said. "Mine will never come back to me. I do not even know where his
body lies. But the trump of God will wake him; and we shall meet again
in a better world, where are no wars nor rumors of wars, no more
crushing by a tyrant's heel, no more heart-achings or heart-breakings.
There the great King himself will bid his subjects be glad for
evermore."
CHAPTER IX.
THE SHEPHERD SMITTEN.
The state of the country was daily becoming more terrible. No one felt
safe at any time.
The daring exploits of Steenie and Robert drew upon them blessings from
their friends but curses from their enemies. They were obliged again to
exercise the greatest care to hide themselves from the armed bands that
Claverhouse sent in every direction to hunt to the death all that had
escaped from Bothwell Bridge. We risked our lives in giving them
comforts, for the persecutors, enraged that any had escaped, took
measures to punish most severely those who should succor friend or
stranger. Some of our own acquaintances suffered death by lingering
torture for no other offence. Can my readers imagine the feelings of a
mother, a wife, or a sister, who, knowing her loved ones were suffering,
scarcely dared give them food, or even speak to them?
As a rule, those who were true to the good cause were dear to each
other. But some, I am grieved to say, had a "zeal that was not
according to knowledge." They had suffered so much that they were
nearly demented. They would not listen to reason, even when counselled
by their best friends; and they did rash deeds that made things worse
for us all.
And now I have a sad tale to tell. I would it were the only one of its
kind!
Few were more zealous in every good work than Rev. Hugh McAdam. He
counted not his life dear to him, but cheerfully risked it in works of
love and mercy. He sought out the wanderers, carried them food and
clothing, prayed with them, and exhorted them to steadfastness in the
holy cause. When we thought it safe, we gathered on a lone moor and he
broke the bread of life to our famishing souls.
He and his sweet daughter Janet were loved by all our suffering people;
yet it was the sorrowful lot of many of us to see him shot down at a
conventicle, in the presence of his daughter, and while the words of
Christian counsel were yet on his lips. Though death lurked in every
corner, and similar scenes were not new to many of us, few deaths caused
so universal sorrow in our neighborhood.
Orders to disperse were unnecessary. The men seized their arms and
prepared to defend the retreating assembly; but the dragoons, few in
number, galloped quickly away having done the foul deed. The little
band, that had met with so much hope and confidence, returned sad and
dispirited to their homes. The body of the beloved minister was borne
with us from the field, and Bessie McDougal took the orphaned daughter
home with her.
When I reached home I found that some one had already told mother the
dreadful news. She met me at the door. "Alas! alas!" she exclaimed,
"what is to become of the sheep when so many of the shepherds are taen
awa?"
"There is still the great Shepherd of Israel," answered I. "When the
right time comes, he will gird himself with might and deliver his
flock."
"Oh, ay, my bairn, I maunna forget that; but trouble has been my portion
so long that both heart and flesh quake and quail under every new
sorrow. But I am glad you can aye have sae muckle faith."
Dear mother! She little knew with what sickness of heart I turned to my
duties. Again and again the face of the dead as I had seen it in the
morning came before me. His silvered locks were matted with gore,
despoiling of its comeliness the face on which age had sat with so
winsome a grace.
But if we were so unsettled by the sad event, how must the new inmate
of Bessie McDougal's home have felt? The good woman had no lack of
tenderness and sympathy, and when Janet's tears still flowed she did not
try to check them.
"Greet on, hinny, greet on," she said. "Let your tears spend themsels. I
ken weel the heart is less heavy when the e'en o'erflow. Auld Bessie has
had troubles o' her ain; but there has aye been comfort gien to her in
them a'; and the same Comforter will bring comfort to yoursel in his ain
gude time. He wunna be vexed wi' ye that ye mourn. He kens a' our
frames, and he kens that we are but dust and weakness."
In this way did this mother in Israel bring Christ before the afflicted
daughter, until her heart was drawn closer to Him who is so gentle and
so considerate of human frailties.
After we had buried the slain servant of the Lord in our own kirkyard,
Bessie McDougal, whose home was ever a shelter to those in distress,
begged the orphaned Janet to bide with her. Her great motherly heart
warmed towards the daughter of her old and Christian counsellor. Indeed,
many would have opened their doors to the bonnie lass who was so sorely
smitten, but when Bessie questioned, "Will ye bide wi' me, puir stricken
lamb?" Janet gladly answered, "I will."
Somewhere on these pages it will be my pleasant duty to tell how Janet
repaid with filial affection the kindness of her friend.
In these times I often went to see sister Margaret and cheer her
loneliness as much as I could. She had removed her family from their
house in the village to a small cottage nearer to mother and me. While
the excitement about our murdered minister was still fresh I went to
spend the evening with her. Jamie took the minister's death much to
heart.
"I have often thought to be a minister myself," said he, "but now I
scarcely ken whether I am willing. I could fight on the battlefield, but
it is a fearsome thing to be hunted and shot down like a wild beast."
"Yes, Jamie," replied his mother, "it is a fearsome thing; but God grant
that before you are prepared to stand up before his people the scourge
will be removed from Scotland."
"And yet we believe that martyrs have a brighter crown in the heavenly
inheritance, and a more abundant entrance into the joy and service of
the King."
"Yes, we believe that, Jamie. But there is opportunity in every life for
winning an abundant entrance. Ay, ay, there are many ways to glorify God
and prove his sustaining grace."
Margaret bore up bravely in her bereavement. She had little time to
yield to sorrow. To support her fatherless bairns required the utmost
efforts of Jamie and herself.
When it was time for me to leave them for the night, she told Jamie to
take the good Book and read the tenth Psalm.
Jamie read, while Margaret's full heart often prompted her to interrupt
him with some earnest comment, as she felt the force of the truth and
applied it to present circumstances.
"The Lord will hear in his own good time," she remarked as Jamie
concluded. "Meanwhile we will take all our griefs and cares to him, and
so far as we can we will leave them all with him."
Then she knelt and poured out her heart in prayer. Since her husband's
death she and Jamie had kept burning the sacred fire on the family
altar.
CHAPTER X.
BRIDAL AND BURIAL.
In the chill gray of an autumnal morning Janet McAdam awoke in her new
home a few days after her father's burial. With the first dawning of
consciousness came always the leaden weight of grief. But she had been
prepared for changes the most dreadful; and with the remembrance of her
loss came the comforting thought that her father had entered into his
rest, though rough had been his exit from this world of trouble. In this
thought she found some consolation. "No storm can reach him now in the
calm haven he has entered," she murmured. She rose and dressed herself
with her usual care; then, kneeling down, she asked for strength equal
to her day.
In an adjoining room Bessie McDougal was already busy with her morning
duties. With a huge pair of tongs she drew from the bed of ashes in the
fireplace the brands she had buried the night before. These she placed
close to the back-log, and, laying on some bits of wood, she soon had a
blaze that crackled and roared in a right comfortable, homelike way. She
was hanging the kettle over the fire when Janet entered the room.
"How hae ye sleepit, my bairn?" she asked.
"I have slept quite well, thank you. Can I help you now?"
"Nae, dearie, nae. The kettle will nae mair than boil before I am in
frae the byre. Tak ye the Ward of God, and seek out a portion suited to
your need."
Bessie went out to do the work that Robert would have done if he could
have remained at home. She unfastened the door of the byre, went in,
looked around to see that all was right, and gently patted the cow.
"Puir beastie, I maunna forget ye amid a' the troubles," she said,
thinking aloud. She fed her with a liberal hand, then scattered grain
for the fowls. These were all she had to care for now, for the soldiers
had taken from her whatever they liked. Having finished her work there,
she returned to the house.
The kettle was already boiling. She prepared the morning meal, spread
the table, and the two sat down. Short and simple was the prayer of
thankfulness for daily bread which the good woman offered. For a while
they ate in silence, for trouble aye makes us think more and speak less.
Bessie's voice at length broke the stillness. Pointing to the head of
the table, she said,
"It was there David aye sat, and there," pointing to the window-sill,
"he laid his bonnet. And it was on that side Robert sat. Alas! the ane
will come nae mair, and the ither maun steal his chance if he comes.
These are times to try the strongest faith;" and she wiped her tearful
eyes. Then observing that the other was taking very little food, she
spoke more cheerfully:
"Janet, my bairn, ye maun do better than this at your meals, and graw
stoot."
