Chapter VIII: Part 8

In his exile his heart had never ceased to yearn over his suffering native land, and the desire to cast in his lot with his persecuted brethren became so strong at length, that it could not be set aside. It was with great joy that the few earnest souls still left welcomed him back to their midst, and Donald Cargill and David Gray immediately joined themselves to him, and the three went about continually preaching and exhorting the people to hold fast to their faith, for the cause for which they suffered was just and righteous, and must in the end prevail.

It was not long ere these faithful and undaunted men became specially observed of those in high places, and they were vigorously and relentlessly pursued from place to place, but managed to elude the vigilance of those following so continuously in their track. Among Cameron's most close and faithful adherents was brave Hackstoun of Rathillet, who, since Bothwell, had been a wanderer on the face of the earth, having given up all for Christ's sake.

One summer's day a small party of horsemen rode into the little town of Sanquhar, and startled the good folk both by their wayworn and haggard appearance and by their proceedings.

They drew rein at the market cross, and Richard Cameron, their leader, dismounted and slowly read a declaration denying the right of Charles to the throne of Scotland, stigmatising him as a tyrant and perjurer, and solemnly declaring war against him for all time coming.

That done, they rode away as rapidly and mysteriously as they had come, and did not halt till they reached a lonely spot among the hills, where they ventured to rest awhile.

"After what we have done this day," said Mr. Cameron, wiping the midsummer heat from his brow, "I fear it will no longer be safe for us to continue together; and besides, I cannot but think that were we to separate away in different directions we could the better break the bread of life to our starving brethren. What say you, Mr. Cargill? Were it not better that each man of us should go his own way, preaching and exhorting wherever the Lord giveth time and opportunity?"

"Truly, brother, your suggestion savours of wisdom and prudence," said Mr. Cargill, with approval. "But ere we separate we had better agree as to a time when we can again meet together to compare our experiences and strengthen each other's hands for renewed conflict."

"I fear me, brethren, that the end is nigh at hand for more than one of us," said the sweet voice of David Hackstoun. "I, at least, have been visited of late with very precious presentiments of a speedy release from these troubles. Therefore I would say it matters little whether we be together or separate, seeing that, save it be the Lord's time, no evil can befall us."

"Strange that Mr. Hackstoun's presentiments should have visited me likewise," said Richard Cameron. "I am convinced that my race is nearly run; therefore, during what little space is still vouchsafed to me on this earth, I would continue my Lord's work with renewed vigilance, lest when He cometh He should find his unworthy servant asleep."

"As regards Mr. Cargill's proposal that we should make an agreement to meet, I fear that would be useless," said David Gray. "I think we should but wish each other God speed, and leave our future meeting in God's hands. Doubtless, if it be His good pleasure, He will bring us together again in due season, if not here, in His own kingdom, whither we are all hastening with more or less speed."

This latter suggestion was approved, and, after holding a solemn farewell service together, they parted, not knowing whether they should look upon each other's faces again. Mr. Cameron travelled westward to New Monkland, preaching boldly as he went, to the no little comfort of the few to whom the pure Word was yet precious. Hackstoun and David Gray, with a few others, kept together in the south; but hearing, not many days after, that a heavy price was set on Cameron's head, and that he was being vigilantly pursued, they conferred together and decided to retire to the west and band themselves about him, so that, in the event of the enemy falling upon him, there might be some to defend him and render him deliverance out of their hands. Accordingly, a guard under Rathillet travelled across the familiar, and now sacred, ground in the south-western district, and came up with Cameron in Avondale, near the memorable field of Drumclog. To their joy, they found Mr. Cargill with him, and on the Sabbath day a solemn service was held, in which all the ministers took part. Mr. Cameron preached the sermon from the words, "Be still, and know that I am God," and as the eloquent and stirring words fell from his lips, it was noted that his countenance seemed lighted with a radiance not of earth. After the service Mr. Cargill went his way farther west, after agreeing that he should meet Cameron and the rest at Dermeid Muir on the following Sabbath day. During the next few days Cameron's conversation was that of a man who was not long for this world, and he never ceased to exhort those with him to continue steadfast yet a while, for Scotland's deliverance was at hand. He prophesied that the reign of bloodshed and terror would speedily be over, and that the Lord's Zion would ere long be rebuilt upon the ruins of her past and present desolation. On the Wednesday of that week he was sojourning in the house of a godly man at Meadowhead, on the Water of Ayr, and to him and the folk with him in the house he expressed his conviction that the Lord would, in a few hours' time, require him to seal his testimony with his blood. Hearing some report of a troop under Bruce of Earlshall making vigilant search for him and his party, Cameron and his friends agreed to retire to the wild moorland which stretched for many miles between Cumnock and Muirkirk. It was a vast and dreary wilderness, covered with heather and bracken, unrelieved by a green tree or a nodding floweret even in the midsummer time, when all Nature was rejoicing in her wealth and beauty. Towards the east end of this moor Cameron and his friends, being sore fatigued with a long march in the burning heat of the day, lay themselves down awhile to rest. In this solitude they were surprised by the enemy--a large number of soldiers under Earlshall--who came sweeping across the moor with a fury and speed which made it quite impossible for the faithful little band to escape. There was nothing for it but to fight, which the brave remnant immediately decided to do, and quietly but resolutely looked to their arms, and set themselves in order for the fray. It was a pitiable sight upon which the summer sun beat that July afternoon--that handful of God's people dauntlessly facing a goodly regiment of dragoons, all fresh and eager for the fight. Ere the enemy was quite upon them, Cameron led the devotions of his brethren, and in his prayer said, with great fervour, "Lord, spare the green and take the ripe."

