he was still dependent upon others for all he acquired, being himself
unable to read. It was his special delight, during his stay at
Lauriston, to induce George to accompany him to some quiet place in the
fields, and to make him read for him chapter after chapter from the New
Testament. George loved this occupation as much as his uncle did; and
found the readings, and the conversation that always followed them, very
profitable to his own soul. Their positions were strangely reversed. He
who had once been the pupil was now himself so deeply taught of the
Spirit that he became in his turn the teacher; and many were the
passages in the Word of God upon which he was able to throw the light of
experience.
George and David often talked together of their friend and instructor,
the Laird of Dune. From this remarkable man, whom Knox tells us “God had
in those days marvellously illuminated,” David received nearly all the
human teaching he ever had. He consequently so loved and revered John
Erskine, that he even came to regard his favourite project of the Greek
Academy at Montrose not only with approval, but with enthusiasm. There
was indeed something touching in the desire this unlearned man evinced
to secure to others the best fruits of learning. “Wha cares a bodle,”
said he to George, “whether the bairns get the lear in Greek or in
Latin, or in our ain guid Scot’s tongue, sae’s they _do_ learn that the
blessed Lord loved them, and deed for a’ their sins?”
“Then you think, uncle, that the Greek school will prosper?”
“Nae doot o’ that. There’s ane young man has begun to teach the bairns
the New Testament—_vera_ young, but by-ordinar learned, and o’ guid
family, brither or brither’s son to the Laird of Pitarrow—ane _George
Wishart_. He’ll do something, gin the bishops dinna burn or banish him,
as they’re like enough to do to ony man wha reads the Word o’ God,
either in Greek or English.”
George often wondered at the apparent coolness with which David alluded
to such terrible probabilities, and tried to exhort him to caution and
prudence. But he was not so indifferent as his nephew supposed to the
dangers that menaced every one who dared to profess “the new Faith;” and
if he received his well-meant warnings in silence, it was only because
he could not argue, while he felt at the same time that but one course
of conduct was possible to him, and that he must pursue it, lead where
it might.
Perhaps this day his heart was softened by the recollection of a promise
which only the night before he had obtained from Alison Lindsay; for a
look of pain, almost of perplexity, stole over his face, and it was some
time before he spoke again.
But at last he said, quietly, “Whaur’s the Book, Geordie? We’ll hae tint
a’ our reading time.”
“What shall I read ye?” asked George; for David nearly always selected
the portions they read together.
He said at once, “The tenth o’ Matthew;” and George read the precious
words of comfort addressed by the Saviour to those whom he sent forth as
sheep in the midst of wolves. His double command, “_fear not_,” and
“_fear_”—fear not them which kill the body, fear Him who is able to
destroy both soul and body—sounded very full of meaning in the ears of
men who knew that those who could kill the body were not far off. And
very precious was his assurance that, notwithstanding every danger that
menaced them, “the hairs of their head were numbered” by that Father who
loved and would protect them.
But when George read, “Whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I
also deny before my Father which is in heaven,” David Stratton could no
longer control his emotion. Rising from his seat on the trunk of a
fallen tree, he threw himself suddenly on his knees, and lifted up his
eyes and hands to heaven as one in an ecstasy of prayer. For some
moments he was silent, but at length he spoke aloud, or rather “burst
forth in these words:” “O Lord, I hae been vera wicked, and justly
mightest thou take thy grace frae me. But, Lord, for thy mercy’s sake,
let me never deny thee, or thy truth, for the fear of death or corporal
pain.”[35]
George said “Amen” to his prayer, but he felt awed, as well as touched
and solemnized. And it may be that his heart shrank in terror from the
prospect that prayer unveiled before him. For his uncle had become very
dear to him, “both in the flesh and in the Lord.” And still,
“Howe’er assured be faith,
To say farewell is fraught with gloom;”
and “death and corporal pain” are fearful realities to contemplate. Far
more fearful for those we love than for ourselves! For who does not know
how hard it sometimes is to acquiesce in God’s dealings with our beloved
ones, and by what agonizing lessons the heart is taught that for them
“it was good to suffer _here_, that they might reign _hereafter_; to
bear the cross _below_, that they might wear the crown _above_;” and
that it was that they might be made like unto Him, that “He had placed
them in the furnace, sitting by as a refiner of silver, until they
should reflect his image.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VI.
