Chapter XVI At the Dawning
Shortly after midnight upon the Monday following that sad Sabbath day, Watty McBean rose up out of his bed, so quietly as not to disturb Betty asleep in the ben-end, and, hastily putting on his clothes, stole out of doors. The harvest moon was at its full, and a light almost as clear as day lay upon the silent earth. The moonlight was very favourable for Watty’s purpose, and his face wore a well-pleased expression as he entered the stable where his faithful nag was peacefully asleep. She looked round whinnying at her master’s step, but he paid no heed to her. Striking a light, he took from an empty stall which he used as a tool-house a pick and shovel. These he hoisted on his shoulder, and, leaving the stable, stole swiftly up the village street. As he passed Mistress Lyall’s he shook his doubled fist at the darkened windows, for in that house several of the dragoons were stationed, under command not to leave the place until they had captured the notorious rebels, who were known to be in hiding in the neighbourhood; also certain words fell from his lips which were scarcely in keeping with his profession as a Christian, or with his old occupation of bell-ringer and minister’s man in the parish. Once clear of the village, Watty somewhat slackened his pace, and leisurely ascended the manse brae to the churchyard. On this gentle eminence the air was scarcely so still, for a light breeze stirred the yellow leaves on the birks of Inverburn, and sighed with a mournful cadence through the long grasses waving above the last resting-place of the dead. Passing the manse gate Watty again shook his fist and applied a very expressive epithet to its unconscious inmate, which would have roused the ire of the Reverend Duncan McLean had he heard it. But he was enjoying his well-earned repose, for he had been very zealous for several days in assisting to ferret out rebellious insurgents.
Watty entered the churchyard and stepped lightly over the turf to the green enclosure where slept so many of those who had first seen the light in the manse of Inverburn. Laying down his implements, Watty paused a moment by the double head-stone and wiped his eyes, as he read the name of Gray, so oft repeated—husband and wife, parent and child, one after the other—until certain newly-chiselled words recorded that here also slept—
“AGNES GUTHRIE GRAY,
THE DEAR WIFE OF ADAM HEPBURN, OF ROWALLAN,
WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE UNTIMEOUSLY,
IN THE FLOWER OF HER AGE,
BEING SHOT BY DRAGOONS AT HER OWN DOOR,
ON THE NINTH DAY OF MARCH,
SIXTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY-THREE,
LEAVING HER SORROWING HUSBAND DESOLATE UPON THE
FACE OF THE EARTH.”
As he slowly spelled out these pathetic words, for Watty was no great scholar, tears chased each other down his rugged face, and the heaving of his broad chest told how deep was his emotion. But suddenly recovering himself, and as if ashamed of his weakness, he dashed the tears aside, and stepping back for his pick, began his work—that of digging a grave. It was a strange and weird occupation for that mysterious hour following upon midnight, and Watty might have been excused had he felt a little nervous over his task. But no such foolish fears disturbed him as he quickly and deftly shovelled out the earth; his mind was filled with sad regretful thoughts of the past, mingled with foreboding and anxious previsions of the future. And thus busily occupied, he made great speed with his work. The bell in the tower rang one, and then two, and still Watty did not halt, but ere the solemn hands moved round to three his work was done, for his spade had struck with a dull sound on Agnes Hepburn’s coffin lid. Then he jumped out of the new-made grave, put on his coat again, and walked down to the churchyard gate. Just then he heard the first cock-crowing from the curate’s hen-roost, and its echo was taken up by chanticleer on a neighbouring farm, announcing to whomsoever might be awake to hear, the dawning of another day. Stepping out of the gate, Watty looked anxiously up the road, and as anxiously down towards the village, fearing lest the marauders under Mistress Lyall’s roof-tree should have obtained a scent of this morning’s work. For about fifteen minutes Watty endured an agony of impatience and suspense. However, to his unspeakable relief, he beheld something moving at a considerable distance up the road. He at once advanced to meet it, and as he drew nearer he could distinguish four figures walking two abreast, and carrying something between them. They also breathed a sigh of relief at sight of Watty, for in these times, though appointments were made, none could predict what might transpire to prevent their being kept.
“All ready, Watty?” inquired the voice of Andrew Gray, of Hartrigge, the moment they were within speaking distance.
