that Alison Lindsay had been promised by her father to David Stratton in
reality any answer to it, for every one knows that the sacrifice of a
girl’s inclinations to the interest or convenience of her kinsfolk was a
matter of daily occurrence in those rough times. David was ten years
older than his intended bride; he was neither very handsome nor very
rich, and he was greatly her inferior in refinement and cultivation—for
both Isabel and her young cousin had received their education in a
convent, where, besides the peculiarly feminine art of skilful
embroidery in its various branches, they were carefully initiated into
the mysteries of reading and writing; and were, in fact, for their time,
well educated if not accomplished women. Yet, in spite of all this,
Alison Lindsay _did_ return David Stratton’s affection. If a reason
should be asked, it may perhaps be rendered (strange as this may appear)
in the very words by which the Lady Isabel described her
brother-in-law’s character: “He’s a dour chield, and unco stubborn; but
he’s _manful_.” As men admire nothing so much in women as perfect
womanliness, so women, even the gentlest, usually admire manliness in
men more than any other characteristic. In Alison’s eyes, “Maister David
Stratton of Stratton” was a hero; nor need we pause to inquire whether
or not he was transfigured by her imagination into something essentially
different from what he really was; it is enough to have stated the fact,
that the life of this rude, obstinate, daring gentleman of Angus was far
more precious in the eyes of some one else than it was in his own.
Without a great deal of difficulty, George succeeded the next morning in
detaining his uncle until the Lady Isabel appeared. Purposely abstaining
from any allusion to what had passed the night before, he sought to wile
away the time by conversation upon indifferent subjects. Amongst other
things, he chanced to ask what had become of a favourite bay mare, which
he had been wont to ride when he came to Lauriston. David told him, with
some regret, that he had sold her before Pasche, being then anxious for
a sum of money to complete the purchase of his new house in Dundee.
George asked who had bought her; perhaps thinking the mare a safer
subject of conversation than the house, which he well knew had been
destined by his uncle for the reception of his bride.
“Wae’s me!” answered David; “wha suld buy her but John Erskine o’ Dune.
Mair’s the pity! Owre guid for him to hae sic a bonny beast to carry
him, wi’ a’ his outlandish nonsense.”
But George’s face brightened wonderfully at the mention of John
Erskine’s name.
“Then you’re acquaint with the Laird of Dune, uncle?” he asked.
“As weel as I’m like to be. Leeze me on a man wi’ a guid Scot’s tongue
in his head, forbye a guid Scot’s heart in his bosom, and tak a’ yer
newfangled outland folk.”
“There’s no truer Scottish heart in all the realm than that of John
Erskine of Dune!” cried George, unable any longer to keep silence.
“Uncle, you know him not. But I pledge ye my word there are few like
him. A learned, godly gentleman”—But here he stopped suddenly,
recollecting that the praise he was so liberally bestowing on his friend
would hardly sound well in his uncle’s ears.
“Oh ay, unco learned, nae doubt. I hae heard he’s gaun to set up a
schule at Montrose, to lear the puir bairns Greek, forsooth! Guid wark
that for a laird! He’d better hae them taught to put the stane and to
shoot at the popinjay, sae he’d hae a chance to make _men_ o’ them, at
least.”
George could not help laughing at this representation of the case; but
he admitted that the Laird of Dune was endeavouring to found an academy
at Montrose for the study of Greek, being anxious that the intelligent
youth of his native land should learn to read the word of God in the
language in which it is written. “For he loves the word of God with his
haill heart,” said George. “And I ken no one who understands it so weel.
He hath expounded mony things unto me.”
Here the entrance of the Lady Isabel put a stop to the conversation. It
will be easily seen that a woman like the Lady of Lauriston was sure to
come off victorious from any verbal encounter with a man like David
Stratton. But beside all other advantages, she had a powerful though
silent ally in the piece of folded paper she held in her hand. Alison
Lindsay’s letter was indeed no more than a quaint and rather formal
appeal to her “loving cousin,” asking her to entreat the Laird to take
into his service a certain old retainer of the Lindsays, “muckle Sawney
Gordon,” who had been so unfortunate as to displease one of her
hot-headed young brothers. But then there was a brief postscript, which
ran thus:—
“Shoulde Maister Stratton come unto Lauriston, it were as weall to tell
him that all his friendis, and they that were his friendis, merveille at
his temeritie, or rather proude rashnesse. For his soule’s wealle, no to
say for that of his temporall Estaite, entreate him to reconseille
himselfe to Holie Kirke, quhill as yett thare is tyme.”
Perhaps the words might have seemed cold and harsh, had not Isabel shown
David the paper upon which they were written. It was blotted with tears.