She had scarcely finished speaking when Robert, her son, entered,
followed by Steenie.
Great was the astonishment of Bessie. She embraced her son and warmly
pressed the hand of his companion. She piled high the hearth-fire and
heaped the table with plenty. But she could not bring herself to ask
what had brought them there. She feared it might be to say good-by
before facing known danger.
The hungry men made inroads on the cakes and cheese; and well they
might.
"Oh, my bairn," sad the glad, sad mother, "when will ye daily sit at
this table and pass your evenings at your ain hearthstane?"
"When I am let, mother."
"I must take a look at the beasts," said Robert, when the meal was
finished.
His mother, unwilling to lose one precious moment of her son's stay,
went with him to the byre. Robert's anger was kindled to find that the
sheep had all been driven away, and only one cow out of three was left.
But he had other thoughts in his mind, and he spoke of me, of Effie
Patterson.
"It is no a time to marry, or to be gien in marriage," said his mother,
"and I would leifer ye would bring nae mair care on yoursel while these
times last."
"What you say is o'er true, mother; but one canna always keep down his
heart. It is one of the hardest features of this troubled time that a
man has no power to shield and protect his own household. But for all
that, I would fain call Effie mine. If I am slain by the enemy, you must
tell her that naught but the fear of adding to the dangers which now
beset her path has kept me from declaring my love for her and asking her
hand in marriage. And, mother, Steenie's heart is bound up in the lass
Janet. He cannot hide his sympathy for her in this her time of
bereavement. It is that that has brought us here the morn. He would fain
tell her he sorrows for her sake. You did well to take her in; it is
like you, mother; only you must not care more for her than you care for
Effie."
"Oh, my bairn, I canna promise. The dear lass wi' me has nae kin left
to her; and if she twines hersel about my auld heart, I canna thrust her
aside for anither. It was but the morn that my silly fancy was imagining
the times again settled, and yoursel hame and weel; but never mind what
I was about to say. Effie is a gude, gentle soul, and helpfu' witha';
and should it be that we hae peace granted to us, ye will see that I can
love Effie weel, although I love anither lass as mickle."
This is word for word what Bessie told me more than two years
afterwards; but two years afterwards was not then. No, no; and how much
of sorrow was yet to be crowded into those two years is my painful task
to relate.
There were no more real battles after that of Bothwell Bridge, but only
skirmishes, where a few on both sides met by accident or otherwise.
I will now leave off telling what happened throughout the country, and
relate what more particularly concerned myself and my friends.
Steenie, as you may know from what I have said, was like the apple of my
eye. I liked not to think the time might come when another would have a
deeper hold on his affections; and I persuaded myself that this would
never be. But, like it or not, it was all the same thing in the end.
When Janet McAdam's father was shot, Steenie's heart went over to his
orphan daughter with one great bound, and his sister was never to be the
same to him as before. I always thought that his love for Janet was born
of pity, for when the trouble came to her she stretched her hands
imploringly towards heaven in helpless, hopeless agony; and that meek
and mute appeal to the great and good God reached also a brave and
loving human heart. But there was cause for admiration as well as pity,
for hers was truly a sweet face to look upon. Her eyes closed slowly,
and the long, dark, silken lashes fell on her pale cheek, while the
sensitive quivering of the mouth showed her great effort to bear up
bravely. Many times was it whispered then and there, "See the dear sweet
lassie! See the dear smitten lamb!"
But whatever was the first cause of Steenie's love, it was deep and
lasting. I did not know his feelings in regard to her till he told me
himself. It was wrong, it was selfish, but I liked Janet less from that
very moment. I regarded her as an intruder. I turned away with a stony
look on my face and a weight at my heart. I did not look at Steenie, but
I felt that his eyes were following me. I knew there was entreaty in
them, but I would not listen to the voice within me, "You are wrong,
Effie." He told me he had already made known to her his love; so there
was nothing for me to do but submit to unkind fate, as I in my blindness
thought. I had pictured Steenie always living with mother and me, with
peace and plenty restored to us. I thought that together we would soothe
the declining years of our aged parent; together we would read and walk,
as in past days.
Steenie told me that I also was beloved. I gave him no reply. I did not
then know that I could feel love beyond that which I cherished for my
brother, and I thought he said this that I might grieve less for his
companionship. I was offended, and for the first time in my life I
parted from my brother with coldness.
Six months passed, during which we seldom met. At the end of that time
Steenie was married. The ceremony was performed quietly, and even
secretly, at Bessie McDougal's house.
I was still displeased, although I made a faint show of affection for my
new sister; but it was so unreal that neither my mother nor Steenie were
deceived by it. Janet, in her sweet trustfulness, accepted it. Mother
told me I was unreasonable; but I said it was Steenie who was
unreasonable--to marry when death stared him in the face; but certain it
is that was not the cause of my opposition to the marriage.
Steenie was still obliged to remain in concealment most of the time.
Robert McDougal and a few other brave men were with him. Sometimes they
came down upon a stray party of the enemy to liberate one of their
captive brethren; but oftener they were stationed at a little distance
to warn and guard the people as they convened to worship God.
It was on a bonnie June morning in 1683 that we were thus convened and
he was thus on duty. A spy communicated with the persecutors, and a
troop of horse came in hot haste towards us. In less time than I can
write it a bullet pierced Steenie, and he fell to the ground. The
soldiers passed on to the open glade in which the meeting was held; but
the people were scattered in every direction.
Regardless of danger, we, his friends, hurried to the spot. I was among
the last to reach him. As I approached I heard him ask, "Where is
Effie?" "I am come," I said, as I knelt beside him and kissed his brow,
then pale and strange in his struggle with death. He looked
affectionately at me, and seemed to wish for something. I put my arm
around Janet, who was weeping over him, and drawing her closer to me I
kissed her again and again. Then he smiled a faint, glad smile, and
beckoned me to come nearer. I bent my ear to catch his words, which
were becoming more indistinct. He spoke of Robert. "Do not turn away
from my old and true friend," he whispered. Fainter and fainter were the
words which came from the fast whitening lips, till every sound died
away. A slight motion of the lips, and a scarcely perceptible heaving of
the chest, and Steenie's soul took flight to that bonnie land where we
well believe there is no more sorrow.
The agony of poor Janet was very great. Twice within one year had the
dearest object of her earthly affections been ruthlessly slain. I looked
at her, though I scarcely dared to do so. I saw that strong arms were
supporting her; they were those of Robert McDougal. His face was very
pale, but his voice was steady as he said, "One less with us, one more
in heaven."
It is hard to give up our friends, even from a peaceful death-bed, when
we can realise that God's hand alone rules; but to feel that our loved
ones fall a prey to the anger of their oppressors--the innocent by the
hand of the guilty--is a sore trial to the most trusting Christians.
There are moments when the human nature within them cries out for
redress, if not for vengeance. I felt as if my own heart would burst
between sorrow for Janet and my anguish for the loss of Steenie.
We were bearing our dead from the fatal spot when, strange to say, I
first thought of my mother, who was in our little home miles away. Poor
mother, whose hair was whitened with age and her many afflictions, whose
step was slow and feeble, whose grief had already been too deep for
tears, how could I tell her! How could she bear this added sorrow! "God
help her," I groaned.
"O Margaret," I said, for she was walking beside me, "how can we tell
her these heavy tidings? You must tell her, for indeed I cannot."
"May God give me wisdom to break it to her gently," said Margaret.
Slowly and carefully she broke the sad news to our mother, who said not
a word. Her face assumed a fixed, ghastly look. I feared the news would
kill her. Soon her lips moved as if in prayer. Then I felt relieved; for
was she not laying her burden at the feet of One who can sustain us in
all our troubles?
We took the body of Steenie to Bessie McDougal's because it was Janet's
home, and because we thought mother might be less affected by his death
if she did not see him at first. She did not object to this arrangement;
and she waited till evening before she asked to go and see him. Then,
with more composure than I had anticipated, she made preparations to go
to her son.
"I maun see my bairn now," she said. "I trow these auld limbs will not
refuse to take me to him."
"Who shall go with you, mother?" I asked.
"Margaret," she replied; for Margaret had remained with us through the
day.
I was not sorry that she was chosen, for she had great fortitude and
presence of mind; and I felt that I could not endure any more
heart-harrowing scenes that day.
