wee book frae ane end to the ither, and no be the wiser, gin the guid
Lord didna speak himsel to their ane hearts the while. When it’s his
will to speak, he can do it, an’ he pleases, but book, or priest, or
sacrament. For he’s the Lord.”
“That’s owre true, uncle.”
“Ay, but ye’ve no a chance to learn _how_ true, sin’ ye dinna stan’ as I
do, like a wrecked seaman on a bit rock, between life and death as a man
might say.”
George looked at his uncle in some surprise. Never from the lips of
David Stratton had friend or foe heard words of complaint before. He had
always made light of danger; almost too light, George had often thought.
He answered, with a smile, “It’s time I suld come to speir after you,
uncle. I think ye have bided your lane owre lang.”
“Na, it’s no that, Geordie. No that I wadna be blythe to see ye ony day,
lad; for yer ain sake, and for the book ye aye bring wi’ ye. But I’m no
my lane here ava’. What wi’ the lads and the lasses, and the fisherfolk,
there’s enoo to tell the Lord’s love to, and mony’s the hour I spend in
the house or the field, or by the sea-shore, just talking wi’ Him.
Geordie lad, I kenned him first as the Saviour—the guid Lord that deed
for me. But forbye that, I hae come to ken him noo as my ain, anely
friend, wha can read off ilka bit thocht or trouble in the heart as easy
as you can read thae wee crooked marks in your book.”
“But for a’ that, uncle, are ye no cast down and sorrowfu’ whiles?”
“No that sorrowfu’ Geordie. This life’s no sae lang, nor sae guid
either, that a man suld sit down and greet for it, like a bairn wha hae
tint a play-toy.”
“But methinks ye’ve no tint all yet, even for this life?”
David’s brow was mournful, though his blue eyes were full of light, as
he answered, “Do ye no mind the story ye hae tald me ainst o’ the great
King and the puir man, Geordie? The king (David mixed the allegory and
its application together)—the king had graith and plenishing and gear
enoo, and braw flocks and kye, the puir man had naebut ane wee lambie.”
Here his voice failed, and a few moments passed before he was able to
resume. “I hae never cared for onything as I care for _her_. And noo,
it’s no like I’ll ever see her face again, till we stand thegither at
the judgment-seat o’ Christ. But that’s no the waurst to bear. Aft and
aft hae I cried shame on mysel for a feckless tentless coof. Why could I
no haud my peace and bide my time? What gared me turn my face to
Lauriston ava’, quhill that she was there? Gin trouble suld come to me,
its nae wonner, I hae done enoo to earn it, owre and owre again. And I
thank the Lord I can thole it, thro’ his guid grace. But God help me! I
canna thole the thocht o’ her sorrow.” David’s head was bowed upon his
hands, and his face was hidden from sight.
“God will help thee, uncle. He hears prayer,” George said
compassionately, almost tenderly.
“Hears prayer! I wad ye, lad, he does, or I’d hae gane clean daft ere
this. But it’s ill to ken what a man suld pray for whiles. When it’s
naebut mysel that’s in it, it’s a’ plain enoo.” His head was raised now,
and his eyes shone through the tears that had gathered in them. “Sma’
matter what he gies, or what he taks awa’, sin’ he has gien me his
ainsel. And his ‘loving-kindness is better than the life itself; my lips
shall praise him.’ Gin I could, I wadna wale to turn ane step frae the
gait he has markit for me. For weel I wot, that I’d tyne mair than I’d
win by that. I’m just in his guid hand, and there’s nae better place to
be in a’ the muckle warld.”
“And Alison?” asked George gently, “is not she there too, in the same
guid care and keeping?”
“Nae doot of it,” answered David, who, fortunately for himself, was too
simple-minded to doubt that Alison’s clear intellectual perception of
the truth was accompanied by genuine faith and love. “Still I canna just
mak’ it out. It’s no that easy to trust the Lord wi’ her. Mony’s the
time I pray that he wad gie her a bit portion _here_, as weel as in the
guid hame aboon—a wee bit joy or comfort, ye ken, even for this puir
life. But it’s a’ dark; I canna see ane glint before me, or bring to my
mind what he thinks to do wi’ her ava’.”
“Uncle,” said George, slowly and reverently, “he loves her mair than you
do.”
