likely to be dreadful enough, other troubles, born of superstition,
could not fail to arise in the soul of the excommunicated. Every man who
is not religious in the highest sense of the word, must be in some way
or other superstitious. For though many men can dispense with a creed,
every man must of necessity have a faith; a belief in something of which
his senses cannot take cognizance, in some power greater than his own,
yet not without its influence upon his being. David Stratton had thrust
this belief away into the darkest corner of his soul—had smothered it
with the pursuits, the interests, the pleasures of life—had almost
become insensible to its existence. But the thunder of excommunication
awakened it within him, and every superstitious fear or fancy he had
felt or known since childhood nourished and gave it strength. Strange
things began to haunt and torture him; memories of warnings from the
lips of a dead mother; frightful stories of hell and purgatory from the
friars’ sermons he had occasionally listened to; legends of the terrible
punishments inflicted on those who despised holy Kirk, how their bodies
could not rest in their graves, nor their souls find relief from
anguish; all these mingled with recollections of his own sins since last
he had confessed, and indeed during his whole life—a very miscellaneous
catalogue, comprising such items as neglecting to hear mass, and running
some one through with his whinger in a drunken brawl. But on all these
points he was profoundly silent, covering a heart that ached and
trembled in secret by a dauntless, or rather a defiant bearing. He paid
the prior his Latin curses back with interest in good plain Saxon; and
he boasted everywhere that he “wadna gie a brass bodle for a’ his
cursing.”
He would, however, have given half his worldly possessions with a
cheerful heart to be well clear of the whole business, when he learned
in what light it was regarded by Alison Lindsay and by her relatives. A
cold message from her father, declining a proffered visit, stung him to
the quick, especially as it was hinted that her own wishes on the
subject entirely coincided with those of her family. About the same
time, an intimation reached him from another quarter, that his open
contempt of the sentence of excommunication was considered to savour of
heresy, and might probably involve him in temporal pains and penalties.
Upon hearing this, he went to Lauriston to seek his brother’s counsel
and countenance. The consolations the Laird administered to his wounded
feelings were of a very common, but very unsatisfactory kind. “This came
of rejecting good counsel—he had told him beforehand exactly what would
happen.” Such was the substance of Lauriston’s exhortations; nor was it
to be wondered at that under the circumstances he should look coldly on
his imprudent brother. Naturally both shrewd and timid, he was keenly
alive to the peril David incurred in provoking a prosecution for heresy,
and no less sensible that the danger would not be confined to his own
person, since the orthodoxy of other members of the family was by no
means above suspicion. But reasonable as his displeasure may have been,
David was not prepared to brook its expression. His anger was easily
kindled, and an open quarrel between the brothers, the first since their
childhood, followed. David at last strode out from the halls of
Lauriston with flushed cheek and burning brow, protesting that nothing
would induce him to remain, even for one single night, beneath the roof
of a brother who used him so unworthily. He had come on horseback, and
with a mounted servant, but he departed alone and on foot, leaving
orders at the porter’s lodge for his attendant to follow him next day to
his own dwelling with the horses.
It was late; but the month was August, and the long twilight lingered
still. Mechanically David went on, his mind too busy with its own bitter
thoughts, to take note of anything around him. The kirkmen, the
Lindsays, his brother, all were alike his enemies; and had either united
together for his ruin, or were determined to abandon him to those who
had. Every man’s hand was against him; but if he must die, he would die
hard. He would give them all trouble enough before he had done with
them, from Patrick Hepburn himself, villain that he was (and David
clenched his hand), to Alison Lindsay’s scapegrace brother, who had
delivered that bitter message with such a mocking smile. He wondered
what had kept him from giving the lad a taste of his whinger in return,
save indeed that he was but a “hafflins callant,” and slight and
pale-faced like “Maister Geordie,—wha’ll be owre blythe to ken a plain
man like me can make a muckle fool o’ himsel as weel as a body wha has
been driven daft wi’ logic, and Latin, and sic’.” He was just about to
retract the acknowledgment of his folly, when feeling a hand laid on his
shoulder, he turned quickly round, and at the same moment placed his own
on his sword, a very natural impulse in those rough uncertain times.