=Entering into the Cloud.=
“Know then, my soul, God’s will controls
Whate’er thou fearest:
Round him in calmest music rolls
Whate’er thou hearest.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VI.
=Entering into the Cloud.=
Mistress Alison Lindsay sat alone in one of the smaller apartments of
Lauriston Castle. She had scarcely moved since Lady Isabel quitted the
room, more than an hour before; the cunning “stitch-work,” with which
she had been occupied, lay unheeded on the table; her fair face was
clouded with care and anxiety, and her large dark eyes, which so often
sparkled with merriment, were full of thoughtful sadness, and now and
then dimmed with tears.
Alison’s heart was indeed sorely troubled and cast down within her; but
why was this? The answer is easy; the same Word that had brought peace
and joy to the heart dearest to her on earth, had brought bitter sorrow
and perplexity to hers. For the present life, fear and anguish where all
had been bright before; for the future, light indeed, but light that
disturbed and dazzled, without guiding or cheering the bewildered soul.
It perplexed and troubled her that the peace of her little world should
have been invaded by these “new doctrines.” The old faith was good
enough for her, good enough for her kindred and her friends, and
certainly good enough for Maister David Stratton. She knew him ere this
strange spell had fallen upon him; she thought him then as brave and
bold a gentleman as ever claimed a lady’s hand; and she would not
willingly have had him changed. She had been so happy, so content with
her lot, envying no one, desiring nothing beyond what she had either in
possession or in prospect, when the consequences of David’s perverse
quarrel with the Prior fell like a thunderbolt upon her, causing her the
first real sorrow she had ever known. Yet even while she blamed, in her
heart she half admired his reckless courage and daring. And she never
ceased to anticipate a satisfactory termination of the dispute, through
the mediation of his friends, and the slow but sure actings of his own
good sense.
Great, therefore, was her horror when, upon his late arrival at
Lauriston, he committed himself openly to sentiments which put a more
formidable obstacle in the way of his reconciliation with the Kirk, than
personal quarrels with half the kirkmen in Scotland would have done.
Naturally intelligent and thoughtful, she had more definite ideas on the
subject of heresy than any one in the castle, except Sir William Ker. It
would not have been possible for her to become, without knowing it, more
than half a Protestant, as her less reflective cousin Isabel had already
done. She was too well informed upon the tenets of her own faith for
this; and besides, she did not possess one of those illogical, though
perhaps in some respects happily constituted minds, in which opinions
actually inconsistent with each other can remain together as peaceably
as the leopard and the lamb will do in the future millennium. She knew
only too well that David’s words were heresy; and she believed that
heresy meant _ruin_, both to soul and body. And for life or death, for
good or evil, his fate and hers were bound together. She had never loved
him half so well, and yet she had never felt half so indignant with him.
Nor was her anger unreasonable; since, as she then supposed, it was
solely in the pride of his heart, and in his unreasoning wrath against
the kirkmen, that he threw himself into that yawning gulf of heresy,
thus very nearly committing an actual as well as a spiritual suicide.
She did not think that any form of doctrine, as such, could possess much
interest or significance for David Stratton. She supposed that in his
eyes the errors of the Catholic Faith consisted in its being upheld by
such men as the Prior of St. Andrews; and that the charm of the new
doctrines might be found in the fact that, if they prevailed, neither
priories nor parishes, nor the rents and tithes accruing therefrom,
would be left to Patrick Hepburn and Robert Lawson.
But after her first interview with him, she began to feel she had done
him an injustice. She could not fail to perceive how marvellously these
new doctrines had quickened both his mind and his heart. The earnestness
with which he explained and enforced them first surprised, then touched
her. She thought it only fair and generous not to condemn him unheard,
but to allow him a full opportunity of stating his convictions.
Otherwise, how could she combat them successfully? And she was resolved
upon making the attempt; though less from any abstract zeal for the
conversion of heretics in general, than from her intense and personal
interest in the fate of this one particular heretic. On the other hand,
he was as anxious for her conversion as she could possibly be for his;
so that their conversations on the subject of religion were naturally
neither few nor passing.