Wonder and incredulity mingled in the gaze David bent on him; but after
a time these passed away, changing gradually into a full content, calmer
than common joy and deeper than earthly gladness. His silence was long;
ere he spoke again his ear had caught the sound of footsteps and voices
outside, but he heard them as one in a dream, a happy dream, from which
he would not willingly be awakened.
“Ye’re richt, lad,” he said at length. “Unco hard it seemed to me to
think there _could_ be love mair deep and true than mine. Fule that I
was for that! For I ken in my ain heart, just a wee bit, what his love
is and can be; and kenning that, whaur I trust my ain soul I can trust
my soul’s treasure too, God helping me.” And he stopped, overcome by the
fear and shame that so often seizes upon reserved natures when betrayed
by strong emotion into unwonted self-utterance.
It was only too easy for George to turn the conversation. Not quite so
absorbed as his uncle, outward things had been making rather more
impression upon him. “Is it your wont, uncle, to have guests at Stratton
House?” he asked, with a glance towards the little window.
“Aiblins it’s the fisher folk,” answered David. “Tho’ that’s no like to
be; the boatie suld be unco far by this, maist awa’ to Arbroath.” But he
rose and walked quickly towards the door, followed by George, whose
curiosity was excited by the arrival of strangers in a place so remote
and difficult of access.
Both involuntarily recoiled for a moment from the scene that met their
view. The yard seemed filled with armed men, dressed in “jacks” or stout
buff leather jerkins, and with steel caps on their heads and spears in
their hands. They had entered unchallenged, for the servants were all
absent at their work in the fields, and had left wide open the
substantial “yetts,” which, if closed, might have been defended for a
considerable time even against overwhelming odds. But no one dreamed of
danger then. No one knew, that while David Stratton walked quietly by
the sea-shore, holding sweet communion with Him whom having not seen he
loved, or spoke of Him in simple strong words to his poor farm-servants
and fishermen, two such important personages as the Prior of St. Andrews
and the Bishop of Ross, assisted by other Churchmen of less degree, had
been taking grave counsel together as to the best means of apprehending
so dangerous a heretic. They had come to the conclusion that the
business required careful management, as a desperate resistance might be
looked for from the reckless and daring Stratton of Stratton. Like other
great Churchmen of the day, the Prior maintained a number of armed men
at his own expense and on his own account. A troop of these “jackmen,”
as they were called, were accordingly destined to this service, supposed
to be one of danger; and they were purposely placed under the command of
a certain Halbert of the Hirst, cousin to that “black Will” whom David
once stabbed in a quarrel in Dundee. It was with this man that he now
stood face to face, with an instant consciousness of his errand and of
all its terrible import. How often do the great moments of our lives
steal upon us thus with noiseless footsteps! We may have been watching
long for some great joy or sorrow with strained eyes and parted lips;
but at last there comes an unguarded hour, when weary lids close
unconsciously, and mind and body are at rest, and then, just then,
expectation becomes reality, and the very event for which we watched and
waited takes us by surprise.
Thus it was that, while a man might count twenty, David stood amazed and
silent before Halbert of the Hirst, who briefly and rudely explained his
errand, at the same time showing his warrant for the apprehension of the
excommunicated heretic. But in another moment Stratton of Stratton was
himself again. Not in vain, after all, had he anticipated this solemn
hour.
“I’m fain to gang wi’ ye,” he answered, calmly and simply; “and I thank
my God I’m no feart to answer for his truth the day.”
Here George interposed impetuously; entreating Halbert to come with him
to Lauriston Castle, and promising that, if he did so, his father the
Laird would give ample securities for his uncle.
But Halbert shook his head. His orders were precise, he said: he was to
bring Maister David Stratton, dead or alive, to St. Andrews, and he
would not be found wanting in his duty to those that sent him for all
the lairds in Scotland, be they who they might.
George would have pleaded further, but David silenced him, saying, “Na,
na, Geordie; dinna fash yersel, it’s a’ richt.” Then turning to Halbert,
“Ye’ll bait yer horse and tak a drink? Yon puir lads’ll no be laith for
that, seeing the day’s unco het, and it’s a lang gait up the hill.”