He was a good deal surprised to see the person who had just occupied his
thoughts, his nephew George. “I a’maist took ye for a robber, lad,” he
said, adding an expression that need not be chronicled. “Gang hame to
yer bed, and dinna stop folk at midnight on the king’s highway.” He
spoke however, all things considered, with tolerable good humour; for he
remembered that he had no personal quarrel with George, who had not even
been present during his stormy altercation with the Laird.
“The Laird of Lauriston’s brother,” answered the young scholar, “suld
not be found on the king’s highway at midnight within three mile of
Lauriston Castle.”
“That’s the Laird o’ Lauriston’s ain doing.”
“Not with his will.” And then the youth exerted himself to the utmost to
act the part of peace-maker. As might be guessed, his mission was not
exactly of his own choosing. His gentle mother, the Lady Isabel, had
been much distressed by the quarrel between the Laird and his brother.
This was not only because she liked David, and did justice to the
genuine qualities that lay beneath his rough exterior, but because she
was warmly interested in her young cousin Alison, and had set her heart
on the prosperous termination of a suit which, from the beginning, she
had furthered in every way in her power. No sooner, therefore, had she
heard the heavy tramp of David’s retreating footsteps, than she hastened
to her son, who was reading in his own chamber, and entreated him to
follow his uncle and prevent, if possible, the open and perhaps deadly
rupture that must ensue if he quitted Lauriston at such an hour and in
such a way. George hesitated, pleading the dislike and contempt with
which his uncle evidently regarded him. But his mother’s earnestness
overcame his reluctance, and he eventually consented to undertake the
difficult and distasteful task.
Though for some time his explanations and remonstrances seemed
unavailing, yet he was not discouraged, as he drew a favourable augury
from the fact that his uncle was willing to hear him patiently to the
end, which was much more than he expected at first.
At length he took the last arrow out of his quiver, and discharged it
with due care and deliberation. “His mother,” he said, “greatly
regretted his uncle’s departure, having a few days agone received a
letter from a gentlewoman, her friend or cousin, concerning which she
desired to hold purpose with Maister David.” Then, wisely changing the
subject, he added, “Gif ye depart thus, uncle, it will be a tale for all
the country side, that the Laird and his brother have quarrelled. But
come home with me, and bide till the morning breaks, and servants and
horses will haud themselves ready to do yer pleasure. So shall ye go,
gif ye maun go, as Stratton of Stratton suld frae the halls of Stratton
of Lauriston.”
“Atweel—aiblins—for the honour o’ the family,” said David, slowly
turning; “but I’ll keep my word, and no see Andrew’s face again.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
III.
=The First Prayer.=
“Oh, that I knew where I might find Him!”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
III.
=The First Prayer.=
When George Stratton returned with David to the Castle, he found that
his parents had already retired to rest. This was only what he expected
and wished; he therefore himself cheerfully accompanied his uncle to the
chamber which had been prepared for him; where he waited upon him with a
respect and attention that evidenced something more than the mere desire
to discharge the duties of hospitality towards a guest beneath his
father’s roof, and that guest his father’s brother. We usually conceive
a liking for any one for whom we exert ourselves to do a kindness; and
in this way, perhaps, it happened that George was disposed to regard his
uncle’s character from a more favourable point of view that night than
he had ever done before. Besides, the attitude of fearless independence
which David had assumed was not entirely without its charms in his eyes,
little as he found to admire in the feelings that had, in the first
instance, inspired his resistance to the prior’s covetous demand.
During their walk they had scarcely interchanged a word, but as they
stood together before parting for the night, David remarked, with a
laugh: “I doot but yon Sir William, the Capellan, ’ill come here sae
soon as I’m awa’, and sprinkle the chalmer[28] wi’ holy water, for fear
I might chance to leave the tail o’ the prior’s curse behind me.”
George laughed also as he answered, “Sir William maun just bide yer
presence, as he has to bide many a thing he likes scarce as weel.”
“Ye’re daffing, lad. I thocht ye were a’ good Christians.”
“But we’re not dumb; an’ if a chance word against the priests is to earn
a man the name of heretic, there’ll be mair in it than you, uncle.”
David turned, and gave George the benefit of one of the keenest glances
of his keen blue eyes. Had the lad more in him than he had ever given
him credit for? Was he, in spite of his “book lear,” neither coward nor
fool? Resolved at least to test him a little further, he told him his
opinion of the kirkmen in general, and of Patrick Hepburn in particular,
using language much too plain and forcible to be transferred to these
pages.