But mother controlled herself in a wonderful manner, Margaret said. She
spoke comforting words to Janet, telling her that our compassionate Lord
would help her to bear her burdens and sorrows. When the question of
burial came up for consideration, mother was quick to express her wish.
"He maun sleep near his auld hame," she said. "None o' my dead lie where
I can look on their graves."
So we made him a grave in a nook of our own plot of ground; for we could
scarcely feel that even a grave was sacred in the eyes of our enemies.
Close by the grave runs the little burn that aye sings its song of
praise in summer-time. We could see the mound from our window, and for
years every change about it was noted. "The grass is green on Steenie's
grave now; and there are bonnie wee flowers amang it," mother would
say; or in winter, "The snow lies fresh on Steenie's grave the morn."
And after she was gone other eyes watched it. I can see it to-day from
my window as I write; for I live here still, the only one left of our
once happy family. But I am not alone here; and to tell who bides with
me will lead me back to my story.
CHAPTER XI.
THE LAST DROP IN THE CUP OF BITTERNESS.
We wanted Janet with us; but Bessie clung to her, and we did not insist
on our wish, being loath to rob our neighbor of the comfort which
Janet's company afforded her.
In less than half a twelvemonth after Steenie's death a son was born to
perpetuate his name. Great was the mother's joy, and great was the joy
of us all, though we rejoiced in trembling because of our persecutors.
The bairn was christened Stephen, as may be supposed. He was a fair,
fine child. Soon he laughed and crowed, quite unconscious that he had
come into a world of trouble.
Sometimes, in my visits to Janet and the bairn, I saw Robert; and
sometimes we were left alone together. His manner towards me was always
gentle and considerate; and I felt drawn towards him, whether because of
Steenie's dying injunction, or from some other cause, I cannot rightly
tell. One evening as he accompanied me home, he said as we parted,
"Effie, I wish we had lived in other times, or that we may outlive this
evil time, that I may make known to you the dearest wish of my heart."
He said no more; but he pressed my hand, and I heard a sigh as he turned
away. I had for a long time known that he loved me, but I never
appreciated till then the affection of his warm, honest heart. I have no
doubt that if he had known the change in my feelings towards him he
would have been encouraged to say more. But that was a long way back in
the past, very long, it seems to me.
But time wore on. I kept myself always busy, for that is the best way to
get through trouble. Besides there was need that I should be employed. I
had an eye over Jamie's bairns, for their mother was thronged with
labors and cares. Her stout heart and ready hand had enough to do to
keep above want. Many a garment did I make for them from those of the
dead, who were now clad in purer robes. I had our own home to keep also,
for mother was feeble; and, with all our other troubles, I had
constantly to bear up under the pressure of poverty.
We were in this situation when Richie, whose health had gradually failed
since his terrible captivity, took to his bed, never to rise again. This
was in the spring of 1684, and before the heather bloomed he was laid to
rest.
Death is always sad; but we who had witnessed so many deaths by the
hand of man could not but feel that in Richie's case the sting had been
less sharp. He had breathed his last peacefully in his bed; yet we knew
that his end was brought on by the exposure in Edinburgh.
Ellen came to us. She was now alone, her two children having died of
fever a few months before their father's death. We welcomed her, for we
had need to gather about us the few friends that were left us. Yet we
could ill afford to feed another out of our scanty means. If Ellen had
been like Margaret, she would have found a way to earn an honest penny
herself. But there have always been differences in folk, and there
always will be. "The ane can do, and the ither maun be done for; and we
will not be hard on Ellen," said my mother. We had few of our kin left.
She was company for us. At best, the days passed wearily, the evenings
were dull and sad, and the nights often brought no sleep. We still lived
in fear and dread, although we felt that our best had already been taken
from us, and whatever could come to us now must be less than that which
we had already suffered.
Our champions had become fewer, but they made up in bravery what they
lacked in numbers. Doubtless they thought they would sell their lives
as dearly as possible. Bessie McDougal often trembled for her son, and I
will not deny that another did the same. Alas! I have to record that our
worst fears were realized. He likewise was pierced by the enemy's
bullet. I was now more than ever drawn towards his aged mother, for I
felt that we had a common sorrow. I was near her as she stood over the
cold clay of her son, and I slipped my hand in hers. She tightened her
grasp, and turned and looked at me. "Puir Effie," said she, "your ain
heart is sair, I mak nae doot."
I answered with tears that I could no longer keep back.
Afterwards she told me all that Robert had said. "I will always love you
because he loved you," she said, pressing me to her heart.
This is the last death of our friends that I have to record. The
dreadful "killing time," as the last few and most bloody years of
persecution were called, came at last to an end, and a brighter and
better day dawned upon long-oppressed Scotland, thanks to the good Lord.
CHAPTER XII.
PEACE.
The persecution of our kirk lasted through the reigns of Charles II. and
James II., a period of twenty-eight years. But the Lord gave us
deliverance at last. James was driven from the throne in November, 1688,
and liberty of conscience was proclaimed by his successor, King William.
It now remains for me to trace our way back to quiet industrial
pursuits. This was no easy matter for us; for, setting aside the fact
that sorrow had taken nearly all the heart out of us, it will be
remembered that, while many of our neighbors had lost a son, a brother,
or a father, we had lost nearly every male member of our family. And as
for my nephew Jamie, his hands were full at home. How should we win our
bread? It was a serious question; and for this cause we were glad to
learn that Janet and her bairn were to be the sole heirs of Bessie
McDougal. She had laid by a heavy purse of gold, the reward of long
years of labor performed by herself and her husband. They had never a
child but Robert, so they could well lay by; and by canny management
she had contrived to save something from taxation and the troopers. Nor
was she likely to use her savings in her old age, for no sooner was
peace restored to the country than she again filled up her poultry-yard
and bought cows, so that her butter, eggs, and fowls were sent to market
as in the years before the troubles began.
But with us it was very different. My father had accumulated very
little, having had five bairns to clothe, feed, and educate. During the
troubles we had labored constantly and practised every species of
economy, but our purse was now empty. I could spin and weave, and that I
did both early and late. But I do not think I could have kept even with
the world if Ellen had not realized how matters stood with us and gone
to her own kinsfolk. This was no small relief to us, for it not only
made one less to provide for, but also made it possible for us to rent a
room to a worthy woman who, like ourselves, had lost all her supporters
in the evil times.
It was also Bessie's pleasure to send us many things, among which I well
remember a fine brood of chickens. I was glad of these for mother's
sake. She attended to them very gladly. She loved to watch the bonnie
wee things and see them grow. The care of them kept her from always
thinking of the past, so that they were a benefit to us in more ways
than one.
But mother's usual place was by the ingle. There she sat and knitted
most of the day, and sometimes far into the night. There stood the stand
upon which was her Bible, which she read frequently. Our life was free
from disturbance; we gradually became accustomed to our lot, and even
began to feel some small degree of comfort. There was, as it were, a
faint misty light breaking over us. We began to notice the changes in
nature. Morning and evening were not now as one to us. We greeted the
coming of day with something of the old feeling; we were solemnized at
nightfall, but no longer terrified. The Sabbath was now indeed a day of
rest. We were no longer wandering over moor and glen, through summer's
heat and winter's cold, to win our way to some remote place in order to
hear the preached Word, or, when there was no preacher, to exhort and
comfort one another; but we were gathered again in our own kirk, where
we had all worshipped in our youth. On those peaceful Sabbaths I could
forget the present and think gladly of our holy dead who had entered
upon the never-ending Sabbath above.
Little by little much of the old glad life crept into the homes of our
neighbors; but for myself I have known comparatively little of what the
world calls happiness. I had scarcely passed childhood when my life was
beclouded by the evil that pursued us until I reached middle age, at
which time I was already longingly looking forward to death as a relief
from life's sorrows and anxieties. Yet for my mother's sake, and for the
dear ones that called me "Aunt Effie," I have aye prayed for strength to
endure.
There is one sorrow that I have not told in earthly ears. I never speak
of Robert. I visit his grave alone. Sometimes I find the birds singing
joyously above it; and though their glad song jars a little on my ear, I
ever bid them sing on, for their music makes his resting-place more
cheerful. I planted seeds and roots of flowering-plants on the grave so
as to make the place bonnier, and also that I might pluck the blossoms
that grew above him and wear them near my heart; for though this regard
for him came to me late in life, it was none the less real and tender.