Halbert, however, declined the proffered hospitality, which he feared
might cover some snare. His impatience to set out on his way was
extreme. He could scarcely believe his own good fortune, in having so
easily secured his captive, and every moment’s delay seemed to him
fraught with unknown perils of rescue, flight, or evasion.
The farm-servants, as yet surprised and curious rather than alarmed, now
came running in from all directions.
One of them was immediately desired to saddle a horse for his master,
but on no account would Halbert lose sight of the prisoner even for a
minute. Perceiving this, David asked George to bring him a little money
and a few other necessaries for his journey, giving his directions with
a calmness that contrasted strongly with his nephew’s ill-concealed
agitation.
When George returned, David was already taking a hasty but kind farewell
of the perplexed and terrified servants. Halbert of the Hirst stood a
little apart, leaning upon his spear; perhaps he was beginning, in spite
of himself, to feel a sort of respect for his captive. George turned
towards him, and in a few words bespoke his courtesy and good offices
for Maister David, making very free use of the name and influence of the
Laird of Lauriston. This was little, certainly, to do for a relative so
dear to him, but it was all he could under the circumstances. Then came
the parting moment.
David lowered his voice, “Geordie, lad, will ye do me ane kindness the
day, for auld lang syne?”
“Onything ye list, uncle.”
“Then stay not—ride quick to Edzell (the family-seat of the Lindsays),
and tell the tale o’ what has chanced wi’ me. For I’m feart the country
folk’ll hae a phrase about it, and mak’ it waur than it is, ten times
owre. But I lippen a’ to you, Geordie. Ye’ll do the best ye can, and
help and comfort _her_, for my sake. Tell her God is wi’ me, and he’ll
no leave nor forsake me, even to the end. And I’ll pray day and nicht
for her, for thy guid faither and mither, and for thee, Geordie. God
bless thee, lad!”
It was no shame to that brave man that he took his young kinsman in his
arms, strained him to his heart, and pressed his lips to his. Nor to
George that his tears fell fast, and his voice was not calm enough to
return his uncle’s blessing. For they were parting beside the grave, and
they knew it.
A few minutes afterwards George stood alone, watching the soldiers as
they marched down the hills, with the sun flashing upon their steel caps
and spears. The blow had fallen so suddenly that he could scarcely
realize it; yet its very suddenness was, in some respects, a merciful
provision. Had there been time and opportunity, the habits of his
previous life might so far have prevailed with David Stratton as to
induce him to offer some resistance. The manners of the age, and the
lawless state of the country would have excused such a course; and,
moreover, David might well have felt that, though he owed loyal
obedience to “the king as supreme,” he owed none to proud and
domineering Churchmen, who, according to their too frequent practice,
were taking justice—or injustice—“at their own hand.”
Yet, natural and excusable as a violent resistance might have been,
David would have forfeited much thereby. There is great dignity in
submission; dignity which the heart feels, even when the reason cannot
analyze it. No rebuke is so crushing as that which the apostle addressed
to the persecutors of his day, “Ye have condemned and killed the just,
and _he doth not resist you_.”
And “he who suffers conquers;” that is, he who suffers willingly,
patiently, bravely. Victories thus won, silent and often unnoticed
though they be, are the best and noblest earth’s trampled battle-field
has ever witnessed; nor, however times may change, shall they wholly
cease, until He comes who shall bring peace to the nations.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VIII.
=The Cloud Breaks.=
“God’s Spirit sweet,
Still thou the heat
Of our passionate hearts when they rave and beat.
Quiet their swell,
And gently tell
That his right hand doth all things well.”
C. F. ALEXANDER.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VIII.
=The Cloud Breaks.=
David Stratton’s heart was not likely to sink when the trial he had
anticipated actually came. He was constitutionally brave; gifted indeed
with
“A spirit that would dare
The deadliest form that death could take,
And dare it for the daring’s sake.”
Not that his fortitude was of the very highest and noblest kind; of such
fortitude, strange as it may seem, that nature is only capable which is
also capable of the intensest agony of fear. It is the heart sensitive
enough to apprehend and to feel in its utmost bitterness every pang that
can be inflicted, that will rise, by God’s grace, to the loftiest height
of gentle, self-forgetting heroism in the hour of anguish. But even if
David Stratton’s courage was not, like one of Solomon’s targets, of
beaten gold pure and precious, it was at least “a right good shield of
hides untanned,” strong and serviceable in the day of battle.