Then they exchanged a hand clasp and a solemn farewell, pledging each other to meet in glory.

It was a desperate fight.

The Covenanters fought with conspicuous gallantry, and, even after brave Cameron fell, they continued the conflict over his dead body.

Seeing that there was no hope of victory, and that Rathillet and some others were already taken captive, David Gray, in a last extremity, leaped upon the back of a horse whose rider had been slain, and, rapidly galloping off the field, made his escape. Only one or two others were equally fortunate, and so once again the Covenanters were swept away before the oppressors like chaff on a windy day.

Richard Cameron's remains were carried to Edinburgh, and his head was fixed on the Netherbow port, where it was left to moulder and blacken in the sun. Rathillet, after the usual mockery of a trial, was subjected to terrible and searching tortures, which he bore with a firmness which astonished those who had seen evidence of his sweet yielding nature. His troubles were finally ended on the scaffold, and he went to receive his exceeding great reward. Thus it seemed as if this most precious blood of the Covenant, yea, every drop of it, must be spilled upon the ground, ere the hour of Scotland's deliverance had come.

By slow degrees, and through many strange perils, David Gray wandered wearily back to his native parish. There were times when the weight of his many sorrows was like to overwhelm him, and when he could have cried out for the inheritance in heaven, to which so many of his brethren had already been admitted.

Lurking in the wild solitudes of the mountains, depending for his sustenance upon a few ears of corn, or some of the wild fruits of the earth, it was little wonder if at times his soul fainted within him, and he felt impelled to question the wherefore of these tribulations. In his weakness he was also frequently tempted fiercely by Satan to abjure the cause for which he suffered, and to purchase life and immunity from persecution at the Government price. But by God's grace he was enabled to pass unscathed through these fiery trials, and when at last he crept, a worn and wasted shadow, up his native vale, and sought the shelter of the witches' cleugh, his heart was once more at rest, and abiding steadfastly on the Lord Christ. There were yet some fugitives in Watty's hiding-place, and out of her undying love for the cause, Jane Gray still, when opportunity offered, and when she possessed the wherewithal, stole thither with some relief. Great was her astonishment and joy to behold there her brother David, whom they had of late quite given up as dead. The sight of a familiar and loved face restored anew David Gray's courage and confidence, and he prayed earnestly to be forgiven his temptations to backsliding, with which he had been so sore beset in his desolation.

In spite of the increased vigilance of the oppressors, meetings were still held on the hill-sides and in sheltered nooks, for there yet remained some who would do and dare anything to hear the faithful preaching of the Word.

Very often David Gray led these services, and at last it got noised abroad that he was at large in the district of Inverburn, which, coming to Claverhouse's ears, made him swear a great oath that he should have his head. But although on several separate occasions he had him almost in his clutches, the Lord interposed, and in many marvellous ways vouchsafed deliverance to His faithful servant. About that time it became almost an impossibility to hold a conventicle, for it was certain to become a massacre, so largely were the country districts infested with dragoons, yet there was indeed very little of the old leaven of the Covenant now left in the flesh, for the new generation which had arisen since the first glorious upstanding for the cause was lukewarm and indifferent, and too much taken up with the things of the world to concern themselves much with religious matters.

Within two years after Bothwell a great grief fell upon the few yet remaining faithful to the old cause.

