted the child, Agnes kept close by her side, as if the babe were a magnet from which she could not separate herself. The conversation during supper turned chiefly upon topics connected with the parish of Inverburn, in which both the merchant and his wife were deeply and affectionately interested, for, though they had built up a home in Edinburgh, their hearts were knit to their native glen in the bonds of a deep, enduring love. While she cleared the table, Mistress Kilgour entrusted the babe to Agnes, who sat on a low stool holding the precious burden in her arms, with a mixture of love, rapture, and pride glorifying her face. Shortly thereafter, it being near eight of the clock, Mistress Kilgour made down beds for the children in the adjoining room, and they retired to rest. Then their elders drew up their chairs to the hearth, and began to speak in low, troubled, anxious tones, telling that the topic was one of vital interest, of terrible importance to them all. Before they separated for the night, the minister read a portion from Scripture, and then they knelt to pour out their hearts' desires before the Lord. The tones of Andrew Gray's voice trembled sore as he prayed with passionate earnestness that the arm of the Almighty would be about the tottering Church of Scotland, and that strength might be given to her people to stand up fearlessly in defence of her liberty and purity, ay, even though they should be required to seal their faithfulness with their blood. "To-morrow will be a great day for Scotland," he said when he rose to his feet. "Either it will be the beginning of peace or the beginning of many sorrows for God's people. It is in times like these we feel the need of prayer, of constant and pious humbling of ourselves before Jehovah. There is that within me, my friends, which forewarns me that we are about to be visited by fierce and terrible temptations and dispensations. Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall." Awed by the prophetic earnestness with which their kinsman spoke, the merchant and his wife spoke not, but silently bade him good night. Andrew Gray retired to his own chamber, but not to sleep. He sat long by the uncurtained window, looking out upon the city slumbering peacefully under the fitful February moonlight, as if all unconscious of the issues of the coming day. During the silent watches of the night the minister of Inverburn wrestled in prayer for Scotland's Church and people, that they might be upheld and kept faithful in the tumults of the struggle to come. CHAPTER II. A NATION'S TESTIMONY. Chill and grey broke the morning of that memorable day over the city of Edinburgh. The inmates of Edward Kilgour's household were early astir, and the elder folk partook of breakfast by candlelight. "I suppose your place of business will be closed to-day?" said the minister enquiringly to his brother-in-law. "Yes; there will be little business done to-day, I fancy, except by the taverns and other places of like resort, which must be open to supply refreshments to the many strangers," replied Edward Kilgour. "There will be a goodly number of Inverburn folks in this morning?" "Yes, Adam Hepburn of Rowallan, and a party with him, were to start on the evening of the day on which we left," replied the minister. "They would arrive a few hours' later than us--their animals being swifter of foot than our 'Roger.'" "What is the Laird of Inverburn saying to the Covenant, Andrew?" asked Mistress Kilgour, replenishing her brother's cup with milk, which, with some wheaten cakes, composed his frugal meal. A slight shade of sadness stole over the minister's fine face. "Truly, Jean, Sir Thomas Hamilton proves himself a loyal subject and a faithful servant of the king. They tell me he uses the Liturgy in his household devotions, and he has never been in his pew in my church since the proclamation concerning the new book of service. I am told too, on good authority, that my neighbour minister, John Methven of Lochlee, uses it in the services of his church, in accordance with the express desire of the laird who worships there every Sabbath Day." "John Methven was ever a time-server and a worshipper of rank," said Edward Kilgour, with curling lip. "He would sell conscience and liberty for the smile of a patron so high in station as the Laird of Inverburn." "Let us not so hardly judge the man, Edward," said the minister, gently. "His motives and his conscience are known only to himself and his God. Yet I fear that when the times of trouble grow hotter in the land, the Church will not find a supporter in the minister of Lochlee." "What I fear, Andrew," said Mistress Kilgour, with a sigh, "is lest the Laird of Inverburn, not finding you conforming to his desires, may do you injury in the parish, may even turn the people against you." The minister smiled. "I am in the Lord's hands, Jean. Except