When, therefore, he was apprehended and brought a prisoner to Edinburgh,
he was probably not by any means the greatest sufferer himself. Other
hearts trembled more than his, when at last he was “produced in judgment
in the Abbey of Holy rood House, the king himself (all clad in red)
being present.” A priest named Norman Gourlay was his companion in faith
and suffering. The priest was accused of having said “that there was no
such thing as purgatory, and that the Pope was not a bishop, but
Antichrist, and had no jurisdiction in Scotland.”
Against David the old accusation was revived. Robert Lawson, vicar of
Ecclescreig, deposed to his unmannerly refusal of the tithes demanded by
him on behalf of the Prior of St. Andrews. To this was added an offence
more recently committed—“that he said there was no purgatory but the
passion of Christ and the tribulations of this world.”
The king, most anxious to save him, earnestly entreated him to recant,
and to “burn his bill.” But in vain. “I have offended in nothing,” said
brave, honest David Stratton.
His was not the tongue of the learned; he had no words of burning
eloquence wherewith to explain and defend the faith so precious to his
heart; yet, as was once said by another of Christ’s true disciples, he
“could not speak for him, but he could die for him.” No threats—no
persuasions could turn him from his simple strong adherence to the cause
of truth and right. He “stood ever at his defence,” maintaining that he
had done no wrong, and therefore refusing to retract.
Then, before all that awe-struck assembly, the terrible sentence was
pronounced—_death by fire_.
David heard it with undaunted courage. Death had no terrors for him, for
he knew in whom he had believed, and was persuaded that He was able to
keep that which he committed to him against that day. Still, for the
sake of one far away whose heart would bleed, he desired to live, if
life might be preserved without unfaithfulness to his God. He made,
therefore, one last effort to save himself by appealing to the king and
asking his grace.
The king’s heart was touched, and words of mercy and pardon trembled on
his lips. But the Bishop of Ross, who managed the prosecution upon this
occasion, proudly interposed. “Your hands are bound in this case,” said
he. “You have no grace to give to such as are condemned by the Church’s
law.” So little did a king’s compassion avail the victims of priestly
cruelty.
There is no need to linger over the rest of the story; a few brief words
may suffice to tell it. On the 27th of August 1534, Norman Gourlay and
David Stratton sealed their testimony with their lives. They were
strangled, and their bodies burned at a place “besydis the rood of
Greenside;” probably near the road that now leads from the Calton Hill
to Leith. It is recorded that David Stratton consoled and encouraged his
fellow-sufferer to the last. We know not why a less painful death was
granted these two than that which in those days usually fell to the lot
of the witnesses for Christ. But after all, it mattered little through
what gate they passed from earth, with its sin and sorrow, to the
brightness of their Saviour’s presence. In that presence it was well
with them—nay, it _is_ well—for years and centuries make no change in
the blessedness of those who, absent from the body, are present with the
Lord, and “await their perfect consummation and bliss, both in body and
soul, in his eternal and everlasting glory.”
But how was it with the inmates of Lauriston Castle when these sad
tidings reached them? How the Laird mourned his brother, or George his
uncle—rather his loved and valued friend—might indeed easily be told.
But Alison Lindsay, in the restlessness of her anxious and sorrowful
heart, had once again sought the shelter of that roof, only to learn the
terrible truth from the lips of her cousin Isabel—and who shall paint
anguish such as hers?
We know, alas!—
“What bitter words we speak,
When God speaks of resigning;”
though it is his own voice that asks us to give up our treasure, and his
own loving hand, not the cruel violence of men, that takes it gently
from our arms. We know how hard it is to bury our dead out of our sight,
even when, as oft as we will, our tears may water the seed sown in
“God’s acre” against the harvest of the resurrection. What would it be
if, without farewell, without last look or parting word, that to which
our hearts cling so fondly were snatched from us; and even the lifeless
form—still so precious—denied a grave, burned to ashes, and scattered to
the winds of heaven? Yet all this many women have borne, and borne
bravely and meekly, not cursing God or man, but learning day by day to
love and pray through all, and to possess their souls in patience.