He took it in his hand, and held it there for one moment, his strong
fingers closing over it with a nervous grasp, and trembling as they
closed. Then he silently gave it back, rose from his seat, and strode
across the room.
When he reached the door, he paused, as if in doubt. Lady Isabel took
advantage of his momentary irresolution; she had something still to say
which he could not choose but hear. She told him quietly she had long
been desirous to receive a visit from her cousin Alison, as she knew the
motherless girl was often lonely in her father’s house; and that she
thought she could overrule any objection her relatives might make to her
coming to Lauriston. Should this plan succeed, Maister David would have
many opportunities of pleading his own cause, and it would be very much
his own fault if he did not turn them to good account. She did not
_say_, but she hinted, that in reality one thing, and only one, was
necessary in order to the accomplishment of all his desires—and that was
his reconciliation with the Church.
In the meantime, he could not but feel—and he did feel—that the Lady of
Lauriston was his warm and true friend. As might have been anticipated
under the circumstances, his quarrel with the Laird terminated speedily.
No formal reconciliation took place, nor did many words pass between
them; but both were willing to bury their last night’s altercation in
oblivion; and Isabel obtained her wish, and saw David seated by her side
at the table in the great hall, to partake of their substantial morning
meal.
The brothers spent the day in hunting, accompanied by a party of the
Laird’s retainers, and by George, whose studies did not indispose him
for manly sports and exercises.
On the following morning, however, David asked his nephew if he had not
some good falcons, and proposed that they two should go out hawking
together. George, who was not particularly fond of the pastime of
falconry, consented, at first rather unwillingly, then joyfully and
eagerly, as he began with trembling hope to guess the wish that prompted
his uncle’s request. They set out, with falcons on their wrists, but
declining the attendance of the Laird’s falconer or of his assistant.
And when they reached a quiet place in the fields, David, without a
word, hooded his falcon and sat down, motioning George to do the same.
Then he said, in a low but eager voice, “Hae ye brought yer book,
callant?”
George produced it.
“Read me mair o’ yon blind man the guid Lord Jesus speered after.”
“There’s no more told of him,” said George. “The last thing is this: ‘He
said, Lord, I believe. And he worshipped him.’”
“And does the Book no tell us gin the guid Lord gied him shrift or
pardon? For I mind weel the kirkmen cast him out, and wad hae naething
to do wi’ him. Not ane priest or friar amang them a’ wad hear his
confession, I wad ye.”
“What I hae read ye tells us all. He believed on the Lord Jesus Christ;
and he who thus believes _is_ pardoned, whether the priests say it or
no.”
“How do ye ken that?” asked David, with a wondering look.
By way of reply George read the 3rd of John, adding from time to time
such brief explanations as he thought necessary, and in particular
telling, very simply and clearly, the story of the brazen serpent.
So still and silent was the listener, that George almost feared he had
fallen asleep. He was undeceived, however, when, drawing a deep breath
and fixing his eyes upon him with a look of intense interest, David
asked, “But what can a man do wha has been a muckle sinner a’ his life?”
“I have told you, uncle. ‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ.’”
“That’s unco weel for douce honest folk. But I hae stuck Black Will o’
the Hirst wi’ my whinger.”
“Gif ye had done waur than that, uncle, still the Lord Jesus wad forgive
ye, and wad be blythe to do it. See, I will tell ye—” and he found the
23rd of Luke, intending only to read the story of the dying thief; but
he read instead the whole of the grand and touching narrative in which
it is set, like a gem in a diadem of gold. “And thus,” said George
Stratton, “He suffered for our sins, ‘the just for the unjust, that He
might bring us to God.’ For ‘He himself bare our sins in his own body on
the tree.’”
“Bare our sins?—I dinna just tak’ ye up, Geordie.”
“Though you stuck Black Will with yer whinger, the Lord Jesus’ll _pay
the wyte_.[31] On the Cross, with his ain bluid, he paid the wyte for
all our sins. And ye’ve nought to do, but just to plead what he has done
with the Lord Almighty, and to take the guid comfort of it to yer ain
heart.”
“Oh, Geordie—Geordie, lad—it’s owre guid—it canna be—” David’s voice was
trembling with emotion.
“But it’s _true_, uncle; I could find ye mony other places in God’s book
that tell the same.”
David was silent for a moment or two, then he said, very seriously,
“George, my lad, I’m right siccer ye wadna deceive me, for ye ken I
lippen[32] to ye. But I’m no that siccer ye mightna be misled yersel,
for ye’re but a haflins callant, wi’ a’ yer book lear. And I’d gie a’
the warld just to find the truth. But wae’s me! wha’s to tell it? The
priests are a pack o’ misleared carles themselves; they ken neither new
law nor auld, like the puir doited Bishop o’ Dunkeld.”