When James II. ascended the throne, after the death of Charles, he published an Act of Toleration, on the conditions of which many persecuted wanderers were induced to return to their homes, and even some ministers to their parishes. It was as deep a snare in its way as the indulgence of Charles had been, its ultimate object being to establish Papacy in Scotland. Into this net many fell, and it indeed seemed as if the martyrdom of the saints were to have no good harvest in the land. But it being now the darkest hour, the dawning was at hand.

Grown somewhat weary of life in their native land, and being sore exercised and perplexed by the condition of religious affairs therein, David Gray, with some others, made it a matter of prayerful consideration whether they should not retire to the Continent for a space, and labour for the Master there. The conventicles, which could only now be held at long intervals, and under strict secrecy, were thinly attended, and not productive of any wide-spreading good, also the end of the struggle seemed at hand, in the utter extermination of the scattered remnant still faithful to the old doctrines and principles, so that it indeed appeared as if there were no more work left for them to do in Scotland.

After due deliberation, therefore, David Gray resolved to escape out of the country. Attiring himself in his former disguise, with which his sister Jane provided him, he travelled on foot without molestation to Newcastle-on-Tyne, where, after some little delay, he obtained shipment in a trading vessel to Rotterdam, and there we lose sight of him for a while.

*CHAPTER XXVI*

*REST.*

The golden radiance of a summer sunset lay upon the vale of Inverburn. The year was in its prime, and everywhere the wealth of her beauty was scattered with no stinted hand. The harvest was ripe for the sickle in the fertile lowlands, and even on the bleaker uplands there was a lovely yellow tinge on the standing corn, which promised an early reaping. Yes, there were peace and plenty in the smiling land once more, for the long reign of bloodshed and terror was over, the house of Stuart had fallen to rise no more, buried in the ruins of its own iniquity, and a wise, just and upright ruler now wielded the sceptre on the throne of England.

There were not altogether lacking evidences of the dark days which had been. Here and there, on some sunny slope or in some sheltered valley, a black and mouldering ruin indicated where the spoiler had waved his destroying brand, and there yet remained many a broad acre left untilled, because those whose inheritance it was had been destroyed, root and branch, old and young, until not a living representative was left.

But in the main, Scotland had returned to her old-time peace and prosperity; again the voice of the husbandman was heard in the fields, again the women folk went about their daily tasks without fear or trembling, and last, and best of all, the kirks were open on the Sabbath Day once more, for the free and pure worship of the Most High.

The village of Inverburn that summer evening presented much the same appearance as it did when first we made acquaintance with it. The pleasant voices of the children at their play filled the summer air, on the cottage doorsteps or in the trellised porches the women sat at their knitting or spinning, while the broad benches in the doorway of the hostelry had each their complement of sturdy yeomen discussing, over their foaming tankards, the events of the day or the graver memories of the past. About the hour of sundown there was observed, coming slowly along the wide and pleasant road from Lanark, two pedestrians, for whose coming the villagers waited with that keen curiosity so characteristic of country folk. They walked very slowly, as I said, and though one appeared to be of tall and erect figure, the other was much bent, and walked leaning heavily on his companion's arm. Just as they entered upon the village street, and speculation began to run higher regarding them, the attention of the idlers was distracted for a little space by the clatter of hoofs in the opposite direction, and presently a horse and rider came rapidly down the slope and drew rein in front of the inn. The horseman was a young man of goodly stature and fine appearance, with a boyish, open countenance, and a winning, fearless eye.

"Guid e'en, Sandy Gray!" cried one or two with familiarity which was pardonable, seeing they had known the lad from his infancy, and some of them his godly forbears before him.

"Guid e'en!" he answered back frankly. "Here, Willie, my man," he added to a curly-headed urchin playing on the step, "run in and tell your mother I want to see her about ale for the reapers."

"Ay, man, is the hairst [harvest] ready on Hartrigge?" queried one of the older men. "Mony a day I bound a stent [sheaf] behind your faither on the rigs o' Hartrigge."

"Ay, Robin, ye'd better come up and bind a stent after me, then, just for auld lang syne," said the young man and a slight shade crossed his sunny face.

At that moment the two pedestrians came directly opposite the inn door and there stopped. Sandy Gray wheeled round his horse, and regarded them with a curiosity almost as great as that exhibited by his neighbours. Their attire was such as these simple villagers had never before seen, being distinctly foreign in its fashion, a thing sufficient in itself to invest the strangers with extraordinary interest. Sandy Gray courteously saluted them, and then one spoke, and it seemed to the young man that the first word awakened some chord in his heart which had long been asleep.

