Having thus set forth the main passages in my grandfather's life, I
should now quit the public highway of history, and turn for a time into
the pleasant footpath of his domestic vineyard, the plants whereof,
under his culture, and the pious waterings of Elspa Ruet, my excellent
progenitrix, were beginning to spread their green tendrils and goodly
branches, and to hang out their clusters to the gracious sunshine, as it
were in demonstration to the heavens that the labourer was no sluggard,
and as an assurance that in due season, under its benign favour, they
would gratefully repay his care with sweet fruit. But there is yet one
thing to be told, which, though it may not be regarded as germane to the
mighty event of the Reformation, grew so plainly out of the signal
catastrophe related in the foregoing chapter, that it were to neglect
the instruction mercifully intended were I not to describe all its
circumstances and particularities as they came to pass.
Accordingly to proceed. In the winter after the storming of Dumbarton
Castle, Widow Ruet, the mother of my grandmother, hearing nothing for a
long time of her poor donsie daughter Marion, had, from the hanging of
Archbishop Hamilton, the anti-Christian paramour of that misguided
creature, fallen into a melancholy state of moaning and inward grief, in
so much that Bailie Kilspinnie wrote a letter invoking my grandfather to
come with his wife to Crail, that they might join together in comforting
the aged woman; which work of duty and of charity they lost no time in
undertaking, carrying with them Agnes Kilspinnie to see her kin.
Being minded both in the going and the coming to partake of the feast of
the heavenly and apostolic eloquence of the fearless Reformer's
life-giving truths, they went by the way of Edinburgh; and in going
about while there to show Agnes Kilspinnie the uncos of the town, it
happened as they were coming down from the Castlehill, in passing the
Weigh-house, that she observed a beggar woman sitting on a stair
seemingly in great distress, for her hands were fervently clasped, and
she was swinging her body backwards and forwards like a bark without a
rudder on a billowy sea, when the winds of an angry heaven are let loose
upon't.
What made this forlorn wretch the more remarkable was a seeming remnant
of better days in something about herself, besides the silken rags of
garments that had once been costly. For, as she from time to time lifted
her delicate hands aloft in her despairing ecstasy, the scrap of
blanket, which was all her mantle, fell back and showed such lily and
lady-like arms that it was impossible to look upon her without
compassion, and not also to wonder from what high and palmy estate she
had fallen into such abject poverty.
My grandfather and his wife, with Agnes, stopped for a moment, and
conferred together about what alms they would offer to a gentlewoman
brought so low; when she, observing them, came wildly towards them
crying, "For the Mother of God, to save a famishing outcast from death
and perdition."
Her frantic gesture, far more than her papistical exclamation, made
their souls shudder; and before they had time to reply, she fell on her
knees, and taking Elspa by the hand, repeated the same vehement prayer,
adding, "Do, do, even though I be the vilest and guiltiest of
womankind."
"Marion Ruet!--O, my sister!--O, my dear Marion!" as wildfully and as
wofully did my grandmother in that instant also cry aloud, falling on
the beggar-woman's neck, and sobbing as if her heart would have burst;
for it was indeed the bailie's wife, and the mother of Agnes, that
supplicated for a morsel.
This sad sight brought many persons around, among others a decent
elderly carlin that kept a huxtry shop close by, who pitifully invited
them to come from the public causey into her house; and with some
difficulty my grandfather removed the two sisters thither. Agnes
Kilspinnie, poor thing, following like a demented creature, not even
able to drop a tear at so meeting with her humiliated parent, who, from
the moment that she was known, could only gaze like the effigy of some
extraordinary consternation carved in alabaster stone.
When they had been some time in the house of old Ursie Firikins, as the
kind carlin was called, Elspa Ruet all the while weeping like a constant
fountain and repeating, "Marion, Marion!" with a fond and sorrowful
tenderness that would allow her to say no more, my grandfather having
got a drink of meal and water prepared, gave it to the famished outcast,
and she gradually recovered from her stupor.
For many minutes, however, she sat still and said nothing, and when she
did speak it was in a voice of such misery of soul that my grandfather
never liked to tell what terrible thoughts the remembrance of it ever
gave him. I shall therefore not venture to repeat what she said, farther
than to mention that, having sunk down on her knees, she spread her
hands aloft and exclaimed, "Ay, the time's come now, and the words of
her prophecy, that never ceased to dirl in my soul, are fulfilled. I
will go back to Crail--my penitence shall be seen in my shame;--I will
go openly, that all may take warning--and before all, in the face of
day, will I confess the wrongs I hae done to my gudeman and bairns."
She then rose and said to her sister, "Elspa, ye hae heard my vow, and
this very hour I will begin my pilgrimage."
Some further conversation ensued, in which she told them that she had
run a woful course after the havock at St Andrews; but, though humbled
to the dust, and almost perishing of hunger, pride had still warsled
with penitence, and would not let her return to seek shelter from her
mother. "But at last," said she, "all has now come to pass, and it is
meet I submit to what is so plainly required of me." Then turning to her
daughter she looked at her for some time with a watery and inquiring
eye, and would have spoken, but her heart filled full and she could only
weep.
By way of consolation my grandfather told her they were then on their
way to Crail, and that as soon as they had procured for her some fit
apparel, they would take her with them. At these words she lifted the
skirt of her ragged gown, and looking at it for a moment, smiled, as if
in contempt of all things, saying,--
"No, this is the livery of Him that I hae served so weel. It is fit that
my friends should behold the coat of many colours, and the garment of
praise wherewith He rewards all those that serve Him as I hae done." And
no admonition, nor any affectionate petition, could shake her sad
purpose.
"But," said she, "I ought not to shame you on the road; and yet, Elspa,
at least till the entrance of the town, let me travel with you; for when
I hae dreed my penance, we must part, never to meet again. Darkness and
dule is my portion now in this world. I hae earnt them, and it is just
that I should enjoy them. They are my ain conquest, bought wi' the price
of everything but my soul, and wha kens but for this meeting that it
might hae been bartered away too."
In nothing, however, of all that then passed was there anything which so
moved the tranquil heart of my grandfather as the looks which, from
time to time, the desolate woman cast at her daughter. Fain she seemed
to speak and to catch her in her arms; but ever and anon the sense of
her own condition came upon her, and she began to weep, crying, "No, no,
I darena do that--I darena even mysel' to a parent's privilege after
what I hae done."
The poor lassie sat unable to make any answer; but at last, in a timid
manner, she took her mother softly by the hand, and the fond and lowly
penitent for a few moments allowed it to linger in her grip, willing to
have left it there; but suddenly stung by her conscience she snatched it
away, and again broke out into piercing lamentations and confessions of
unworthiness.
Meanwhile the charitable Ursie Firikins had made ready a mess of
porridge, and the mournful Magdalen being soothed and consoled, was
persuaded to partake. And afterwards, when they had sat some time, and
the crowd which had gathered out of doors in the street was dispersed,
my grandfather went to his lodgings; and having paid his lawin, returned
to the two sisters and Agnes Kilspinnie, and they all walked to the
shore of Leith together, where they found a boat going to Kinghorn, into
which they embarked; and having slept there, they hired a cart to take
them to Crail next morning, everyone who saw them wondering at the
dejected and ruinous appearance of the penitent. The particulars,
however, of their journey and of her reception in her native place, will
furnish matter for another chapter.