He will, Sir Thomas Hamilton cannot touch a hair of my head, nor even damage my interests in the parish. And my people, thanks be to God, are faithful and honest, and I think have some little love for their minister in their hearts." "As well they may," said the merchant, fervently. "The name of Gray has long been honoured in Inverburn, certainly," said the mistress, musingly. "Our forbears have been so many generations in the manse that I think the people would be sad to see a stranger under its roof-tree, or ministering to them in the kirk on the Sabbath Day." "We will not trouble ourselves with such things to-day, Jean, there being graver issues at stake than the interests of Inverburn, which, though very dear to us, is but a small corner of the Lord's vineyard," said the minister, rising. "While you dress the bairns, Edward and I might walk a little way into the town, and see what is doing. I see the shadows of the night are wearing away from the castle heights, and day breaking in the east!" Accordingly the twain left the house together, and wended their way through the streets. Even thus early there were many people abroad, some standing in little groups, earnestly discussing the one topic of absorbing interest occupying the minds of citizens and strangers alike. Arm in arm the minister and the merchant walked together in the shadow of the grey turrets of the castle, until they came to the shores of the North Loch, which was tossing uneasily under the grey and wintry sky. A keen east wind was sweeping up from the Frith, and it had a wailing in its tone as if in warning of a coming storm. The two pedestrians, alone at that hour by the solitudes of the loch, talked low and earnestly together on the crisis to which affairs in Scotland had now reached. The merchant was a keen Churchman, and a devoted, pious Christian, with a heart ready to suffer and endure for the cause of religion, and a brave, indomitable courage to fight for his principles if required. Needless to say, the friendship between his brother-in-law and himself was warm and sincere, because they had so much in common. Engrossed in conversation, the time passed unheeded, until the solemn strokes of the Tolbooth bell proclaimed the hour of nine. Then they turned their steps towards the Grassmarket once more, which was now considerably busier than it had been an hour ago. Yet there was no disorder or sign of tumult, nor was the aspect of the people wild or excited. There was an expression of calm yet fixed resolution, especially upon the faces of the older among them, which indicated that no giddy froth of passion, no excitement of a moment moved them. Andrew Gray remarked upon that to the merchant, and expressed his satisfaction at the visible earnestness and quietness of spirit which seemed to be abroad. When they returned to the house they found the children up and dressed and partaking of their morning meal, good Aunt Jean talking to them all the while. "Are you going forth to witness for the Covenant with us to-day, Jean?" enquired the minister. The mistress shook her head. "I cannot well leave my house and my bairn, Andrew, but the Lord knows that I can make my vow at home and keep it as faithfully as I would keep a public testimony," she answered, with a smile and a tear. "But are you going to take both these young things with you to the vast assembly gathered in and about the Greyfriars?" "For that purpose I brought them on this journey, Jean. As I said to Edward, the proceedings of this day may make an impression on their minds which will never be effaced, and--who knows?--the memory of it may even serve to build them up yet more steadfastly in the faith in days to come. Well, I think we should be going now. The proceedings, I learn, are to begin early, and I would not that we should be at the outside limits of the crowd." Accordingly Aunt Jean prepared the children for going out of doors, fastening the cloak of the little Agnes very closely about her neck, and adding a scarf of her own to protect the throat against the biting wind of March. David wrapped his plaid about his shoulders in true Highland fashion, put on his bonnet, and, taking in his hand the stout ash stick he had cut in the woods of Inverburn, bravely announced that he was ready. So, followed by kind Aunt Jean's blessing and prayer, the little party left the house and emerged into the busy streets. Although it was yet early, every thoroughfare was thronged with human beings, some moving on towards the place of meeting, others standing about in little knots discussing the solemn occasion upon which so many were gathered together. Our friends made their way leisurely up the Bow, and were among the earliest to enter the churchyard, and thus were enabled to take up a good position where everything could be seen and heard. The church doors were standing wide