At Steenie's grave it was different. Mother, Janet, and I often sat
around it. Janet needed not to hide her sorrow. She could mourn her dead
in the presence of his mother and sister without reserve.
I scarcely knew how I passed my time some days. My fingers drew out the
threads and my foot turned the wheel, but my mind was often far away,
recalling the words and deeds of our happy dead. I remembered the look
and tone of each. I was again a child standing beside my sister, who
patiently combed and plaited my hair; I was at father's knee with my
book; I was being borne in the arms of Jamie or Richie; I was playing
with Steenie at the burn, or I was thinking of what happened long
afterwards--thoughts that I cannot write. From these memories I would be
roused by my mother's gentle call, "Effie, the fire is low and it is
nearly time for the evening meal."
[Illustration: Page 273.]
Five years we two bided alone. Often, too often, we recounted our
sorrows; but we aye took them to the Fountain-head of love and strength,
and oftentimes we received "the oil of joy for mourning and the garment
of praise for heaviness." At the end of this time came a change.
Our dear old friend Bessie McDougal sickened. We often went to her, but
we always found her wishes anticipated by the affectionate
thoughtfulness and skilful hands of Janet. Indeed, she almost refused to
share the care of the sick with any one. Not even after her own cheek
grew pale with nightly watchings would she willingly give place to me.
Bessie would sometimes tell her to rest herself; but as soon as Janet
left the room the sick woman would weary for her.
At length the end drew near. Mother was summoned in haste to her
death-bed. The dying woman commended Janet to our care with as much
concern and tenderness as if she were delivering an only daughter to a
stranger. She forgot in her earnestness that Janet and her child already
belonged to us.
"She has been like a daughter to me," she said. "She was the light of my
puir hame; she comforted me in my last sad bereavement, although her ain
great sorrow was heavy upon her. Her wee slender hands have ministered
to my comfort in mony ways; she has been eyes and feet to me; her faith
has strengthened my faith; she is in very truth the handmaid of the
Lord. My deein' pillow wouldna be easy if I thought she wouldna hae
freends when I am awa."
"Bessie dear, good neighbor Bessie," said my mother, "do you no remember
that Janet is as dear to us as to you? Do you forget that she was wife
to my ain Steenie, and that I have loved her long and well?"
"Oh, ay; it is enough; and do thou forgie what my anxious heart garred
me say. Noo I dee content. I shall soon be wi' David. I hae ne'er
forgotten his message to me, that we s'ould meet, though we s'ould gang
hame by different rauds. He meant we s'ould leave this warld in
different ways. He didna mean that we s'ouldna a' walk in the straight
and narrow way by faith in the Son of God: na, na, David didna mean
that, for there is nae ither way. If we seek to climb up some ither way,
we shallna enter in. Thank God, we are a' in the richt way but the
bairn; and surely the God o' his faithers willna forsake the little ane
left to his care."
When she felt that her last moments had come, she turned her eyes on
Janet, saying feebly and brokenly, "Fare ye weel, my puir twice-smitten
lamb. Dinna sorrow for me. Ye hae been a comfort to me; let that thought
now comfort yoursel. Let the wee lad gie me a kiss."
Gradually her eyelids closed, and her lifeless form lay before us as if
she had fallen into a peaceful slumber.
Janet and the bairn grieved for the good woman as it was meet they
should, for she had been a good friend to them. I felt sad too; for
since I had stood with her over the dead body of one who was dear to us
both I had felt that she was more than a neighbor to me.
Janet no longer rented the place so long held by the McDougals. She came
to us; and more of joy came with her and wee Steenie than I had ever
thought would be our portion. The lad was growing up very like his
father. I doubt not but mother and I would have spoiled him if Janet had
not been as wise as she was good.
CHAPTER XIII.
CONCLUSION.
I have written nothing of late about Margaret's children. You will
remember that Jamie had a wish to preach the gospel. He did not change
his purpose. The providence of God helped him wonderfully. Through the
divine blessing on his own perseverance, and the kindness of his
friends, a way was opened for the fulfilment of his wishes. And who,
think you, bides now at the manse? Who, indeed, but the selfsame Jamie,
now Rev. James Patterson! But I never cross the doorstone without
thinking of our own gentle Mary, whose home it once was. Surely time has
brought to us many changes. I am glad that mother lived to hear Jamie
preach in our own kirk; no doubt it was like balm to her poor wounded
heart.
Margaret's youngest bairn, John, is the schoolmaster; for we aye have a
schoolmaster in our family. When he made it known that he wanted his
grandfather's place, many voices cried, "Let him have it. Let us have a
scion o' the warthy John Patterson, for we havena had his like since the
good man's wark was stopped."
The four lassies, as they grew to womanhood, were settled in homes of
their own. The oldest one, Christie, married a worthy farmer's son, one
John McHardie. She lives in the house so long occupied by Bessie
McDougal. It seems natural to me to go there, and I am glad it is
Christie's home. Christie is just like my mother, for whom she was
named. She puts every pennyworth to its best use; and she and her
husband bid fair to do as well on the place as David McDougal and his
wife did.
The youngest lass, Maggie, married a good man with plenty of this
world's gear, yet I doubt if Margaret was better pleased than she was
with Christie's choice. John, Maggie's brother, often told her that her
bonnie face would get her a fortune some day. A bonnie face she had, and
still has, and a good heart too, which is far better. She has never been
puffed up on account of her beauty or her husband's riches; for she was
well taught that true beauty is beauty of soul, and true riches the
treasure laid up in heaven. It is with Maggie that Margaret now lives,
though the other bairns are ever wanting their mother to bide a while
with them; and so she often goes from one to another, loved and honored
by all.
In Margaret's family we cannot fail to see that God has fulfilled his
promise to the widow and the fatherless. True, they were not without
their full share of hardships; but by God's grace they bore them
submissively and bravely, and God exalted them in his own good time.
I have to record but one other event--the death of my mother. It is just
eleven years to-day since she passed away. It was like the falling to
sleep of a wee bairn. She went with a smile on her face. I could not but
wonder what made her smile. Was it joy that her long pilgrimage of more
than ninety years was accomplished at last? Did she see some one on the
other shore beckoning to her? We cannot know that she did; but we
believe that the Christian, when he goes hence, is often cheered by some
vision of God's own granting.
Mother's place by the ingle is left to me. Here I sit. I read the same
Bible, and I am waiting for the same call. God grant it may be as
gentle. I do not weary to go; for I am an honored inmate of the old
home. My nephew is fond of his aunt Effie, and Janet is a sister indeed.
Much good has come to me to make me forget the past, could it ever be
forgotten. But I look for my purest and highest enjoyment in that world
where I shall rejoin those who have passed on before.
It is not meet, it would not be wise, for me to trace all the events
connected with our family in the last few years. It might not be amiss
to say that Wilson, the man that put the match to Jamie's fingers, when
he lay on his death-bed sent for the same Jamie to pray for the
salvation of his soul. Truly, God's ways are wonderful.
And now I have done with my story. It has given me a melancholy pleasure
to write it. I think I shall not hope too much if I hope that all who
read it may learn from it that when God suffers his children to be
afflicted, he aye upholds them and gives them grace sufficient for their
needs.
Sequel: by Christie Somerville
CHAPTER XIV.
THE PEN IN ANOTHER HAND.
Having come in possession of Effie Patterson's manuscript, which the
reader has just been perusing in print, I, Christie Somerville, her
grand-niece, deem that it would not be amiss to add something thereunto.
It is with profound respect that I call to remembrance my most worthy
relative, who was a member of my father's family from my earliest
recollections, and who died at an advanced age while I was still young.