“The Lord himself will teach you, an’ ye ask him.”
“Wha has taught _you_?”
“I think He has,” said George reverently, and in a low voice. “But as
for men’s teaching,” he added, “it was some of the lectures of Maister
Gawin Logie gared me first think of these things, when I was a
determinant at St. Leonard’s College. Afterwards I forgathered with the
Laird of Dune, and he gave me this Testament, and told me mony things
whilk have helped me to understand it.”
Soon afterwards they returned to the castle.
David was unusually silent and thoughtful during the rest of the day;
and, to the surprise and regret of his brother, and still more of his
nephew, he announced his intention of leaving them the next morning.
Having remonstrated in vain against this decision, they asked him where
he intended to go.
He hesitated a little, then said: “Weel, to be plain, it’s a’ anent my
bonny bay mare—fool that I was to part wi’ her. I’m sair wirried wi’ yon
puir beastie, that’s nae mair fit for a gentleman than ony aver[33] ye’d
tak’ frae the pleugh. Sae I’ll just gang to Erskine o’ Dune, aiblins
he’ll gie me my ain back again.”
The Laird shook his head. “Ye’re no that wise, brother,” he said, “to
twine wi’ yer siller the noo.” And he kindly offered him the use of an
excellent horse of his own, saying that Geordie would show him the
animal, and could tell his merits from experience.
George, however, evidenced a decided want of alacrity in the business;
and being too keenly interested in the proposed visit to the Laird of
Dune to behave with his usual tact and readiness, he actually drew upon
himself a sharp reproof from his father for his unwillingness to
accommodate his uncle. “It sets ye weel,” he said, “wi’ twa guid horses
o’ yer ain, to grudge brown Rob to yer uncle. In my day, young folk
didna set sic’ store by themsels, and had mair thought for their
forbears.”
“Leave him his lane, Andrew,” said David, warmly. “He’s a guid lad, is
Geordie—nae better between this and the Solway.” A speech that surprised
the Laird a little, but pleased him considerably.
So the next morning they parted; David promising soon to revisit his
brother, and in the meantime to behave with as much circumspection as he
could, and to avoid any course of action calculated to increase the
hostility he had provoked. But he would promise no more than this; nor
did he express the slightest inclination to seek a reconciliation with
the Church.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
V.
=The Great Change.=
“He came to me in love—and my heart broke,
And from its inmost depths there rose a cry,
‘My Father, oh, my Father, smile on me!’
And the great Father smiled.”
_Night and the Soul._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
V.
=The Great Change.=
Some time elapsed before David Stratton fulfilled his promise of
revisiting his relatives at Lauriston; nor did they hear much about him
during his absence. One winter evening, however, they were all assembled
at supper in the great hall; the Laird and his Lady, with her young
Cousin Alison—then a guest at the castle, the Master of Lauriston, and
the Capellan, Sir William Ker, occupying the upper end of the board;
while “below the salt” the numerous retainers of the Laird took their
places according to their respective ranks. The sound of horse-hoofs,
and then the blast of a horn, gave intimation of the approach of a
visitor; and in a very short time David Stratton, followed by two or
three attendants, strode into the hall.
He was warmly welcomed by the Laird and Lady; and there were others
present who, although less demonstrative, were probably no less pleased
at his arrival. A seat was soon placed for him at the Lady’s right hand,
and the butler despatched for a stoup of the best wine in the laird’s
cellar, to improve the cheer and to celebrate his arrival.
All went merrily forward for some time, and every one present seemed in
high good humour. There was no lack of conversation; although David was
not communicative on the subject of his own proceedings since they
parted. He had always enough to say upon the usual country sports and
occupations; and, much to the surprise of his hearers, he added upon
this occasion several amusing stories of the manners and customs of
foreign nations, and particularly those of the French, in whom the
Scotchmen of that day took such a lively interest. He said they had been
lately told him by a friend, and he retailed them with great spirit, so
as to occasion a good deal of harmless merriment. But one thing George
particularly noticed, no oath or profane expression of any kind passed
his uncle’s lips. Did the presence of Alison Lindsay refine and soften
him, or was there any other influence at work?
“Seems to me there’s something no just canny about ye, Davie,” remarked
the Laird at last. “Ye couldna talk better, gin ye were as weel
travelled a gentleman as holy Friar Scott himsel.”
“Dinna tell _me_ o’ Friar Scott,” said David, with a strong expression
of disgust. “Hae ye heard of his cantrips in Edinburgh?”