open, and it was evidently intended that the chief service should be held within the walls of the sacred edifice itself. The minister of Inverburn, leaving his little ones with their uncle, entered into the church, and met there many of his colleagues in the ministry, as well as others with whom he had some acquaintance. As the stream of humanity surging towards the churchyard widened and broadened, until it seemed as if there could be no room for even one more, it was hastily decided that the proceedings should take place out of doors, in order to prevent any undue crowding in the church, and to enable as many as possible to hear and take part in the solemn service, which was to precede the signing of the Covenant. Accordingly a table was set in the middle of the church, and thereon was laid the Bible used in the Greyfriars pulpit, and side by side with it the gigantic sheet prepared to receive the signatures of a nation. Everything being made ready, there gathered about the table the venerable Earl of Loudon, the Earl of Sutherland, Sir Archibald Johnston, the Reverend Alexander Henderson, with many other nobles and ministers and prominent personages. Beyond that circle was gathered a vast throng, comprising every rank, age, and calling, upon whose faces, lit by a holy enthusiasm, the chill March sunlight played fitfully as it escaped through the refts in the cloudy sky. It was a wondrous sight. There was no noise, no unseemly clamourings or vain babblings; the great concourse seemed to be hushed into solemn expectancy, even the hot blood of the more passionate among them being held in curb by the strange awe-inspiring nature of this national gathering. After a confession of national sin, an eloquent sermon was preached to the assembled multitude by one of the most gifted ministers in the Church. Then amid a strange, deep silence Sir Archibald Johnston slowly and distinctly read aloud to the people the contents of the document to which every loyal Scot was asked to subscribe his name. It was beautifully and reverently compiled, and so simple and clear in its phraseology, that even the youngest and most illiterate person present could not fail to comprehend its meaning. It was simply a protest against all the corruptions and unholy innovations which the king sought to introduce into the service of the Church, and in signing the bond the subscribers pledged themselves solemnly before God to use every lawful means to recover and preserve the early purity and simplicity of worship in the Church of Scotland, and to resist every effort made by the king to introduce an Episcopal form of worship into the land. When the reading of the Covenant was concluded, the Earl of London addressed the multitude in eloquent, heart-stirring tones, exhorting them to consider well the solemn and binding nature of the oath about to be taken, and impressing upon them the necessity of standing steadfast by their testimony, for not otherwise could that liberty, civil and religious, so dear to every Scottish heart, be restored and maintained in the land. One of the leading and most devoted ministers in the Church then gave utterance to a prayer, which hushed the very breathing of the assembly, and moved them as if by a mighty wind from Heaven. Amid the solemn silence which ensued, the Earl of Sutherland stepped forward, and uplifting his hand he swore the solemn oath, and then affixed the first signature to the Covenant. He was followed by nobles, ministers, citizens, men, women, and children, who subscribed name after name on the great sheet, until it could hold no more. Some, more enthusiastic than their fellows, opened veins in their arms, and wrote their names in their blood. [image] "Uplifting his hand, he swore the solemn oath" It was a day such as Scotland had never witnessed before, and which she will never witness again, since, thanks be to God, the need for a national covenanting to protect civil and religious rights is swallowed up in the glorious liberty of these present days. The impressive proceedings over, the people departed peaceably to their homes. The minister of Inverburn, with his children, abode another night under Edward Kilgour's hospitable roof-tree, and early on the second morning the little party set out upon their return journey to their home in the pleasant vale of Inverburn. CHAPTER III. FOREBODINGS OF EVIL. It was the month of April, and all Nature was sweetly rejoicing in the wealth and beauty of a perfect spring. While spring is ever a pleasant season in rural districts, it was especially so in that rich and picturesque part of Lanarkshire which included the parish and village of Inverburn. It lay in a secluded and lovely valley, sheltered from the north and east by heather-clad hills, while to the west it commanded a magnificent and wide-stretching view of the Vale of Clyde, at the utmost