But I recollect her perfectly well, and I remember many things that she
told me; for, like all aged persons, she loved to rehearse the events of
her earlier years. Listening to her, I learned much of the history of
that sad time when the spirit of persecution desolated Scotland and
bereft us of so many of our kindred. I have also gathered from the
conversation of my parents much of the story of her life, so that the
contents of her manuscript are not entirely new to me; but they are none
the less dear because of their familiarity. She lost the spirit of
sadness apparent in her manuscript, and during the last years of her
life she was cheerful, and always ready to encourage the desponding and
assure them from her own experience that the Lord would bring them out
of all their troubles, according to his promise. My parents held her in
great veneration; and, remembering all she had suffered--her
bereavements, her toils, her loneliness, and her noble endurance--they
did all that they could to make her last days pleasant to her. She
beguiled the years of old age with reading, and she took a lively
interest in the current events of her time. I well remember her remark
when we heard that King George I. had died in his carriage while
travelling in Germany. "I have outlived seven sovereigns," said she. "It
can scarcely be God's will that I should outlive another." And she did
not. Death approached her very softly, and she passed away as gently and
as peacefully as she had desired.
She has told her story, and I thought it might be well to take it up
where she left it, and trace the dealings of God's providence with us,
her kinsfolk of later generations.
My father's name was Stephen Patterson. He was son of Janet McAdam,
wife of Stephen Patterson, the martyr, as my aunt has recorded. To my
parents were born two sons, Kenneth and Walter; but I was the only
daughter. My brothers were older than I.
Living as we did but two generations after our suffering kindred, it
will not be accounted a strange thing that we were early filled with
admiration for those who so stoutly resisted oppression. I well remember
with what eagerness we gathered around Aunt Effie to hear from her lips
stories of their seal and courage. She loved to see us manifest this
interest, which assured her that we too would stand up in defence of our
rights and privileges, should they ever be assailed.
It is not my design, however, to dwell on anything she has written, or
the time of which she wrote, but to speak of those who came after her,
and endeavor to show that religion with our people was not a fitful,
feeble flame, fanned and kindled only by persecution, but a steady fire,
that has since lighted the rugged path of poverty and toil, as it
illuminated the dungeons where our forefathers were incarcerated.
In my father's family we knew little of real poverty, for industry had
brought back a degree of prosperity; but we all had to labor
continually in order to keep the little property that was left to our
grandmother by Bessie McDougal, as you will remember. But poverty was
around us, even in families whose ancestors had been wealthy and titled.
We were early taught to think of those poorer than ourselves; nor were
we taught by precept alone, but by example as well. I remember that, at
the time when the husbandmen were to cast in the seed, many a measure of
grain was given from our own store; for grandmother thought that if folk
could not get wherewith to sow, they surely could not reap. It was her
delight to give, and she frequently stood by and added another handful
after father had given all he thought he could spare. What a grandmother
she was! I cannot adequately describe her. One must have known her
personally to be able to form a correct idea of her. She was remarkable
for sweetness of disposition, kindness, and dignity of manner, and her
earnest piety was known of all. The Bible was her constant study. She
believed it with the heart as well as with the head, and trusted its
promises with simple childlike faith. In all her trials she relied on a
present Saviour, and she brought this Saviour so near to us that we
almost felt his presence. She had proved him in darker hours than we had
ever known, and her faith was immovable. She endeavored to inspire us
with her own faith and trust.
"You must know, my dear bairns," she said to us one Sabbath afternoon,
"that the Lord Jesus has said, 'I will never leave thee nor forsake
thee.' Remember that, 'never leave thee nor forsake thee;' no, not for
one wee moment. He leads us with his hand; he guides us with his eye; he
calls us by name, and gives us gifts. The best gift, forbye the gift of
eternal life, is that of peace. We are not promised rest in this world;
but we are promised peace, and that brings us all the rest we need. We
shall have rest after a while, when our work in this world is all done.
The Lord could give us wealth and free us from toil if it would be good
for us; but he kens better. He said, 'Not as the world giveth give I
unto you.' He kens that hardships and trials are good for us; and as a
wise father chastises his children, so we are chastised by our Heavenly
Father, and we must aye trust that it is for our good."
Poor Kenneth! he found it hard, even in her day, to believe that all was
ordered for his good. Only a few days after she had thus talked with us
Kenneth was seeking a stray lamb, and, leaping a wall in his haste, he
did not quite clear it, but fell, and a heavy stone fell with him and
broke his leg. He rolled away the stone, but he could not win his way
home. He had to lie there on the grass and wait for some one to come
seeking him; and there father found him two hours later. A surgeon was
immediately sent for, but he was long in coming; and whether he did not
rightly understand his business, or what was the cause, I cannot say,
but the limb did not mend well, and the poor lad halted ever after. He
took this sorely to heart, and no one could still his sad complainings
but grandmother. As I think of it now I do not wonder at his
murmurings--so young and full of life, to be maimed before he had
reached the stature of manhood. Only the grace of God can enable us to
say under such trials, "Thy holy will be done." If this trouble, sore as
it was, had been all that was meted out to us, we still would have been
able to favor the lad, and so try to make his burden lighter. But in the
midst of harvest the same year father was stricken with palsy, and we
thought his hour had come. He lingered helpless, and at last began
slowly to recover; but he never was strong on his feet again, and never
had the full use of his right arm. With these two afflictions our
worldly prospects seemed sadly blighted.
Mother was, up to this time, but a gentle, clinging woman; but troubles
brought into action her hidden power and courage, and from being
consoled under light trials and difficulties she became consoler to us
all. Of this we had great need; for grandmother, who always sought to
interpret the dark, mysterious providences of God as real blessings, was
taken from us by death. Father grieved sorely for grandmother, and so
did we all. Her strength was hardly abated, and her heart was still
young. She had a kindly and a comforting word for every one who needed
it, and she was sadly missed by many besides ourselves. But the change
in mother helped us all, and father often said, "Agnes, what should we
do in all our difficulties without your strength and courage? The more
we are cast down, the more you lift us up and the stronger you seem."
Walter, wee man, buckled to the work right earnestly. But his strength
was small, and mother and I wrought in the field many a day during
haying and harvest. Many kinds of work were too heavy for us, and as the
years went by we were obliged to pay out many pounds for help, and this
expense ate sorely into the profits of the harvest. But we had butter
and cheese to sell, and our sheep furnished us much of our clothing, so
that our expenses were small, and, with the blessing of God, we were
kept from want. Kenneth did what he could, and was never idle; but we
kept him in school as much as we could, that he might be able to earn
his bread with his head and his fingers and not with his bodily
strength. Father oftentimes essayed to put in the sickle, but was as
often forced to yield. But, thanks to God, naught happened to Walter,
and after a few years he was able to stand master of the work himself;
and father and Kenneth learned the lesson, often so hard to learn, that
they must trust their Leader, though they cannot see the way in which
they are led.
CHAPTER XV.
A VISIT TO AUNT MARGARET.
Before I tell you more about my father's family I will tell you about
some other persons of whom Aunt Effie wrote. It seems to me that you
will wish to know if Margaret, my great-aunt, had as peaceful and as
happy an old age as was predicted for her. She was, as you will
remember, wife to James Patterson, who fell at Bothwell Bridge. I shall
be right glad to tell you about her, for I remember her well. She lived
to be very old, and was hale and hearty up to the time of her last
sickness. Her look was always so cheerful that I might almost say she
wore a perpetual smile. She was plump and rosy too, and was as nice and
comfortable a body as you would wish to look at. A visit to Aunt
Margaret was a source of pleasure to us all.
One afternoon when father was feeling poorly and discouraged, for it
seemed that all was going wrong with us, he said to mother, "Well,
Agnes, I think I'll away to Aunt Margaret's; it may do me good."
"That it will," replied my mother. "But you maun take Christie with
you, as you are no well."
I was right glad to hear that, and I hastened to make myself ready. It
was in the spring-time; the hillocks were fresh and green, and even the
crags were flecked with spots of vegetation. Sheep were cropping the
tender grass on the uplands, and cattle were browsing in the underwood.
Birds were flitting about and singing for joy as they busied themselves
with providing for their tender young. The day and the season were so
delightful that we thought nothing of the distance, and were surprised
to find ourselves so soon at Aunt Margaret's cottage. The walk did
father good, and he scarcely felt fatigue. Aunt Margaret was right glad
to see us. She had always felt a tenderness for my father, and since his
affliction came upon him she had done all she could to cheer him and
make his burden less heavy.
"Something told me you would come to-day, Steenie," said she. "I said to
Rachel this morning, 'The day is so fine I think Steenie will be here.'
You did well to bring Christie. I wish Agnes had come too." And so she
continued with her pleasant welcome and her cheerful chat, and father
soon forgot his troubles.