The consequences soon became apparent to those around them, and very
painfully so to Alison herself. The faith of her childhood was first
shaken, then actually overthrown. In any sensitive mind, this process
must necessarily be attended with great suffering; but especially so if
nothing be accepted as a substitute for that which is displaced. This in
a sense, though only in a sense, was the case with Alison Lindsay. David
had indeed presented her with the jewel of Truth, and she had taken it
from his hand, and laid it up amongst her treasures; still it might be
said that she knew nothing of its beauty or value. For her no ray of
light from above had fallen upon it, calling forth its brilliancy and
lustre; it was a diamond, but a diamond unillumined by the sunshine;
clear indeed and pure, but cold and colourless. How could such a
possession as this repay her for all she must surrender for it—for the
sparkling brilliant of earthly happiness, as well as for her early
faith—once accounted a precious gem, though now discovered to be only a
clever, beautiful imitation?
To drop the metaphor, she had received a creed, but she had not yet
received life. And something more than a creed is necessary to enable a
man—that we say not, a woman—to abandon all that the heart holds dear,
whether of association with the past, or of hope for the future. Such
sacrifices she felt might now be demanded from her, and her heart shrank
back in terror from the demand. It was no wonder, therefore, that as she
sat alone that morning her thoughts were very mournful ones.
But the sound of an approaching footstep made her start, and brought a
deeper colour to her cheek. She hastily took up her work; but had not
added a single stitch to the “pearling” she was embroidering, ere David
Stratton stood beside her.
“Mistress Alison, I hae twa or three things to say to ye; hae ye time to
hear me?” he asked, in tones which showed that the gentleness and
deference with which he always addressed her were mingled in this
instance with a shade of embarrassment.
“There’s nothing to hinder, that I ken,” said Alison, glancing at her
work. “Isabel’s in the wool-room, sorting wool for the lasses to spin.”
David drew nearer the carved oak chair in which Alison sat. They formed
rather a striking contrast. Alison wore a kirtle of fine taffetas of a
deep full blue; a silken snood of the same colour edged with silver
confined her rich dark hair; and seldom did the bright cold sunshine of
March rest on a more graceful form or a fairer face than hers. David was
dressed in a maud, or rough gray overcoat, and buskins of untanned
leather, which were splashed here and there with mud. The wind had been
dealing rather rudely with his brown hair, and his honest and manly,
though not handsome face, was flushed with exercise. Thus much the eye
could take in at a glance; there were other things, not so apparent, but
of deeper significance. In _her_ countenance there was a kind of surface
quiet and repose, but underneath this all was restless, and fear and
anxiety flowed on in dark waves; in _his_ there was momentary agitation,
as if he had just heard some disturbing tidings, but beneath the
disturbance there was a settled calm, telling that his soul dwelt
habitually in a peace no outward agitation could destroy.
“I hae ridden hame this morn, and I’m but just back again,” he began, in
his rather abrupt way.
“Nae need to tell that,” Alison could not help saying, with a quick
glance at the mud on his boots. Little heed would she have given to such
trifles, had she guessed the thoughts that were occupying his mind.
“I fand there ane young man, familiar to the Laird o’ Dune, wha was
speiring after me.”
“Weel?” said Alison, rather wondering what this would come to.
“He brought me tidings;—Mistress Alison, I maun gang my ways, I daur
bide here nae langer.”
Alison’s colour changed rapidly from red to pale, and from pale again to
red. “But what danger threatens you?” she asked quickly.
“Ye ken that unco weel yersel,” answered David.
“Oh, but they darena touch a gentleman, a laird’s brother”—yet the lips
that uttered these confident words were growing white with terror.
“Na, na, Mistress Alice,” said David gently, but with great earnestness,
“ye mauna stay yersel on what’s no _true_. Maister Patrick Hamilton was
better than a laird’s brither, he was Abbot o’ Ferne; and forbye that,
he had the best bluid o’ Scotland in his veins; yet ye ken they brent
him to ashes at the stake. But the guid Lord is aboon them a’; gin it’s
his will to save me alive, a’ the kirkmen in Scotland canna touch a hair
o’ my head; gin it’s his will I suld dee, his holy will be done!”
“But why do ye say sic’ awful things?”
“Because I’m _warned_, Mistress Alice; Erskine sent his servant to warn
me. He hath had certain tidings that the Prior and the Bishop o’ Ross
(God forgie them) ’ill no rest till they finish their wark. Sae I maun
just gang awa’.”