limit of which the smoke from the populous city of Glasgow obscured the clear brightness of the horizon. Although the parish of Inverburn was by no means small, the village itself consisted only of a small main street and a few straggling houses in the outskirts. The only building of any pretensions was the Hamilton Arms Inn, a substantial two-storey block, with a wide, low doorway and a trellised porch set round with benches, a favourite resort for the villagers on the long summer evenings, when honest Mistress Lyall's parlour became too close and warm to be pleasant. Upon a gentle eminence about a mile removed from the village, the grey turrets of Inverburn, long time the seat of the Hamiltons, peeped out from among its ancestral trees. It was a fine, proud old place, renowned for its beauty and its antiquity even in a district where many a princely heritage reared its stately head. The graceful spire of the parish church intervened, however, between the village and the mansion. It also stood upon a gentle knoll, and was beautifully shaded by the birch trees which were known far and near as the "birks of Inverburn." The manse was close by, a grey and rambling house, just such a one to be hallowed by many precious memories of home and loved ones. It was a common saying that there had been Grays in the manse as long as there had been Hamiltons in Inverburn, so that the one family could claim equal antiquity with its prouder neighbour. There could be no sweeter spot to live and die in than that old-fashioned country manse, standing so cosily amid its wealth of greenery, the roses and honeysuckle and sweet woodbine clambering about doors and windows with a loving clinging touch. It looked fair indeed that mild April evening, for lilac, laburnum, and hawthorn were in flower in the shrubberies, and primrose and polyanthus blooming in the old-fashioned plots before the door. The air about it was sweet and fragrant indeed; but it was more: it breathed something of the peace which dwelt ever under its roof-tree. By the open window of the family sitting-room sat a pleasant-faced, sedate-looking young woman, busily engaged embroidering a white frock for a child. She was neatly though plainly dressed, and there was an air of precision and daintiness about her which some women acquire as they grow older, especially if they are unmarried. It was a pleasant face, as I said, yet there was a grave firmness about the mouth, a dauntless gleam in the fine clear brown eye, which betokened that Jane Gray was not without a will of her own. She looked what she was, a firm, prudent, self-reliant woman, who had known the cares as well as the joys of life. To her dying mother Jane Gray had solemnly pledged herself not to quit the roof-tree of the manse so long as her father needed her care. Both the giver and receiver of that promise had felt assured that it would not be long ere she was released from its fulfilment, because the minister of Inverburn was at that time in a precarious state of health. But, to the joy of those who loved him, certain means prescribed by an Edinburgh physician were blessed to his complete recovery, and he seemed to receive a new lease of life. That made no alteration, however, in the resolution of the elder daughter of the manse. Very faithfully year by year she discharged her duties as mistress of her father's household. She was mother and sister in one to her brothers, and it was a question which was dearer to her heart, the broad-shouldered, bluff-mannered farmer Andrew, or gentle-voiced, scholarly, meek-minded David, minister of the neighbouring parish of Broomhill. She had watched them go forth to their own homes, with a blessing and a tear, and she had dressed for her bridal her fair and delicate sister Agnes, who had now been for two years the wife of Adam Hepburn of Rowallan. It must not be supposed that Jane Gray had no other alternative but to remain under her father's roof-tree. Nay, it was far otherwise. Many knew and appreciated her sterling worth, and more than one had pleaded for her love. But though there came one at last who stirred her heart to its deepest depths, she shook her head. She looked at her father's white head and drooping shoulders, thought of his desolate old age, the empty, childless home she would leave behind, and, crushing down the yearnings of her heart, she answered no. Perhaps it was that experience, undreamed of by those to whom she so unselfishly ministered, which had lined her broad brow, and tinged her hair with grey before its time. Her face in its repose was apt to look sad, for it was in the stillness of an evening such as this that Jane Gray's heart was often peculiarly stirred by memories of the past. She laid down her seam at length, and leaning her arm on the sill, looked out into the flower-laden garden, which was sweet with all the lovely bloom of