Aunt Margaret's son John, the schoolmaster, always lived with his
mother. His wife, Rachel, was a quiet body. She had no children, so that
there were no playmates for me; but still I liked to go there, though to
this day I can scarcely tell why. I think it was chiefly on account of
the beautiful charm that invests most children, and makes them think
their kinsfolk the best and loveliest people in the world. It must also
have been partly on Cousin John's account. He always exerted himself to
amuse children; perhaps because he had none of his own he took more
notice of other people's; at any rate, he was very agreeable, and could
be very amusing when he felt like it.
John made father laugh many times that afternoon. I suppose he was
purposely funny in order to cheer my father and hearten him up a bit.
His efforts had the desired effect, for father told John that an hour in
his company was better than a dose of medicine. But this same cousin was
grave too at times; and none took the good Book in a more reverential
manner than did he, and few in prayer seemed to approach so near the
throne of Divine Grace.
We stayed to break bread with our aunt that day. Many a daintier supper
may have been gotten on the board, but I trow none better or more
wholesome.
Aunt Margaret's cordial welcome and kind words did father good, and he
left the house with a lighter heart than he had brought to it.
The dear old lady accompanied us to the gate and took leave of us there.
"Good night to you, Steenie; and good night to you, hinny; and come
again soon," said she, as we left.
I looked back and saw her going to the poultry-yard to see that all was
right there.
"Old age is not to be dreaded when one can be so blessed, so cheerful,
and so helpful," remarked my father. "Christie, you maun make a woman
like Aunt Margaret, and like your grandmother, whose blessed memory
rests in the hearts of many people."
He pressed my hand as he said this, and I remember well I thought within
myself, "I will try to be like them."
"Well, Stephen, you look quite cheered up again," said my mother, as we
reached home.
"Aunt Margaret aye cheers a body," he replied, and he continued to talk
more cheerfully than he had done for a long time. Mother had to remind
him that he was weary with his walk and that it was time to seek rest in
sleep. She bid Walter bring the Book to Kenneth, that he might read
instead of his father.
"Read the hundred and forty-fifth Psalm," said my father.
Kenneth was a good reader, and the words seemed good and gracious even
to me. When we had all been commended to God and pardon had been asked
for all our transgressions, we sought our pillows, all of us feeling, no
doubt, as did God's servant of old when he said, "I will both lay me
down in peace and sleep, for thou, Lord, only, makest me to dwell in
safety."
CHAPTER XVI.
A MORNING AT THE MANSE.
I have a mind to take my reader next to the manse, where my Cousin James
lives in peace, and, I might add, plenty; for although his fifty pounds
a year would be considered by some folk a mere trifle, it suffices for
his wants and leaves something forbye to give to the poor. No suppliant
for charity goes from his door without a few pence to gladden his heart;
and if the need be great, the pence are sometimes held back and
shillings take their place. To be sure, there are many in the parish who
bring him gifts several times a year. We ourselves often carry our
cousin James such things as we can spare.
I remember in particular one lovely summer morning, when Walter and I
were small, my mother sent us to the manse with a little gift. Walter
carried a leg of mutton and I a bit of cheese and a bottle of cream. We
made a merry time of it, for neither of us minded our burdens, and we
laughed and chatted all the way. I doubt if the plover that was wading
in the stream was happier or more care-free than were we. Walter had a
bonnie face, though it was a bit sun-browned; but his dark hair set it
off finely. I remember he said to me, when we had almost reached the
manse, "You must quiet down now, Christie, for you have kept your mouth
stretched frae ear to ear the hail morn."
"I could say as much for yourself," I replied. Whereupon he laughed
again, showing two rows of fine teeth.
"Well," said he, "let us laugh while we may. We will have to sober down
soon enough; leastways that seems to be the way it goes with poor folk.
It is work, work, frae year's end to year's end."
"What is that you are saying, my lad?" asked the minister, coming from
behind the hedgerow and starting up the path with us.
"I was but saying that poor folk maun work and aye keep at it," replied
Walter, the color rising to his cheeks.
"And do you not like work, my wee man?" asked he, smiling.
"Ay, I like it well enough; but sometimes it seems a bit hard to have
all work and no play. I suppose it maun be right or it wouldna be so
ordered," said Walter, for he had been well taught that all the
arrangements of Providence are wise and good.
"Yes, Walter, it must be right; and you must not be discouraged because
you have been put into the harness younger than most lads. You have the
satisfaction of knowing that you are helpful, and there is a comfort in
that. It is noble to labor; it is ignoble to be idle."
He had now reached his own door, and we followed him in.
"Here is a bit of meat mother sent," said Walter. "And here is a small
cheese and some cream," said I.
"Thank you, my dears. Your mother is very kind. I am fond of Cousin
Agnes' cheese."
Stepping to the door of the pleasant sitting-room, he spoke to his wife:
"Ellen, here is company for you."
She came to greet us, and asked us to go with her. But when we were
within the room that to us seemed so grand we felt a little embarrassed.
"If I had kenned they would bring us into this bonnie room," said Walter
in an undertone, "I would have put on my Sunday clothes."
"And I too," I said, "would have put on my print gown and a ribbon on my
braids."
As we finished speaking the minister and his wife returned with Jeannie,
their little lame daughter. Jeannie was almost as old as I was, being
ten, while I was eleven; but she was pale and sickly-looking. Her arms
and hands were very thin. I looked at my own plump, brown hands; the
contrast was great. I believe Jeannie's mother observed the contrast
too, for she looked from Jeannie to me, and I heard her sigh. I went to
Jeannie and talked to her. The mother's eyes rested on us all the time,
as if her little daughter was too frail and too precious to be lost from
view a single moment. Cousin Ellen was a lovely lady, just in the prime
of life; but her husband was well on in years. She was his second wife
and the mother of two children. Alec, her son, then fifteen years old,
was a pleasant lad, and my brothers were very fond of him. Walter went
into the garden to find him, and both soon came in. Alec brought a
basket of fine cherries. I ate too many of them to be genteel, I fear;
but we had none at home, and it was not easy to restrain my childish
appetite.
The minister took us into his study. I was astonished to see so many
books. I did not know at that time that one person ever possessed so
many. I looked at them a long time, for even then I liked books. I
remember that I thought there could be no better man than our minister,
and no place bonnier than the manse.
Walter and I were thinking of going home when Alan, the son of the
first wife, drove up to the door with his wife and child.
"We maun go home now," said Walter; but I had caught sight of the wee
one, and he could not persuade me to go.
I soon managed to get the bairn in my arms, and, forgetting myself, I
was talking to it as I had heard others talking to infants. When I
looked up Alan was laughing at me.
"What an old-fashioned child you are, Christie," said he.
"Everybody tells me so," said I, slightly displeased.
"I like you all the better for your quaint ways," said he, still
smiling.
Walter was becoming very uneasy, I could see that; so I carried the
bairn to Alan, for I did not feel acquainted with his wife, and we
started for home.
"Now, my lass," said Walter, when we had but gotten out of hearing of
the manse, "I should not wonder if the taws would be taken down. The
hail morn is gone, and not a weed pulled frae the garden, nor anything
else done."
I was a little uneasy, and was pondering in my mind what I should say in
self-defence and still adhere to the truth, for I knew well it was my
fault that we had stayed away the last hour or more. We returned less
merry than we went, I can assure you. Finally I remembered that the
minister had said many good things to us, and asked us questions from
the Bible, and that we had answered very well, the minister had said so.
"Children, I am glad to know that you have been so well taught," he
said. "Although your parents have so many things to divide their
attention and distract their thoughts, they have not failed to instruct
you out of the Book that maketh wise unto salvation."
I thought if mother was too hard on me I would turn this to good
account, for she aye liked to have us get religious instruction. When we
had nearly reached home I began to lag behind, feeling in no hurry to
hear what would be said to me. Walter hastened to the garden, took up
the hoe, and began to work very fast. Just then mother came to the door.
"So, you are come at last! What has kept you the hail morn?"
"Nothing in particular," I replied, quickening my steps, "only the
minister's folk were so kind, and it was such a bonnie place that I
liked well to stay."
I looked into her face as I spoke the whole truth, but I feared so poor
an excuse might cause me to be punished. To my surprise she answered
without sternness, and with a perceptible touch of tenderness,
"I am glad ye have had a pleasant morning, puir wee lass. I was vexed
with you for staying away, for I was pressed with work; but I will no
chide you; it is little enough pleasure that you have."