George listened in silence to his angry diatribe; and, when he had
finished, allowed a few moments to elapse before he attempted an answer.
Then he said, in tones unusually quiet and gentle, “When our blessed
Lord was here on earth, he said many things of the wicked priests and
Pharisees of his time, that to my thinking are owre true yet.”
“Ay, did he?” asked David, with a look of interest. He had the vaguest
possible ideas of the time of which his nephew spoke, and we fear we may
add, of the Person whom he named with such reverence; but he was glad to
hear that any one had told hard truths of “thae greedy loons, the
priests.”
“Wad ye like to hear what he said?” continued George.
“Unco weel,” answered David, eagerly enough.
George drew his New Testament from the sleeve of his doublet, opened it
at the 23rd of St. Matthew, and began to read. “Then spake Jesus to the
multitude, and to his disciples, saying, The scribes and Pharisees sit
in Moses’ seat: all therefore whatsoever they bid you observe, that
observe and do.”
“Eh, but that’s nae guid ava’,” interrupted David angrily.
“Bide a wee, uncle, and have patience,” said the reader, and he went on:
“But do not ye after their works, for they say and do not.”
David was all attention now, nor did he again interrupt until George
came to the words, “Ye devour widows’ houses, and for a pretence make
long prayers, therefore ye shall receive the greater damnation,” when he
could no longer contain his delight,—“Yon’s the brawest sermon I hae
heard in a’ my life,” he cried; “it’s a’ true, but the lang prayers. Our
priests dinna fash theirsels owre muckle wi’ _them_, I’m thinking.”
George was too intent upon another and very different object to waste
the precious moments in discussing this point; though he certainly
thought that the frequent masses, and many of the other services of the
Church, might be not inaptly described as “long prayers made for a
pretence.” He read on, therefore, without note or comment, to the close
of the chapter.
“Is that a’?” asked David, quickly. “Does he tell us naething o’ the
proud bishops and priors, and a’ the lave?—but aiblins they werena sae
bad in those times as they be the noo.”
“They did not use the same names to call them by,” said George; “but ye
see, uncle, they were bad enough, and to spare.”
“Did they curse honest folk, and drive them frae the kirk, naebut for
standing on their right, and no letting theirsels be fleeced like sae
mony puir feckless bits of sheep? and what did the Saint—I mean our
blessed Lord (and he crossed himself)—say to sic cantrips?”
“They did worse than all that, uncle; they cursed good and honest men,
cast them out of the kirk, ay and killed them an they could, gif they
dared to confess that Jesus was the Christ, or to say they believed in
him,”—and a dark shadow passed across young Lauriston’s face. Perhaps he
was thinking of a scene he had witnessed, not so many months before, at
St. Andrews,—the death by fire of “ane Henry Forrest, a young man born
in Linlithgow,” “for none other cause but because he had ane New
Testament in Englis,” and that he constantly affirmed “that Maister
Patrick Hamilton was a martyr, and that his articles were true, and not
hereticall.”
But he only said, “I can give you, from my book, a true history of one
they cast out.” And then he half read, half repeated, the story of the
man blind from his birth, whose eyes the Saviour opened, and who
afterwards confessed his name so boldly before the Pharisees.
David Stratton did not, by word or sign, evidence either interest or
impatience. He stood still, leaning against the casement, and looking
out upon the moonlit castle-yard, and the pasture-lands beyond, with
rows of stately trees. Ever afterwards with that scene was associated in
his mind the first hearing of those marvellous words, “I am the light of
the world,” and the vague awe, and wonder, and sense of mystery they
awoke within him.
At last George read, “Thou wast altogether born in sins, and dost thou
teach us? and they cast him out.”
“_That’s just like me_,” said David emphatically, turning towards him
again. “Na, na,” he added, in a lower voice, “they cast _him_ out
because he told them the truth anent our Lord’s wonderfu’ wark,—_I’ve_
nae done like that.”
George went on quietly: “Jesus heard that they had excommunicate him;
and as soon as he had found him, he said unto him, Dost thou believe on
the Son of God? He answered and said, And who is it, Lord, that I might
believe on him? And Jesus said unto him, Thou hast both seen him, and he
it is that talketh with thee. And he said, Lord, I believe. And
worshipped him.”[29] Then, without a word of comment, he closed the book
and restored it to its hiding-place.
David’s eyes followed it wistfully. “It’s a braw thing ye hae got book
lear, Geordie,” he said.