“Oh, ay; I hae heard that he fasted frae meat and drink twa and thirty
days—gin it wasna for ane drink o’ cauld water.”
“Lees and clashes!” returned David, very unceremoniously.
Sir William Ker here thought it his duty to interpose; and ventured to
reprove Maister David for his scepticism, telling him that Friar Scott’s
miraculous fast was, as he himself stated in a sermon preached at the
Market Cross, “be helpe of the Virgin Mary,” and ought not therefore to
be spoken of lightly.
David answered, with a seriousness that took all present by surprise,
that he did not believe the blessed Virgin possessed the power to do
what Friar Scott attributed to her; but that if she did, he thought
better of her than to suppose she would exercise it for the purpose of
enabling a man of notoriously evil character to escape the payment of
his just debts.
Upon this Sir William, who had for a long time cordially disliked David,
lost his temper, and availing himself of the licence usually allowed to
those of his profession, even dared to tell the Laird’s brother to his
face that he was no better than a heretic and a reprobate.
The Laird fully expected to see David’s whinger spring from his belt,
and flash across the table. He looked helplessly towards Isabel, as
indeed he was accustomed to do in most of his difficulties, in the
expectation that her ready wit would find a way out of them.
In this case, however, her interposition was not necessary. David’s
cheek burned, but he answered quietly, “It’s no sae wonnerful _you_
should say that, sir priest.”
Perhaps there is no greater test of a gentle nature, or its opposite,
than the manner of meeting unexpected forbearance in an antagonist. A
gentleman is softened, and repays courtesy with courtesy; a man of
vulgar nature regards moderation as a sign of weakness, and presumes
accordingly. Sir William thought the usually rude and overbearing
Maister David must have some good reason for being afraid of him; he
therefore boldly followed up his fancied advantage by requiring him to
retract what he called his blasphemy against the blessed Virgin, saying
there were present unlearned persons who were scandalized, and might be
injured by what he had said.
This second impertinence was too much to bear. David relaxed his strong
guard over himself, and answered hastily: “That which I say I never
unsay, least of a’ at the bidding of a knave priest.”
“Thou hast thine answer, Sir William,” cried the Laird, with undisguised
satisfaction; “so eat thy supper, man, and haud thy tongue.”
But David looked very ill at ease. “Yon was na answer ava’,” he said at
length, and with an evident effort. “Sir William, I pray your pardon.”
The priest would have felt much less astonishment had he struck him in
the face. He stared at him in silence, unable to think of a suitable
reply, while the Laird muttered, “Hech, sirs!—what’s got into ye,
Davie?”
But Sir William had not tact or common sense enough to make some
courteous answer, and then quietly drop the subject. It should perhaps
be mentioned in his defence, that he entertained well-founded suspicions
of the orthodoxy of his patron’s son; and while a due regard for his
temporal interests had hitherto prevented his openly attacking the
Master of Lauriston, he compounded with his conscience by making as many
general demonstrations against heresy as he could in his presence.
Besides, Maister David being already excommunicated and under the ban of
the Church, it was both meritorious and comparatively safe to attack
him. He therefore attempted to “improve the occasion.” _His_ pardon for
any personal insult, he said, was granted before it was asked, as he
cherished no resentment except against the enemies of Holy Kirk; but he
trusted Maister David would ask the forgiveness of the blessed Virgin
for what he had presumed to say of her, which he again averred (crossing
himself while he spoke) to have been downright blasphemy, and near akin
to “the Englishmen’s opinions.” “Thae pestilent heretics,” he continued,
“hae even dared to say there’s na sic’ thing ava’ as purgatory.”
“That hae _I_ never said, nor shall I, wi’ the guid help o’ God,”
answered David, with a quick glance of his blue eye, but a quiet
thoughtful face.
“I’m blythe to hear it,” said the priest; and he cast an unmistakable
look of triumph upon George, who, like every one else at the table, was
watching his uncle with wonder and interest.
But David presently resumed: “I believe in ane purgatory, by the whilk
folk are cleansit frae a’ their sins—_the precious bluid of our Saviour
Christ_. Forbye,” he added in a lighter tone, “ye may ca’ the troubles
o’ this present evil warld a kind o’ purgatory, an’ ye list. But these
twa, I ken nae ither.”
George, who for months had thought the same, and yet never dared to
utter his thoughts with such boldness, now deeply felt the truth of our
Lord’s words, “The first shall be last, and the last shall be first.”
But he could not do less than come promptly to his uncle’s support, and
follow the example of his fearless confession.
“You have spoken truly,” he said, “for God himself doth testify in his
holy Word that the bluid of Jesus Christ, his Son, cleanseth us from
_all_ sin.”