"Is anything amiss?" I asked, touched by her unusual manner.
"Nae, I was but thinking how muckle better chance some children have
than others. It is wrong, I make nae doubt, to feel so, but whiles I
canna help it. It grieves me sairly that I canna let ye gang to your
cousin John's school, as ye should; but I canna spare ye."
"I can read very well now, mother," said I, "and I can repeat a score of
the Psalms and answer many of the Bible questions. Walter and I did it
the morn. The minister took us into his study and talked with us
seriously. He asked us many questions, and we answered right well, for
he said so. But Walter said it was Samson who slew Goliath. I shook my
head. 'Who was it, Christie?' asked the minister. 'David,' I replied.
'You are right,' said he. 'It is no wonder that Walter thought Samson
maun hae killed the great giant,' said I, feeling sorry for Walter. The
minister smiled and went on with his questions. Alas! I have to tell
that my own time came next; for when he asked me who was taken up in a
chariot of fire, I answered, 'Ezekiel.' Walter was even with me then,
for he quickly answered, 'Elijah.' I felt ashamed. But mother," said I,
"did not the minister read Sunday morning about Ezekiel and wheels and
fire?"
"Yes, Christie," said she; "you will find that in the tenth chapter of
Ezekiel; but it doesna say he went up in a chariot of fire. I hope you
made no more mistakes."
"No more after that, and many questions he asked us," I replied.
"Ye hae done very well," said she, heaving a sigh of relief; "some other
day ye may go again."
As soon as I had done my work in the house I hurried out to weed the
garden. I told Walter that the taws was likely to hang idle on the peg,
and that mother was o'er good. I did not know why she seemed to pity us,
for she had always told us that work was good for every one; but I now
know that she was sorry there was not a little more pleasure and
innocent childish enjoyment in our young lives, for she well knew that
the years would bring still more care and burdens still more heavy.
CHAPTER XVII.
AT COUSIN CHRISTIE'S.
Aunt Effie wrote, as you will remember, that Aunt Margaret's daughter,
Christie, and her husband made their home where David and Bessie
McDougal had so long lived; and she said, too, that they would be like
to prosper. If they have not prospered I am no judge. John McHardie has
a way of getting pennies together that few have; and he is a God-fearing
and God-serving man too, and he gives liberally to the kirk. As for
Christie, you would not find her like for strong sense and goodness
among a score of women. They have raised a large family--four lads and
five lassies; and, although they were all brought up to work hard, they
were the most mirthful of all the cousins. The lads whistled merrily as
they drove the team to the field, and the lassies sang at the wheel. In
the evening they found something to do with their hands, while they
cracked innocent jokes or slyly speired at each other about the
neighboring lads and lassies. They were so good-natured with it all that
there was much laughing, but no ill-temper.
I went there to spend the day one Saturday when I was about thirteen
years of age. It was unusual for me to have a day to myself; but I
worked well all the morning that I might leave as little as possible for
mother to do. I then made myself tidy, and took the path along the
western brae, for it was more pleasant than the dusty road, and I liked
to see the bonnie things that grew in the shade of the coppice.
It was almost dinner-time when I arrived, and preparations were going on
for that meal. Over the fire hung a large kettle of barley soup; in a
corner of the fireplace sat the bake-kettle, on the cover of which
Christie was heaping glowing embers as I entered; before the fire were
oaten cakes set up to bake, for Sunday must be provided for, and the
family were blessed with good appetites.
Christie gave me hearty greeting and inquired after father and mother.
Just then Ellen, her daughter, came in with a basket of eggs. "The black
hen has a notion to set," she was saying, when she saw me, and her face
broke into smiles. She was a bonnie lass, just turned fourteen. She and
two lads were all that were left at home, the rest having married or
gone out into the world to seek their fortune.
In the middle of the afternoon it began to rain, and darkness came
early, so that I was obliged to spend the night with them. A fire made
the little room cheerful, and we were all as merry as we could wish.
Christie sat by the candle finishing the week's sewing, and her husband
sat by the fire, falling asleep now and then, for he had been chilled by
the rain.
The evening was half spent when the door opened and Sandy McHardie, the
eldest son, came in.
"Weel, Sandy, what brings ye out on sic a night?" said his mother.
"Ye may well say 'sic a night,' for if I hadna taen my plaid I would hae
been wet to the skin."
"Wha is here?" asked his father, rousing from sleep.
"Naebody but Sandy, father. I am come to hae a talk wi' you. And I maun
tell you before I forget it--for I hae anither trouble on my mind--that
the brown mare has a swelling on her knee, and I want you to come the
morrow morn, if it is Sunday, and look at it, for it would be a wark o'
mercy to help the puir faithful beast."
"There'll be nae need o' that, Sandy. I think it maun be the same as
ailed the black horse. I'll gie you a bottle o' the wash that cured him;
I am never without it sin' that time."
"I'll try it; but if it graws waur instead o' better I'll send you
word, for I dinna want onything to happen to that beast. Now for
something mair. My sheep got into Jock Wilson's field, and it's nae
wonder, for he hasna a wa' that would keep out the maist orderly sheep
in a' Scotland. Weel, what did he do but set that savage beast o' his on
them, and ane o' the ewes was sae badly torn wi' his ugly teeth that I
had to kill her at ance, and anither broke her leg. Now I ca' that vera
unneeborly, to say the least o' it; and I am that angry I could a'maist
set sic a beast on himsel, the scoundrel! There isna an honest hair on
his heid, nor on his father's before him, nor yet on his grandfather's,
the auld traitor, wha for filthy lucre turned foe to his countrymen, and
pit thae accursed instruments o' torture to his ain neebors!"
Here he paused to take breath.
"Mother," said Ellen softly, "was he no the ane wha put the match to
Uncle Jamie's fingers?"
Her mother nodded in the affirmative.
"There isna need to be sae muckle heated aboot it, Sandy," said his
father. "It is nae wonder ye are vexed, but ye ken that will do nae
gude. How is your ain part o' the wa'?"
"It couldna be better. That is the vexing part o' the matter. He kens
weel I hae nae ither place to keep my sheep. Now what is to be dune
aboot it?"
"Just speak to the laird aboot it. Jock is afeared o' him if he isna o'
you; and if he doesna gang right he'll soon be shifted frae his bonnie
cot and set doon by the wayside, for a' Laird Graham will care."
"Sure enough. I was that angry I couldna think sae far."
"Now let me say a word, Sandy," said his mother. "If ye had minded the
gude Ward ye wouldna hae let the sun go down on your wrath; ye would hae
thought yoursel about laying the matter before your uncle. Ye maun be
slow to wrath, as the apostle James has written."
"Weel, mother, I hae been slow to speak; leastways I didna gang to him
as I had a mind to do. So ye see I hae heeded part o' the injunction, at
ony rate."
"Ye hae dune weel in that, Sandy. Thae Wilsons are as they are, and the
less ye hae to do wi' them, the better."
"Ye are right there, mother. I wish the hail boodle o' them could be set
across the North Sea into another land than Scotland!"
"O Sandy, we can bring nae gude feeling into our hearts by cherishing
ill-will towards ony human creature. We maun a' hae mair patience.
Alas! I fear nane o' us are like the meek and gentle Maister. Compose
yoursel noo, Sandy, and get your mind better prepared for the service o'
the Lord's house on the morrow."
"I suppose ye killed baith the ewes," said the father.
"That I did. I could do nae less."
"I'll tak ane o' them; the ither ye can mak use o'. On Monday I'll ride
over and see the laird, and I think ye'll hae nae mair trouble wi' your
neebor on that score, and there'll be nae real loss after a'."
"I canna quite say that," replied Sandy. "They were fine ewes, o' a
choice breed. I wouldna set the value o' twa ither sheep anent them as a
fitting recompense."
"Weel, it is bad enough, Sandy; but say nae mair aboot it. I'll gie ye
twa bonnie lambs in their place. Peace is muckle better than discord
among neebors."
Sandy rose to go.
"Tak your faither's plaid," said his mother; "your ain is no dry yet."