George was naturally not displeased at this unwonted admission on his
uncle’s part. “And there’s no book like this book,” he answered; “God’s
ain hand has written every line and letter in it.”
“But can ye mak’ the meaning out, callant? For I misdoot that’s unco
hard.”
“Whiles,” said the youth humbly; “and I pray God day by day to teach me
more and better. But the hour is late, and your foot is aye early in the
stirrup, uncle, so that I should not tarry.”
Good-nights were then exchanged, and without further conversation George
left the room.
David Stratton stood long at the lancet window—how long he never knew.
Strange new thoughts filled his mind, and for the first time for weeks
even the Prior of St. Andrews and the Vicar of Ecclescreig were
forgotten. For he did not, as might be imagined, amuse and gratify
himself by applying the fiery denunciations he had just heard to these
his personal enemies. They had indeed impressed and delighted him at the
time; but what he afterwards heard almost swept them from his memory.
Unaccustomed to abstract thought, though full of practical shrewdness, a
mere exposition of doctrine would perhaps hardly have left a clearer
impression on him, when delivered in his native tongue, than if it had
been couched in Latin; but his mind was quick to grasp and strong to
retain the circumstances of a story. Nor did he only retain them
passively: he was accustomed to reflect, after a fashion, upon his own
doings and those of other men; and to his imagination, the blind man of
the gospel was as real, and not more distant, than if he had lived or
was living then in Edinburgh or St. Andrews. For what did he know or
care about those fifteen long weary centuries that lay between? The
restoration of sight to the blind—that was very wonderful, to be sure.
He knew a blind man, who used to sit at the door of St. Mary’s Abbey
Kirk in Dundee, and to whom he had many a time given an alms as he
passed. He wondered what would old Simon think if some one were to come
one day and open _his_ eyes. And who was that _some one_ whose word,
whose touch, had such power? It was Jesus, the Son of God. How good it
was of him to do it—and to do it for a poor unknown man, a blind beggar,
no better than old Simon Hackett! And, moreover, he did not send one of
the holy apostles to him, though that would have been marvellously kind
and condescending—he did much more. He himself spoke to him, and touched
him.
Here it will be observed that the goodness of the act impressed David
far more than its greatness. There was a reason for this. It is the
tendency of all spurious imitations to lower the value of the thing
imitated in the popular mind. Thus, Rome’s lying legends had, as it
were, cheapened miracles in the eyes of men. They were accustomed to
hear, and to believe, stories of wonderful works, which, as mere
exhibitions of superhuman _power_, apart from wisdom or goodness, are to
the calm and dignified narratives of the gospel as the blaze of an
illuminated city to the pale and distant, but enduring, glories of the
starry heavens. A hundred blind men, or a thousand, restored to sight,
would not have astonished David beyond measure, or too sorely taxed his
faith. But the personal human kindness with which that awful Being, the
Son of God (of whom, when he thought at all, he thought with vague
terror as the Judge of mankind), stooped to deal with this one poor
blind man, surprised and touched him deeply. Little wonder, he thought,
that the man spoke up so bravely before the Pharisees (David called them
the _Bishops_) to bear witness to his goodness! And very like them to
cast him out for it!
But how did the poor man feel when he found himself an outcast, cursed
by the kirkmen, abandoned by all his friends, and in danger of worse
harm to follow, belike both to soul and body? Probably he was sore
perplexed and terrified. Ay, but then “Jesus found him.” Found him, was
it, or met him—which did Geordie say? _Found him_; he was sure of it.
“It wasna that he forgathered wi’ him by chance in the highway, but he
_speered after_ him, for he heard that they had excommunicated him.” And
he spoke to him so gently and kindly, and gave him, no doubt, a short
and clean shrift from all his sins, better than all the bishops in that
country could do. Would, oh would that he were alive now! However
distant he might be, David Stratton would go to him, were it twice as
far as the shrine of St. James of Compostella—twice as far even as that
Hierusalem whither Friar Scott had travelled lately—he cared not. Had he
to go the whole “gait” on foot, he cared not, if so be that at the end
he might throw himself at the feet of that great and good One, and say
to him, “Lord, I too am cast out of the Kirk by these wicked, covetous
bishops, wilt thou not let me confess my sins to thee, and give me thy
pardon?”