“A’ ready,” Watty whispered back, and walking to the rear of the little party, he relieved the minister of Inverburn at the end of the coffin. Then slowly, and with measured tread, they moved on to the churchyard gate, up the broad walk, and across the turf to the new-made grave. The coffin was then laid gently down on the grass, and Watty, bending forward, read the name on the plate,
“GAVIN GRAY, AGED 17.”
Meanwhile, Adam Hepburn had moved over to the open grave, and was gazing down upon the coffin, which contained the remains of his beloved, with a strange far-off expression on his face. They saw that he had forgotten himself and them, and after waiting a moment, David Gray stepped forward and lightly touched his arm.
“We wait for you, Adam,” he said gently. “Will you take the cord at the feet with me?”
Adam Hepburn started violently, and then stepping forward, took the cord held out to him; the minister of Inverburn and Hartrigge himself being at the head. Then very gently they lowered it into the grave, and when it grated upon the other, Adam Hepburn let go his hold, and turned aside with a deep groan. The minister of Inverburn took up a handful of earth, and let it fall loosely on the coffin lid. “Earth to earth, dust to dust, he has changed the corruptible for the incorruptible, and what is our loss is the lad’s great gain,” he murmured half dreamily. Then he laid his hand on the arm of the bereaved father, over whose rugged face a tremor had passed, like the first wave of a great sea, adding, with gentle force, “My son, come, let us go hence.”
“Not yet; I will wait and help Watty,” said Andrew Gray, in a hoarse whisper; but already Watty, with strong and willing arm, was rapidly filling up the grave.
“I wonder whose murdered body will next lie here,” said Hartrigge, with strange, deep bitterness. “Truly, I think, father, we had need soon to extend our burial space.”
“Do not speak so bitterly, my son. Let us be thankful that we have been permitted to give the dear lad honourable and Christian burial, with his forbears,” said the old man gently. “If the Lord will, may I be the next to be laid here in peace.”
“We’d better get out o’ this unless we be tired o’ life,” said Watty, grimly, pointing with his forefinger to the first streak of dawn on the eastern horizon. “If we dinna get clear off afore the daw’in’, some o’ the manse folk will be sure to see us.”
Mindful of Watty’s warning, they prepared to leave the churchyard, and yet they were fain to linger, for many hallowed memories bound them to the place. Ere he turned to go, Andrew Gray took up the spade and gently beat down the turf on the grave, and his last look at his son’s loved resting place was blinded by unwonted tears.
“Watty,” said Adam Hepburn, as they walked out to the road, “you had better come with us now, and let us see that boasted hiding of yours on the Douglas Water. If we are to remain in this district it will take a securer shelter than the cave at Hartrigge to hold us.”
“I’m willint eneuch to let ye see’t; but what if I be catched comin’ hame?” queried Watty, cautiously.
“You can gather some grass on the roadside, and say you were seeking a bite for old Kirsty, if they question you,” said Adam. “But you can easily be home by half six at the latest, unless indeed the place be all the farther up the water.”
“Na, na, it’s no’ that faur. Weel, I’ll just hide my pick and shovel in the hedge, and gang,” answered Watty; so the little party once more turned their faces to Hartrigge, where the bereaved mother sat in her desolate house, like Rachel, weeping for her children, and refusing to be comforted.
They spoke but little as they walked, for the burden of his thoughts was sufficient for each. The air was now raw and chill, and the light struggling over hill and dale dispelled the tender radiance of the moon and gave an aspect almost wintry to the face of nature. The minister of Inverburn several times shivered and his hacking cough and attenuated appearance indicated that exposure was beginning to tell upon his aged frame. Looking at him, Watty more than once ominously shook his head, and whispered within himself that the minister was not long for this world. Thinking they might with safety venture into the house of Hartrigge for some warm breakfast, Andrew Gray, with his father and brother, turned up the road to the farm, while Adam Hepburn and Watty took their way by a near cut to the glen, which formed the bed of the Douglas Water. Relieved from the slight restraint of the minister’s presence, Watty found his tongue, and launched forth into a very vehement tirade against the oppressors of the land, using terms and expressions which in happier times would not have failed to amuse his companion, but which now he passed unheeded. It was seldom indeed that a smile was seen on the face of Adam Hepburn, and since his wife’s death no man or woman had ever heard him laugh. The keen and pleasant sense of humour which had given such a relish to his company and speech in days gone by, had deserted him now, and he was in every respect an altered man. None was more mournfully conscious of this change than Watty, who had been wont to have many a bantering jest with the farmer of Rowallan, for whom he had a great liking and respect.