"Pray, can you tell me, young sir, if there be any of the name of Gray still to the fore in this parish?"

The young man gave a violent start, and a wild hope sprang up in his heart.

"Yes, I am a Gray; I am Alexander Gray of Hartrigge, son of that Andrew Gray who fell at Bothwell, and whose forbears were so long ministers of this parish," he said, with trembling eagerness. "And you! you! I am not mistaken now that I see your faces. I remember you quite well--Uncle David and Uncle Adam, thank God!"

"Can it be possible that I look upon the face of my brother's son? Now the Lord be praised!" exclaimed the more aged and infirm of the two, and, advancing, he held out two trembling hands to his nephew, which the young man, alighting from his horse, warmly grasped, while the tears rained down his cheeks. Then he turned to Adam Hepburn, whose face betrayed his deep satisfaction, though his joy did not find such ready expression.

The villagers, who had watched this scene with consuming interest, now rose with one accord, and with a cheer came flocking about the returned wanderers, for those who had not been personally acquainted with these two sufferers knew their names as household words.

"And now tell me, lad," said the aged minister, when he could free himself from these friendly welcomes and again speak with his nephew, "you spoke of Hartrigge. Can it be that I have returned to find a Gray in Hartrigge still?"

"Yes, yes; I live there, Uncle David; and my mother and dear Aunt Jane also are in the place," he answered, and the minister did not notice that he did not say they dwelt in the house. "Nannie is married now, and, Uncle Adam, she is living at Rowallan, of which her husband, Walter Fleming, is the farmer."

"And there is an Agnes Gray at Rowallan as well as a Gray in Hartrigge!" said the minister. "You hear that, Adam? the old stock is not dead yet, but has developed once more into a goodly tree, for which, O my God, I thank Thee."

"An Agnes Gray at Rowallan yet, did you say?" asked Adam Hepburn, dreamily. "But there was no Rowallan when I left, only the blackened ruins of the homestead. What changes are these?"

"The old laird is dead, and that dear, blessed saint, Lady Hamilton, has rebuilt Hartrigge and Rowallan and would not let a foot but ours upon their thresholds," said the young man. "But come; we cannot stand here all night. Come away home. Oh, what a night this will be beneath the roof-tree of Hartrigge! Here, Uncle David, get on Jess's back, and Uncle Adam and I will walk beside you, and so we will soon be home."

The minister accordingly gladly mounted the animal, and Sandy took the bridle rein over his arm, and the little party moved off up the manse brae, followed by the cheers of the delighted villagers.

As they passed the manse and the kirk they involuntarily stood still, and the minister took his hat from his waving white locks and bent his head a moment on his breast, while Adam Hepburn fixed his eyes on one green spot under a spreading yew tree, as if they would fain dwell there for ever. Then they went on again, and the minister told his nephew in a few brief words how they had been blessed to meet in Holland, and had been vouchsafed a measure of prosperity and usefulness there, but how their hearts had ever yearned for their native land, until the time came they could return to it without fear.

This talk occupied all the way to the farm, at which young Sandy was not sorry, for he did not desire as yet to be more closely questioned regarding his own household at Hartrigge.

The farm at Hartrigge now presented a very fine and striking appearance, the new steading [farm buildings] and commodious dwelling-house, standing so imposingly on the brow of the hill, being thrown into strong relief by the brilliant green of the summer foliage and the bright golden hue of the ripening grain.

At the foot of the little hill, sheltering cosily under the fir-wood, there stood a neat cottage with a garden-plot in front, which was gay with summer bloom. Just as the little party came in sight on the private road a woman's figure came to the door, and shading her eyes with her hand, looked long and intently at it, greatly wondering what it meant. She was a sweet and comely-looking person, though long past her prime, and her fair, calm face bore the impress of many sorrows, yet peace dwelt abidingly upon it now.

She presently turned about, called to some one within, and another figure, much older and feebler looking, and wearing a widow's garb, joined her on the step. And thus they were standing when the party came up.

"Susan! Susan! it is the answer to our many prayers!" said Jane Gray, tremblingly. "If these be not David and Adam, our exiled wanderers, my eyes strangely deceive me."

Then she sat down on the bench at the door and burst into tears.

Why should I linger over that sacred meeting? Could any human pen do it justice? I think not.