spring. Just then her reverie was disturbed by a short, sharp whistle, and a light, hurried footfall coming round the approach which led down to the gate, and thence to the public road. And almost immediately a young lad came bounding over to the open window, waving his cap in the air. Jane Gray looked at the young, eager face with a kindly smile, for the eldest son of her brother Andrew was very dear to her heart. He had been sojourning for some months at the manse, his grandfather taking much pride and pleasure in forwarding him in his studies preparatory to his entering the University of Edinburgh or Glasgow, as a student of divinity. It had been his father's desire that he should follow his vocation, and by-and-by succeed him as the farmer of Hartrigge, but the lad had so early shown his distaste for outdoor labour, and his love for books, that it was evident nature intended him for a scholar. "What is it, Gavin? You seem eager and excited," said his aunt, resuming her work. "There is a horse and rider coming up the road, Aunt Jane, and I am sure it is the Reverend James Guthrie. It is his horse, I am quite sure, by the white foot and the white star on its forehead. Is grandfather in?" "Yes, he is in his study; nay, do not disturb him yet, until we make sure you are right," she said, restraining the impetuous boy, as he was about to run off in search of his grandfather. "Stay, and I will walk down with you to the road, and by that time the horse and his rider, whoever he may be, will have reached the gate." So saying, Jane Gray folded up her work, and in a minute had joined her nephew out of doors. "I cannot think that you can be right, Gavin," she said thoughtfully, "for I remember that Mr. Guthrie intended to be present at a special meeting in Edinburgh this week, and he has not yet had time to return to Stirling and come on so far as this." "Why, there he is alighting at the gate, Aunt Jane! it is just Mr. Guthrie!" exclaimed the lad, and darting forward, he was the first to greet the much-beloved minister of Stirling, and to relieve him of his horse's bridle rein. A glow of pleasure overspread the face of Jane Gray as she advanced to meet her father's revered friend, who was almost a brother to her, so close and dear was the intimacy between the two families. "Mr. Guthrie, it is no ordinary pleasure to see you so unexpectedly," she said, as they shook hands; nevertheless her eyes dwelt rather anxiously upon his fine face, for in these troublous and foreboding times the announcement of danger or alarm might come at any moment. "To me also, Miss Gray; I trust I have arrived to find your honoured father under his own roof-tree. "Oh, yes; he is busy with his sermon. It is not often a minister is far from home on a Friday evening if he is to supply his own pulpit on the Sabbath Day. We thought you had been in Edinburgh this week, Mr. Guthrie." "So I have been; and thanks to the Lord's journeying mercies vouchsafed to his unworthy servant, I have again been brought to my father's house in safety. The lad is out of hearing, I see," he added, glancing towards Gavin, who was leading the hot and dusty steed away in the direction of his grandfather's stable, "so I may say that a strange apprehension of evil came upon me in my bed last night, and so strong was the conviction in my mind this morning that I should not long be at liberty, that I was constrained to ride over here to be encouraged and comforted by your father's sweet counsel, and, if need be, bid your family circle, who are as dear to me almost as my own kinsfolk at Guthrie, a last farewell." The ruddy colour faded out of Jane Gray's cheeks, and her startled eye looked with alarm into the minister's face. She was astonished and relieved at its sweet serenity; evidently his gloomy convictions had not power to rob him of his tranquillity. "The Lord forbid that a hand should be laid on you, one of His most honoured and valued servants," she said involuntarily; "but pray tell me, Mr. Guthrie, have you had any warnings that the evil men in power are jealous of your influence for good?" "In Edinburgh, yesterday, I was told that that good and noble lord, Archibald, Marquis of Argyll, will be laid hands upon ere long. If that be so, I cannot hope to escape, for I am doubly guilty of the actions which have doomed him. If it be so, and the Lord call me to bear witness for Him on the scaffold, He will give me strength to crucify the passions and affections of the body, and to glory in suffering for His sake." The good man's face was suffused with a holy peace and joy, but a shudder ran through Jane Gray's frame, for not yet had the scaffold become so common, and in those brutal times so desirable a mode of exit from this troublous life as it was destined to become ere long in poor stricken Scotland. "The prayers of God's people can but be offered up on