Surely, besides that written here below, there is another “Book of
Martyrs”—a book in which He who himself wept over the dead, has recorded
those tears and agonies, worse than stake or gibbet, shed in secret and
endured in silence, for his name’s sake.
But if it be only the willing sacrifice He accepts, Alison could not yet
receive the joy of that sacrifice to compensate for her bitter pain.
While hope remained she had prayed for David’s life, if indeed the cry
sent up from her agonized heart to him who was as yet to her the unknown
God, could be called prayer. ‘Surely’ (she thought), ‘the God whom he
served continually could and would deliver his faithful witness from the
hands of his enemies. He would never suffer the bad to triumph, and the
good to perish thus. He would take care of his own cause.’ So, even to
the last, she sought to reason herself into trustful hope, if not into
confidence. And then the blow came. Her life was desolate; earth was
dark—dark for ever; nor did any light from Heaven shine in upon its
midnight gloom. For had not her hope deceived her? was not her prayer
given back into her own bosom? And yet she could not say, “It was a
chance that happened us.” She could not forget God—there are situations
in which this is impossible; she recognized his mighty hand, and bowed
beneath it—alas! not in resignation, but in despair. The language of her
heart was not, “It is the Lord, let him do what seemeth him good;” but
rather, “O Lord, take, I beseech thee, my life from me, for it is better
for me to die than to live.”
Those around her, though they longed to comfort, yet had to stand apart,
for it is God’s ordinance that through all deep waters the soul must
pass alone. In the great silence that he makes around the mourner, every
human voice dies away that his, and his alone, may be heard. It is a
fearful thing when _He_ is silent! Then to the tried and tortured heart
come the whispers of the tempter, the “adversary” of God and man. Such
whispers came to Alison. First, they said to her, “There is no God;” but
well she knew that was false. Then came the more subtle suggestion,
“There is a God, but he cares not for you. He does what he pleases in
heaven and upon earth, heedless of the happiness or the misery of the
creatures his hand has made.” And Alison said in her heart, “It is so in
truth;”—thus from despair she passed into rebellion, and again rebellion
engendered despair.
All this time she did not weep, or wept but seldom. Nor would she speak
of the past even to her cousin Isabel, after having once heard, with a
calmness that seemed terrible to those who told it, the tale of David’s
trial, condemnation, and martyrdom. But George took care frequently to
leave in her way the Testament from which David had so loved to hear the
words of truth. Remembering how earnestly he had urged its study upon
her, she took it to her own apartment, and there read it, often for
hours together. At first her attention wandered, and she scarcely tried
to fix it, believing herself already sufficiently familiar both with the
history and the doctrines of the book. But gradually she became
interested in what she read. Now and then a passage would arrest and
touch her; some parable or narrative it might be, which she had heard in
David’s presence, or he had spoken of to her. And then tears would come,
welcome tears, that relieved the heart of some of its heavy burden. She
began to grow humbler in her sorrow, to take sympathy gently if not
thankfully, and to long to hear of him she had lost from those who knew
and loved him.
Thus it happened that George told her one day of his last interview with
David. She heard all in silence, determined to restrain her emotion, at
least in George’s presence; with Isabel it might have been different.
But when she heard that David had been willing to trust her where he
trusted his own soul, because he knew by experience even a little of
that love passing knowledge, wherewith he had been loved, so strong was
the rush of feeling, that in spite of all self-restraint, there were
heavy sobs and tears, though they were not wholly for sorrow.
George would willingly have consoled her, but he knew not what to say or
do. He was about to leave the room, when the thought occurred to him
that if he did not finish his story now he might probably never have
another opportunity. Before the conversation began, he had been reading
the Testament to his mother and Alison; but Lady Isabel having been
called away, he had laid the book aside. He now quietly resumed where he
had left off; and these were the words that fell upon the ear of Alison:
“And when even was now come, his disciples went down unto the sea, and
entered into a ship, and went over the sea toward Capernaum. And it was
now dark, and Jesus was not come to them. And the sea arose, by reason
of a great wind that blew. So when they had rowed about five and twenty
or thirty furlongs, they see Jesus walking on the sea, and drawing nigh
unto the ship: and they were afraid. But he saith unto them, It is I; be
not afraid. Then they willingly received him into the ship: and
immediately the ship was at the land whither they went.”