Sandy opened the door. "The rain has abated," said he. "I need nae plaid
at all. Gude night to ye all." Then recollecting himself, he paused to
say, "Tell Stephen's lass to come over wi' her parents and visit us. I
want Stephen and Agnes to see how we are making out on the wee place."
It was late bedtime when Sandy left. John McHardie took the Book of all
books, and with solemn voice read the thirty-fourth Psalm. Then he made
a lengthy prayer, in which he thanked God for the blessings of the week
just past, and asked that an especial blessing might attend the labors
of God's servants on the morrow. After worship all retired. I was both
sleepy and weary, and was soon lost in slumber. That was my first night
from home.
When I awoke in the morning I could not for a moment remember where I
was. Then all came back to me. Ellen had already risen. I rose and
looked out of the window. It was a bright, bonnie morn. I looked up at
the blue sky, then down at the green earth; everything looked fresh, and
the air was sweet. All was so still and peaceful that I thought the
Sabbath had a calmness of its own, and to this day I fancy that it has.
I went with my cousins to the kirk, and from there I went home. I had
been gone but a short time, but I was glad to be again under the
home-roof.
CHAPTER XVIII.
GRAHAM PLACE.
The following week Laird Graham came to see about Sandy's difficulty
with his neighbor, and he brought his wife to our house. It was two or
three years since they had been to see us.
The laird took a great liking to Kenneth, who was at that time eighteen
years of age, and a fine lad he was; saving his lameness, no bonnier
young man was in the whole country-side. The lad's conversation showed
so much good sense that our kinsman wanted him to go and live with him,
and he spoke to us about it.
"I have need of some one like Kenneth," said he. "I was thinking of one
of Christie's lads; but they are strong and can labor in the field,
while Kenneth should have some easier way to earn his bread. Davie is
but poorly, and he is worse since Katie married and went away. I think
his loneliness wears on him. Kenneth would be a companion for him; and
as he is good at figures, he could keep my accounts and look after
things when I am away. I will do well by the lad, and he will have no
hard work."
"Thank you for your kind offer," said my father. "If the lad wants to
go I cannot stand in his way."
Kenneth was glad of so good a chance to begin his way in the world, and
at once accepted the opportunity. The separation caused sadness; but we
consoled ourselves with the thought that he would not be far from us.
Thus Kenneth was provided with a good home among his own kin, and a
chance to see more of the world and do better than he could in our
humbler home and sphere. He could also help us more with his wages than
he could with his work. We had need of his help, for father's strength
failed every year, and at that time his limbs were so palsied that he
could scarcely walk. He was feeble, and at times greatly suffered. We
spent a great deal with doctors; but he became worse instead of better.
Three years after Kenneth went away came a summer long to be remembered
by us all. Mother sickened, and for many weeks the angel of death seemed
hovering over us. Then we were indeed troubled. Father's anxiety
increased his weakness, and we thought we should lose both father and
mother. I was just turned sixteen, and I did my best that mother should
have no cause to worry about the work. Walter and I watched anxiously
for signs of returning health, but they were long in coming. Everything
was changing without. The summer sun was fast maturing grain and fruit;
but still she, who had been wont to admire the one and pluck the other,
lay on her bed of languishing. Wearisome days were these to us all. I
was determined not to yield to fatigue; but tired nature could not be
wholly overruled by force of will. Many times when, at a late hour, I
sought my bed, my limbs almost refused to carry me to it. But the
darkest night must be followed by the dawn; and so, too, the morn of
hope dawned for us--mother recovered. Then it was first noticed that I
was worn and needed rest. "Poor lass!" said my mother, "as soon as I get
my strength you must have a play-spell."
Kenneth had driven over many times to see his mother; twice Cousin
Margaret came with him. The last time she came she found mother better;
and noticing that I was pale and worn, she proposed that I should go to
her house and rest a week or two. "As soon as you are strong I will send
Kenneth for her, and you maunna refuse me, Cousin Agnes," she said.
I scarcely knew whether I was glad or sorry to go. I was to have a new
gown, and a bonnie one too; mother said it was but right. I remember
that all the silver we could gather on a market was spent to make me
ready. When at last the day came and I rode away with Kenneth, I
anticipated scarcely more pleasure than homesickness. I think I should
have been frightened out of the visit altogether if I had known I was to
meet there one who was destined to be my companion through life. But so
it was, for there I first saw James Somerville, whose name I now bear.
He was a nephew of the laird, and was spending a few weeks there before
he should recommence his studies--for he was studying for the ministry.
He was a tall, handsome youth, with fine brown eyes. We became
acquainted, of course; and I wondered that he was so well pleased with
me, for I was but a bashful girl, and among so many strange people I was
more shy than ever. But he had a way of talking to me that put me at my
ease, and I quite forgot that he was so recently unknown to me. I met
many strangers, and there were many diversions; but in them all I often
found myself thinking of the fine brown eyes--far oftener than I thought
of Kenneth or the dear ones I had left at home.
Ten days passed rapidly. There was riding and driving, coming and going,
and more stir than I had ever seen in all my life. My visit, that I
thought might be tedious, ended too soon. Two hours' ride with Kenneth
brought me again to our cottage. I am ashamed to write that to me it
looked plain and small, and that I felt jealous of Kenneth, who enjoyed
all the privileges of the laird's own family. But I soon put such
thoughts away, and hurried within to greet my good, kind mother who had
spared me so many days. Father and Walter seemed dearer for my short
absence. But the quiet of my life had been disturbed. It was as when one
casts a rock into the calm bosom of a little lake; it sinks, but that is
not all. It sets wee waves in motion, and they widen and widen in
ever-increasing circles, and stop not till they reach the shore. So it
is with many of the seeming unimportant events of life.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW.
My readers will be ready to believe me when I tell them that after this
I often found myself dreaming of the future, and wondering what it had
in store for me. I had plenty to do, so that my hands were not idle
while my fancy roamed at times unchecked. I did not feel as care-free as
I had done; but life possessed a charm which I had never known before. I
was no longer a child, and I put away childish things and thoughts. I
determined to make the most of the few advantages which our limited
circumstances would allow. I worked early and late that I might attend
the school. I paid more attention to my appearance than I had been wont
to do. My hair, which was heavy and often neglected, received as much
care on a week-day as on Sunday. It became darker and more glossy.
Walter often complimented me on my improvement; but I am free to say it
was not for Walter's sake that I was thus mindful of my looks.
Nor was this all. Whatever I did I strove to do in the best manner. My
parents seemed never to weary of commending me. Life was very pleasant
to me at that time. We were a little above want, and I sometimes had a
few shillings to spend for some article of dress not exactly necessary,
but pleasing to a young maid's fancy. My father's feebleness was the
only drawback to our enjoyment--and that we had accepted as one of the
allotments of Providence.
Alas, this world is a changeful place! One tastes of joy, and then the
cup of sorrow is put to his lips. When I was eighteen my father left us
for the better world. That he exchanged earthly pain for eternal
happiness we never doubted. His dear life, especially in his last years,
was a continual demonstration of the power of divine grace. Oh, it is a
bonnie thing and a blessed thing, this walking with God! We may well say
"the beauty of holiness," for it has a beauty all its own. The world may
turn its frown upon the child of God, but he is undaunted; adversity may
scatter its hoar-frosts upon him, but he still stands forth in all the
freshness of perennial life; sickness may enervate the body, but the
spiritual nature grows stronger as it nears the heavenly haven; friends
may forsake and foes may hate, but if he is firmly planted in the
kingdom of grace he remains unmoved by either. "Nothing can separate us
from the love of God." It is this love that strengthens and beautifies
the soul which is the real life of the Christian.
Two years passed by and brought no marked changes. At the end of that
time the aged James Patterson resigned his ministry. With advancing
years his locks have grown whiter, his step slower, and his strength has
visibly failed. He has passed the bounds of man's allotted days upon the
earth, and now, tenderly cared for by his son Alan, under whose roof he
and his wife find a hearty welcome, he calmly awaits the call to come up
higher.
When our aged relative and beloved pastor laid aside his robe of office
and no longer served in the Lord's house, James Somerville, my own
betrothed, was called to fill the vacant place. In my heart there was
joy, for I should not now be separated from my mother and the dear
friends and scenes of my youth. One month after he was called among us I
became his wife; and now for three happy years the visit to Graham Place
has never been regretted by the mistress of the manse.