But the Lord Jesus was not to be found at Compostella, nor yet in
Hierusalem—he knew that. It would be a good thing, doubtless, for a man
to pray in these holy places, or to bring back relics of wonderful
virtue, as Friar Scott had done—fragments of stone from the pillar to
which Christ was bound, and such like; but to meet our Lord himself
personally, and to speak with him, that was another matter clearly.
Friar Scott, with all his bragging, had never bragged of _that_; nor
would he have believed him if he had. Yet nothing less would do for him,
in his present sore distress and difficulty—for such he now confessed it
to be. And then he remembered that the Lord was not on earth at all, in
any place—he was in heaven, at God’s right hand. Could he not pray to
him there?
This was the first glimmering perception of the real purpose and meaning
of prayer that dawned upon the mind of David Stratton. Hitherto he had
always thought of it as a meritorious action, by means of which good
things might be obtained and evil ones averted, through the assistance
and mediation of the Virgin and the saints, to whom by far the greater
part of the prayers he knew were addressed. Now he began to think it
might possibly be a way of communication between this world and the
other, by which he might actually succeed in conveying a request about
which he was very much in earnest to the ear of the great Son of God
himself.
His prayer, if prayer it may be called, was couched in words like these:
“Lord, they hae cast me out. I wad find thee an’ I could; but sin’ I
canna do that, I ask thee to find me. And gie me, thysel, shrift and
pardon for a’ my sins; for ye ken I canna get it frae the kirkmen, and
I’m a muckle sinner in thy sight the day—God help me. Amen.”
Such were some of the thoughts that filled the mind of David Stratton
during the silent hours of that night, to him for ever memorable. What
he felt cannot be traced so easily as what he thought. There is a
sanctuary in almost every soul into which no other human soul can
penetrate. None but He who has searched and knoweth the hearts he made,
could understand the strange new-born impulse which brought David
Stratton, in his trouble and danger, to the feet of the merciful
Saviour, of whose grace he had heard that night for the first time. “He
is great, he can help me—he is good, perhaps he will.” Thus much could
be expressed in words; but not so the strong sense of his goodness, and
the first dawnings of love and trust in the heart that was ignorantly
and half unconsciously, yet really, turning towards Him.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
IV.
=Dawnings of Light.=
“I bring my guilt to Jesus,
To wash my crimson stains,
White in his blood most precious,
Till not a spot remains.”
REV. H. BONAR.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
IV.
=Dawnings of Light.=
Other eyes were wakeful that night, and other minds were busy, upon
Master David Stratton’s account. The Lady of Lauriston, as we are
already aware, had set her heart upon bringing about a reconciliation
between him and her husband. She did not anticipate much difficulty with
the Laird, over whom she possessed almost unbounded influence. And even
without her interference, he would probably have speedily regretted his
quarrel with a brother to whom he was really attached; and the rather
because of the dangers and difficulties of David’s present position. His
wife’s persuasions, therefore, combined with his own relentings, soon
brought him to a state of mind to hear with much thankfulness of the
mission George had undertaken in the capacity of peace-maker.
“But it’s na use,” he answered, with a desponding shake of the head. “I
ken Davie unco weel; he’s that stubborn, a man might cut him in twa, and
no gar him turn frae his ain gait.”
“Leave him to me,” said the lady in reply. “I ken for sure he came back
with George last night, for I heard his foot as he gaed to his chalmer;
and ye’ve but to keep still, Andrew, and to speak him fair, when I bring
him into the hall to breakfast, as, the saints helping me, I’ll try to
do. Speak him fair anent his kine or his boat, or his braw new house
that he’s plenishing in Dundee—onything ye list but the kirkmen and the
cursing.”
“And yer bonnie cousin Alison, that he’s like to tyne[30] for his
foolery?” asked the Laird, with a smile.
“Ay, Laird, that were best left to me too. Weel as ye think ye ken
Maister David,” she added after a pause, “_I_ ken him better. He’s a
dour chield, and unco stubborn, but he’s manful; and it’s a lang gait he
wadna gang for the man or the woman he truly loves. And he loves Alison
Lindsay.”
“And she—what of her, Isabel?”
“Tut, Laird; ye mauna be speering owre mony questions. I’m not my
cousin’s father confessor.”
“Ye’ll be plainer with David, I hope.”
“No need for that. He that loves can understand what is but half
spoken.” And Lady Isabel could not be induced to explain herself
farther.