“Do no such thing,” interrupted Alison hastily. “Bide here, Maister
David. There’s no place in Scotland sae safe for ye as the laird yer
brither’s castle.”
“Ay, but then there’s Geordie. Gin folk begin to speir after heretics at
Lauriston Castle, it’s like they wadna end wi’ David Stratton. And
that’s why I darena quit the country, lest the blame might fall whaur it
suldna, and better men pay the wyte for me.”
“Ye’re no right there,” said Alison eagerly, almost sharply. “Ilka man
should fend for himself. Forbye, there are others as deep or deeper than
you in it, David. What have ye done mair than John Erskine o’ Dune? Yet
he bides safe and siccar—”
“And God keep him safe and siccar, for the sake of a’ that love his name
in this puir country. Mistress Alice, when first I kenned the Lord, I
was sair fashed wi’ mysel for a’ my foolery anent the Prior’s tithe. But
noo I’m richt sure it was God himsel let a’ that be. Gin it hadna been
for that, I might hae never learned his truth ava’; and forbye, it’s
unco weel the bishops suld misdoot a simple man like me, and hunt me
down for a thing like that, or wha kens but they might be doing
waur?—Aiblins speiring after Geordie, or Erskine o’ Dune, or that braw
young scholar—”
“O David, dinna say such words!”
But her tones, though just a little reproachful, were very low and
quiet; and he did not see her face—she had veiled it with her hand. Else
surely he would not have gone on—“For the folk wha hae got lear can do
sae muckle for the Lord. He canna spare sic’ as thae. He has sair need
o’ them to speed his wark here, and to tell ither folk about him. But
I’m aye unco slow wi’ my tongue; sae I think, an’ the guid Lord wad let
me suffer for him, it wad be just the best—Wae’s me! what hae I done?
Alice—_dear_ Alice!”
For Alison could no longer either restrain or conceal the anguish his
words inflicted. Did David know _what_ he was doing? There he stood,
cold and calm, reasoning about that, to her, dim abstraction he called
“the Truth,” and the best way in which its interests might be forwarded,
while his own life—his precious life—was an item in the calculation. A
mere figure, a something to be carried to this side or that, to be
preserved or blotted out, as best might help to produce the wished-for
result! To her this indifference seemed horrible. If, in her bitter
pain, she could have found words at all, those words would have been,
“You care not for yourself, but care you nothing for me?” But words
would not come, only tears, and low choking sobs.
David Stratton soothed her with a tenderness of which few would have
believed him capable. Not now indeed, but often during the long after
years, Alison confessed to herself that it was worth while to have shed
some tears and suffered some pain, in order to be comforted thus, and to
win such words and looks from that silent, undemonstrative nature.
When she grew calmer, he said remorsefully, “I hae done wrang to say
sic’ things. For ye ken, a’s no tint that’s in danger. The king’s aboon
the bishops, and our King Jamie makes na muckle count o’ kirkmen. But I
lippen a’ to the guid Lord, and Alice, ye maun just do the same.”
“But I canna, David. I’m no like you.”
“Ye haud the Truth, Alice?—ye love the guid Lord Jesus?” The two
questions were asked in a quick, eager whisper, and without any pause
between, as if they were indeed but one.
Alice answered slowly and sadly, perhaps reluctantly, “I haud what you
taught me, David. I dinna pray to saints, I dinna believe in purgatory,
I dinna think our ain works can save our souls. But all that doesna make
it an easy thing to dee, or—whilk is waur—to see ithers dee.”
What David Stratton felt at that moment came nearer the bitterness of
death than anything he had ever known before. “Alice”—he began; but his
broad chest heaved with emotion, and for some time the words struggled
in vain for utterance. “Alice,” he said at length, stretching out his
hand to her—“Alice, forgie me; for I misdoot sair I hae done an ill
pairt by ye. I suld hae bided awa’. I suld hae never seen yer face again
(though it’s dearer, God wot, than heaven’s ain licht to me!)—that were
better far than to drag ye down into a’ this grief and dole. No that
it’s dole to me, but for the thocht o’ _you_, Alice. But is it owre late
yet to say good-bye—God speed ye—forget a’ that’s been between us?”
Alison rose calm and pale, and put her small hand into his. There was a
light in her dark eyes, and her voice, though low and quiet, had no
trembling in its tones. “David Stratton,” she said, “it _is_ owre late.