your behalf, Mr. Guthrie. Such as you can ill be spared from the vineyard in these times," said Jane Gray, earnestly. "But now, let us tarry no longer out of doors; I am sure you stand in need of refreshment after your long ride." Ere he crossed the threshold, the minister, as was his wont, raised his eyes to Heaven and reverently invoked a benediction in the words of the apostle of old: "Peace be to this house." Having shown her guest into the sitting-room, Jane Gray sent Betty the maid to tap at the minister's door and tell him the Reverend James Guthrie, from Stirling, had arrived at the manse. Betty, or Elizabeth McBean, had served with the Grays since her girlhood, and her love for the family was only exceeded by her intense love and devotion to the Kirk of Scotland, and her intense hatred to every form of religion alien to the sound Presbyterianism of her forefathers. While Jane Gray with her own hands set about preparing some refreshment for the guest, the minister, her father, left his study with joyful haste, and entering the family room, very warmly greeted his friend and brother-minister, whom he had known and loved these many years. There was a great change in the minister of Inverburn since that memorable time three-and-twenty years before, when he had visited Edinburgh, and witnessed with his brethren for the Covenant in the Kirk of the Greyfriars. His tall, spare figure was now much stooped, his face worn and wrinkled, his eye, though still bright and clear, far sunken in his head, his long hair and flowing beard as white as the driven snow. He looked a patriarch indeed, and the serene and heavenly expression on his face, his kindly smile, and sweet fatherliness of manner and tone were calculated to inspire the deepest reverence and love. "Bless the Lord, I am again permitted to look upon your face, my brother!" he said, as he warmly and fervently grasped Mr. Guthrie's hand. "But I trust no untoward circumstances prompt your unlooked-for visit. In these troublous times we are all as watchers on the house-top." "I was but saying to your daughter, Mr. Gray, that it was a presentiment of evil which brought me here to-night," replied the minister of Stirling. "I only returned from Edinburgh yesterday, and what I heard there augured ill for the peace of Zion. It is rumoured that the Marquis of Argyll is no longer safe, so the king's emissaries are not to be satisfied with common prey." "I can hardly credit the truth of such rumours, Mr. Guthrie," replied the minister of Inverburn. "Gratitude for past invaluable services should render his person sacred in the eyes of the king." An expression of mild scorn passed over Mr. Guthrie's face. "Gratitude is a word not found in the vocabulary of the House of Stuart," he said, quietly. "The Marquis, I am told, leaves for London on Monday, to offer his congratulations to the king on his restoration. I fear me he takes the journey at his own great risk." "If need be the Lord will hold His sheltering arm over him, Mr. Guthrie," said the minister of Inverburn, cheerfully. "No man, either prince or peasant, shall die before the appointed time. But here comes Jane with your refreshment. I hope it is not your intention to quit the roof-tree of the manse before the dawning of another day." "If convenient for Miss Jane I will very gladly stay," answered Mr. Guthrie. "As troubles thicken round us, opportunities for sweet counsel together, though more sorely needed, will become more limited, I fear. And now, are all your kinsfolk at Hartrigge and Rowallan well? and is the kirk at Broomhill prospering under David's ministrations?" "Verily the Lord hath been pleased to greatly bless the lad in his labours," said the minister of Inverburn, in tones of satisfaction. "Here comes young Gavin Gray, in whose studies I take a deep interest. Here Gavin, lad, come and speak to the Reverend Mr. Guthrie, and behold in him the pattern of what I one day hope to see you become." The bright, happy-faced boy came forward frankly, and was again addressed cordially by the minister of Stirling. "I have been thinking, father," said Jane Gray's pleasant voice in the doorway, "that Gavin might saddle Donald, and carry word of Mr. Guthrie's visitation both to his father's house, and to his uncle and aunt at Rowallan. Andrew and Susan, I am sure, would be greatly rejoiced to come over to the manse. They could drive round in their little cart to Rowallan, and bring over Adam and Agnes with them." "A very good suggestion, my daughter," said Mr. Gray. "You hear what your aunt says, Gavin," he added to the lad. "Run and get Donald saddled and if you ride quickly they can all be here before the evening is far spent." Gavin, nothing loth, at once obeyed his grandfather's behest, and was soon scampering along the road towards Hartrigge. |
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