If Lady Isabel had been slow to interpose between David and the priest,
she was prompt enough in stopping the discussion when she saw her son so
disposed to compromise himself. She begged there might be no more talk
of such “gruesome things” as heresy and purgatory and the like; and the
Laird followed up her efforts by pressing David to take more wine,
assuring him it was the part of a wise man to eat and drink, and to do
his duty by his family and his estate, leaving all these puzzling
questions to be settled for him by the priests and the doctors.
“Forbye,” he added with a laugh, “an’ the said priests catch us meddling
wi’ what doesna concern us, it’s like enough they’ll gie us, for our
sins, a taste o’ the kind o’ purgatory _you_ talk of, Davie—to wit, a
hantle grief and dolour in this life.”
“Aiblins,” answered David; “but _he that saves his life shall lose it_.”
As soon as George could find an opportunity of speaking to his uncle
alone, he warned him against Sir William Ker, saying that their opinions
were by no means safe with him.
“I ken that, lad,” answered David; “but I maun speak the truth.”
“Uncle,” said the young man humbly and sorrowfully, “your courage shames
my weakness.”
“I havena sae muckle to twine as you,” replied David; “forbye, I hae had
muckle mair forgien me. Oh, Geordie lad, I dinna mind that the guid Lord
hae ever done sic’ wonnerfu’ things for ony puir sinner! Think on’t
yersel. I had nae thocht o’ him; I cared for naething but thae puir bits
o’ gear, and—and the hopes and pleasures o’ this life. But then, first,
he gied me a kind o’ start anent my ain foolishness, fechting wi’ the
prior for the teinds. He let them cast me out o’ the Kirk (that’s nae
God’s Kirk ava’, but the synagogue o’ Satan); and when my heart was sair
vexed, and I didna ken whilk gait to gang, and a’ was black as
midnight—na shrift nor pardon for me, and I just beginning to think I
was the maist awfu’ sinner in a’ Scotland—_then_, lad, He speered after
me. He sought me his ainsel, he showed me how a’ my sins were clean
forgiven, naebut because he deed on the Cross to tak’ them awa’. And noo
I hae naething mair to do but to love him, and to witness for him, and
to tell ither folk ilka day how guid he is.”
George’s eyes were dim with tears of joy and thankfulness. “Blessed art
thou,” he could not help saying, “for flesh and blood hath not revealed
it unto thee, but our Father in heaven.”
“That’s owre true,” answered David. “Yersel, or the Laird o’ Dune, or
ony man, might hae tald me thae things twa hundert times, and I wadna
hae minded ane word. But the guid Lord has gien me—I canna find the name
for’t, gin it’s no a new eye to see, a new ear to hear, and a new heart
to feel. It’s like as I hae been a dead man a’ my days, and I’ve naebut
wakened up and begun to live the noo. Eh, but, Geordie, its wonnerfu’!”
Wonderful it certainly was, as all who came in contact with David
Stratton could not fail to acknowledge. We who are accustomed to breathe
an atmosphere pervaded by Christian sentiment and opinion, may find it
hard to realize the greatness of the change—even the outward
change—which was wrought in him. The entrance of God’s word had indeed
given light, and given understanding to the simple. But love as well as
light was shed abroad in his heart, and that richly. He who had once
been overbearing, rude, violent, ready to offer offence and quick to
take it, was now “ane vehement exhortar of all men to concord, to
quietness, and to the contempt of the warld.”[34] Nor did he fail to
practise that to which, with the “vehemence” that belonged to his
character, he thus exhorted others. He was noways inclined to hide his
light under a bushel; it was too real, too marvellous for that. Like the
little child who, seeing the first star appear in the shaded evening
sky, cried out in wonder and delight, “God has just made a new star in
heaven;” so, when the light which had been shining from the beginning of
the world first reached his soul, David felt as if for him God had “made
a new thing in the earth;” and he could not but tell the marvel to all
those around him.
He had therefore scarcely been three days at Lauriston ere more of
Scripture truth was heard from his lips than there had been in two years
from those of the cautious and thoughtful George. He avowed his
convictions openly, for he was a stranger to fear. He spoke to his
brother, to the Lady Isabel, to many of the retainers; and above all, he
was eager to communicate to Alison Lindsay the knowledge he esteemed so
precious. For with him faith was _knowledge_. That which he had seen and
heard he declared to others. He was totally untroubled by doubts, either
of any of the doctrines of Scripture or of his own interest and
acceptance in Christ. His natural character contributed to this: in his
mind there were no half lights and shadows; all lay in clear sunshine or
in utter darkness, all was positive, welldefined, certain.