THE ELDERS OF THE HILL FOLK.
(_The Narrative taken up again by Quintin MacClellan._)
It was long before I could see clearly the way I should go, after that
dismal day and night of which I have told the tale.
It seemed as if there was no goodness on the earth, no use in my work,
no right or excellency in the battle I had fought and the sacrifice I
had made. Ought I not even now to give way? Surely God had not meant a
man so poor in spirit, so easily cast down to hold aloft the standard of
his ancient kirk.
But nevertheless, here before me and around me, a present duty, were my
parish and my poor folk, so brave and loyal and steadfast. Could I
forsake them? Daily I heard tidings of their struggling with the arm of
flesh, though I now judge that Hob, in some fear of my disapproval,
would not venture to tell me all.
Yet I misdoubted that I had brought my folk into a trouble which might
in the event prove a grievous enough one for them.
But a kind Providence watched over them and me. For even when it came to
the stormiest, the wind ceased and there was a blissful breathing time
of quietness and peace.
Also there was that happened about this time which brought us at least
for a time assurance and security within our borders.
It was, as I remember it, a gurly night in late September, the wind
coming in gusts and swirling flaws from every quarter, very evidently
blowing up for a storm.
Hob had come in silently and set him down by the fire. He was peeling a
willow wand for his basket-weaving and looking into the embers. I could
hear Martha Little, our sharp-tongued servant lass, clattering among her
pots and pans in the kitchen. As for me I was among my books, deep in
Greek, which to my shame I had been somewhat neglecting of late.
Suddenly there came a loud knocking at the outer door.
I looked at my plaid hung up to dry, and bethought me who might be ill
and in want of my ministrations upon such a threatening night.
I could hear Martha go to the door, and the low murmur of voices
without.
Then the door of the chamber opened and I saw the faces and forms of
half-a-dozen men in the passage.
“It has come at last,” thought I, for I expected that it might be the
Sheriff and his men come to expel me from the kindly shelter of the
manse. And though I should have submitted, I knew well that there would
be bloodshed on the morrow among my poor folk.
But it turned out far otherwise.
The first who entered into the house-place was a tall, thin, darkish
man, with a white pallor of face and rigid fallen-in temples. His eyes
were fiery as burning coals, deep set under his bushy eyebrows.
Following him came Sir Alexander Gordon of Earlstoun and in the lee of
his mighty form three or four others--douce, grave, hodden-grey men
every one of them, earnest of eye and quiet of carriage.
Hob went out, unobserved as was his modest wont, and I motioned them
with courtesy and observance to such seats as my little study afforded.
As usual there were stools everywhere, with books upon them, and I
observed with what careful scrupulosity the men laid these upon the
table before sitting down. A Hebrew Bible lay open on the desk, and one
after another stooped over it with an eager look of reverence.
I waited for them to speak.
It was the tall dark man who first broke silence.
“Reverend sir,” he said, “what my name is, it skills me not to tell.
Enough that I am a man that has suffered much from the strivings of
fleshly thorns, from the persecutions of ungodly man. But now I am
charged with a mission and a message.
“You have been cast out of the Kirk for adherence to the ancient way.
Yet you have upheld in weakness and the frailty of mortal man the banner
of the older Covenant. You are not ignorant that there are still
societies and general meetings of the Suffering Remnant of men who have
never declined, as you yourself have done, from the plain way of
conscience and righteousness.
“Yet the man doth not live who doeth good and sinneth not. So because we
desire a minister, we would offer you the strong sustaining hand.
Though you be not able at once to unite with us, nor for the present to
take upon you our strait and heavy testimony, yet because you have been
faithful to your lights we will stand by you and see that no man hinder
or molest you.”
And the others, beginning with Sir Alexander Gordon, said likewise, “We
will support you!”
Then I knew that these men were the leaders and elders among the Hill
Folk, and the ancient reverence to which I was born took hold on me. For
I had been brought up among them as a lad, and my mother had spoken to
me constantly of their great piety and abounding steadfastness in the
day of trouble. These were they who had never tangled themselves with
any entrapping engagements. They alone were no seceders, for they had
never entered any State Church.
With a great price had I obtained this freedom, but these men were
free-born.
“I thank you, sirs,” I answered, bowing my head. “I have indeed sought
to keep the Way, but I have erred so greatly in the past that I cannot
hope to guide my path aright for the future. But one thing I shall at
least seek after, and that is the glory of the great King, and the
honour and independence of the Kirk of God in Scotland, Covenanted and
Suffering!”
The dark stern-faced man spoke again.
“You are not yet one of us. You have yet a far road to travel. But I,
that am old, see a vision. And one day you, Quintin MacClellan, shall
serve tables among us of the Covenant. I shall not see it with the eyes
of flesh. For even now my days are numbered, and the tale of them is
brief. Farewell! Be not afraid. The Seven Thousand will stand behind
you. No evil shall befall you here or otherwhere. The Seven Thousand
have sworn it--they have sworn it on the Holy Book, in the place of
Martyrs and in the House of Tears!”
And with that the six men went out through the door and were lost in the
darkness of the night. And the wind from the waste swept in and the lowe
of the candle flickered eerily as if they had been visitants from
another world.