In the glen the sleepy birds were beginning to stir among the boughs, and already the air was full of twitterings, and of the hum of insects early on the wing. A heavy dew had fallen in the night, and hung sparkling like diamonds in the hedgerows and on every blade of grass, making the footing very wet, especially where it grew long and rank, close to the water’s edge.
As they passed the mouth of the Corbie’s Cliff Watty McBean looked mournfully at the now visible entrance, for the dragoons with their swords had shorn away all the branches and the clinging tangles which had so securely hidden it before. So that no man could possibly hide there now and expect to be undisturbed.
“Eh, that limmer Martha Miller, if I had her I’d pay her out for her treachery!” muttered Watty. “It’s just as weel she gaed awa’ to her sister in Glesca. She wadna hae been safe muckle longer in the place. It was gettin’ ower hot for her.”
“Ay, she’ll never prosper, Watty. She may grow rich for a time on the spoiling of the neighbours she betrayed, but her punishment will come by-and-by,” said Adam, quietly.
“I’m sure I hope sae,” returned Watty, fervently. “Weel, here we are. Are ye sure there’s naebody in sicht?”
“Scarcely here, before five in the morning, Watty,” said Adam, with a faint smile. “It is a dark and gloomy retreat this.”
He spoke the truth. They had now reached a very deep and narrow part of the glen, the sides of which rose precipitously from the edges of the stream. These abrupt heights were so densely covered with trees, chiefly those dark and gloomy firs common to the mountainous portions of Scotland, that they looked like a solid and impenetrable mass. The water, though narrow, was very deep, and made a hoarse and hollow roaring as it rushed among its rough boulders, which looked as if they had become detached from the rocky heights above and rolled into the bed of the stream. The light admitted from the narrow space between the heights was very insufficient, and only seemed to add to the gloom. Even in summer the sunshine never penetrated the dark retreat, consequently the common wild flowers did not bloom, although ferns and mosses of rich and varied hues and rare and delicate form grew in beautiful luxuriance.
“D’ye see ony place whaur a body micht hide?” queried Watty, with a twinkle in his eye.
“Faith, Watty, I believe anybody might be safe enough where we are standing at this moment. No mounted pursuer, at least, could reach this spot,” answered Adam Hepburn.
“Weel, follow me as best ye can, for there’s nae road, no’ even a sheep-track, to guide ye,” said Watty and, immediately plunging into the thicket on the left, he began to scramble up the face of the steep.
It was with some difficulty that his companion followed, but, by swinging himself up by the strong undergrowth, he managed to keep Watty in sight. At length Watty altogether and mysteriously disappeared, and, though he called out to guide his companion to his whereabouts, Adam could not discover him. It was intensely dark, and there was scarcely room to stand upright, so densely did the trees grow together. Presently Watty appeared again, and then Adam saw that he stood in front of an overhanging bank almost concealed by long grass and bracken.
“Crawl in efter me,” cried Watty, and, getting down on his hands and knees, he crept under the bank and disappeared. Adam followed his example, and, as Watty immediately struck a light, he saw, to his astonishment, that he was in a roomy cavern, where he could stand upright with the greatest ease.
“Well, Watty, this is a splendid place, and will doubtless be invaluable to us,” he exclaimed. “It is well-nigh impossible that any one should discover this. But tell me, how many in Inverburn could point it out?”
“No’ a leevin’ soul but mysel’. I’ll tell ye wha shewed it to me, auld Robbie Harden, mony a year afore he deed, an’ I never telt a cratur,” Watty assured him, solemnly.
“Ah, that is good! Well, Watty, I am certainly obliged to you for bringing me here,” said Adam. “The thing is, I hope I can make my way to it again by myself.”
“Oh, that’s easy enough. If ye come down noo I’ll let ye see the clue,” said Watty, and, accordingly, they again scrambled through the thicket to the edge of the stream.
“Ye see that muckle black rock jist like a table,” said Watty, pointing to a huge mass lying in the bed of the water. “It’s jist directly opposite that. If ye keep straicht up ye canna’ miss it.”
“All right; I’ll remember,” said Adam, and the twain then left the ravine and rapidly retraced their steps towards the haunts of men.
It was now about half-past five, so Watty, in alarm lest he should be stopped and questioned, left Adam Hepburn just behind Hartrigge, and taking to his heels, fled with the utmost speed back to the village.