After a little Sandy touched the arm of his Uncle David, and begged him to come away up with him to the house, and the others would follow. He gave the old man his arm, and they ascended the hill, walked slowly (too slowly for Sandy's impatient feet) through the fir-wood, and round to the front of the house. Then, with trembling hand, Sandy opened the door and led his uncle in. In the pleasant family room in the ruddy evening glow there was a sweet and restful picture. On the hearth there stood a cradle, and in a low chair near to it the figure of a woman--a young woman--too young almost, one might have thought, to be a wife and mother.

"Is that you, Sandy? Don't make a noise, dearie, for baby has been so troublesome, and is just asleep."

It was a voice of winning and exquisite softness, and when presently the speaker rose, the old man saw a sweet and lovely young creature, with a fair, rose-tinted face, and deep, tender blue eyes, which reminded him of those blue eyes which had charmed him long ago.

"Is this your wife, my lad? You kept this pleasant surprise to the last," said he, with a sweet smile, and advanced with extended hands.

"Yes, my wife, Uncle David, but something, nay a great deal more," said the young man, hardly knowing what he said. "Oh, uncle, uncle! it is your own daughter Lilian who is my wife, and our little son yonder is named David Gray, out of our love for you. Lily, my dear, my love, this is your father, come home from exile, as we have so long hoped and prayed he would."

For a moment father and daughter stood still, and then these words fell from the old man's lips, in accents of trembling joy--

"It is enough. Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace!"

* * * * *

I cannot linger over these happy moments, so fraught with deepest joy, and yet so shadowed by undying memories and unutterable yearnings for those who were not! Before many minutes were passed they missed Adam Hepburn from their midst, and looking from their southern window they saw him wending his solitary way towards Rowallan. And they let him go in peace, knowing the unutterable yearnings of his soul.

* * * * *

So gleams of sunset joy were vouchsafed to these beaten pilgrims, whose way through life had been so long under shadow of the cloud. And there were Grays again in Hartrigge and Rowallan, and it was hoped that there would be a Gray again in the manse and kirk of Inverburn, when the little David, destined from his birth for the ministry, should be grown to manhood. The family of Burnet of Haughhead was now extinct, save for Sandy Gray's wife. The spoiled daughter of the house had not long survived the death of her boy, who succumbed to his constitutional weaknesses at the age of fifteen. Gilbert Burnet and his wife were dead also, and Haughhead in the hands of a distant connection, who was proved to be the nearest male heir. While any of her Burnet kindred lived, Lilian Gray would never have been permitted to follow her mother's example, and marry a Gray. Her happy home was a haven of peace and rest to her father, who grew young again in heart in her blithe companionship. How dear each was to the other, or what unutterable thanksgiving dwelt continually in their hearts, I cannot tell you. Adam Hepburn spent his time betwixt Hartrigge and Rowallan, but as was natural, was oftenest at the latter place. He was a quiet, gentle, unobtrusive old man, who seemed to live much in the past. He appeared like one who had no hold upon this present life, but who was simply sojourning at a wayside inn, waiting and waiting for a summons to come farther on. But is it not so with us all? The old fiery spirit seemed to be utterly quenched, but no man or woman ever heard him allude to the stormy or terrible past, and when the events of these stirring times were made the subject of conversation, or even distantly alluded to, he never failed to at once separate himself from the rest. He spent much of the time in the churchyard, and would sit for hours upon his wife's grave, with his well-worn Bible for a companion, an object of strange compassion to all who saw him there, and who knew the story of his life-long faithfulness to the memory of one woman.

One sweet summer evening they missed him from among the happy circle at Hartrigge, and knowing he was not at Rowallan, they grew alarmed at last at his long absence, and went in search of him. As was natural, they turned their steps first to the "auld kirk-yaird." He was sitting there, in a down-bent posture, his head almost touching his knees, and his face hidden on the pages of the open Book. David Gray stepped to his side, and touching his arm, said very gently--

"Adam, my brother, it is growing late; come away home."

There was no motion in the silent figure, which sat so still as to alarm them. Then David Gray slipped his hand beneath the bent head, and lightly laid it on the breast, but there was no motion there.

"He has passed away from us," said the minister, tremblingly, "and this night has looked once more upon the face of his beloved, after these forty weary years. It was the hour and the place he longed for. I have often heard him say it. Let us give thanks to our God for His abundant lovingkindness vouchsafed to our weary brother this night."

Ended now the storm of life, ended the long desolation, the bitter yearnings, which had these many years riven that lonely heart. Ended, too, his brief lingering in the sunset at the wayside inn; and for Adam Hepburn now came the eternal enjoyment of that sweet rest which remaineth for the people of God.

THE END

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