There be some gifts that can never be taken back; and of such I hae
given you. No that I’m wae for that. Gif I could, I would not be again
the merry lass I was ere I kenned you, David. I—I—canna say mair on’t,
but take that thought with you through all that may happen to us baith.
Whatever God sends, you shall hear no murmur frae my lips. But pray for
me, for I wot weel I havena your faith.”
David Stratton did not exaggerate his own danger. But the fear of
involving others in the same peril made him deaf to his brother’s
affectionate, and under the circumstances really generous entreaties
that he would still remain a guest at the castle. On the following
morning he returned to his own secluded residence on the sea-coast,
intending to live there, in as private a manner as he could, until the
storm either broke or blew over.
Isabel tried hard to console her young cousin, and to persuade her that
all would yet end happily. David had powerful friends, she said; the
Strattons stood well with the king, and he would never allow the kirkmen
to proceed to extremities against one of the name. “It was not to be
denied,” she added, “that David had advanced very strange opinions, and
been very imprudent in his conduct; but yet—”
Here Alison indignantly interrupted her. “Ye’ve no right to say that,
Isabel. Gif Maister David makes sma’ count of this world, it’s because
he’ll hae a better portion in the world to come than you or I, or aebody
else. His faith in God is just wonnerful; it’s nigh the grandest and
noblest thing I hae ever seen. But wae’s me!” she added, in an altered
tone, “why might we no have been left to live and die in peace like
other folk? Wherein have we offended, that all this should come upon
us?—I wot weel _he_ would say, ‘God’s will be done.’ But oh, Isabel, _my
heart_ willna say it!—at least, no yet.”
[Illustration]
VII.
=Voices in the Cloud.=
“Thanks for the little spring of love,
That gives me strength to say,
If they will leave me part in Him,
Let all things pass away.”
A. L. WARING.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VII.
=Voices in the Cloud.=
Three months after that sunny March morning, the young Master of
Lauriston rode one day to the gate of his uncle’s dwelling, usually
called Stratton House. This was a rude building, half castle, half
farmstead, erected by some Stratton of a former generation, who having
quarrelled with the laird of his time, chose to lead a life of
independence in his own abode. It was situated on a hill, and close to
the sea-shore; and many a time from the narrow windows had David watched
his little ship as it struggled with the breakers; oftener still, in the
gray morning light, had he trod the rough footway to the beach, prepared
for a cruise along the coast of Angus, half for business and half for
pleasure. Or after such an expedition, he had landed there, bringing
with him his troop of swarthy, sunburnt fishermen, to drink huge flagons
of double ale, and to fill the gloomy hall with their rough merriment.
But these days were passed now, passed for ever. At the time of George’s
visit, all within the house was still and silent. David was busy
superintending the concerns of his little farm, and the servants were
assisting him in the field work. He perceived, however, the approach of
his guest, and quickly came to meet him, soiled and heated, but with a
face beaming with pleasure.
“Eh, but I’m unco blythe ye’ve come, lad: guid day to ye. Here, Jock,”
addressing a boy who had followed him from the field, “tak’ young
Maister’s horse.”
George warmly grasped his uncle’s extended hand, and then followed him
into the hall, which presented a rather bare and comfortless appearance,
having scarcely any furniture but a long table and some benches and
settles by the wall. He was pressed to take a cup of sack, a draught of
French wine (his father’s present), or even a horn of ale, with other
more substantial refreshments, but he declined, promising to wait for
the evening meal.
After some little conversation on indifferent subjects, he drew out his
precious New Testament, saying, “I think ye wad scarce give me a welcome
without this, uncle.”
David’s blue eyes kindled with eagerness; then a shade of sorrow crossed
his face, and he said mournfully, “Gin I had to live owre again, I wad
tak’ tent, and get book lear while I might, and no be like yon puir
cripple at the pool o’ Bethesda, wha had to lie there his lane the haill
day lang, and see ither folk gang in and get the blessing, a’ because he
couldna fend for himsel, and there was naebody by that wad fend for him,
for the love o’ God.”
“But then, uncle, ye ken the Lord Jesus did the wark _himsel_, with ane
word of his mouth. It was He wha gave the waters their power to heal,
sending his angel to trouble them. An’ if he pleased, he could heal just
as well without them.”