Chapter XVII A Shock of Corn Fully Ripe
The body of dragoons stationed in the village of Inverburn were so constantly upon the alert, and swept so wide a range of the surrounding district, that it was well-nigh impossible for the fugitives to leave their hiding either by night or day. They had removed to the safer hiding of Watty’s hole in the Witches’ Cleugh [glen or ravine], and thither Jane Gray, courageous as usual, carried their provisions, either in the very early morning, or after the moon was up at night. They had made the place as comfortable as it was possible under the circumstances, having formed themselves couches of dried leaves over which were spread the substantial coverings which Jane had carried to them by degrees. She was now abiding constantly at Hartrigge, where all Adam Hepburn’s most valuable goods had been removed, and Rowallan shut up. As for the stock, the soldiers had relieved him of any anxiety regarding it by removing it all for their own use and profit. So Rowallan was now a deserted and desolate homestead, about which the owls screeched mournfully at night, and the bats flapped their weird wings unheeded and undisturbed against the shuttered windows.
The people of the village were now driven to church at the point of the sword, consequently the curate’s services were no longer disgraced by meagre attendances. As the people listened to the mockery of worship he conducted within the now desecrated walls, they bowed their heads in sorrow and shame, knowing very well that directly the services were over he would be away drinking with the officers of the regiment. His excesses, which were not confined to week-days, had now become a public scandal, so much so, that Sir Thomas Hamilton in disgust had ceased to attend the church of Inverburn, and had returned to the ministrations of John Methven, at Lochlee.
The dragoons, being under command not to quit the place until they had laid hands on the four obstinate and cunning insurgents, who were lurking in the neighbourhood, growing tired of their quarters, began a more vigorous raid on the outlying farmhouses and homesteads, as well as a more thorough exploration of the woods and hills. But though they rode along the very heights above the hiding place of the wanderers they sought, and, dismounting, even made an attempt to explore the very thicket sheltering the cave, their search was unsuccessful.
Being quite aware of the very strict search going on, the fugitives were compelled to abide yet more closely in their shelter. It was now the end of the year, and though as yet little snow had fallen, there had been heavy rain storms accompanied by wild and bitter winds which almost froze the marrow in their bones. It being considered unsafe to make a fire, the fugitives suffered much from the cold, and from the dampness of their hiding-place. The minister of Inverburn, especially, suffered from its effects, and grew so weak that he was scarcely able to stand upright. He also complained of great pain and uneasiness of the chest, which indicated that the long exposure had wrought very evil effects upon his aged and delicate frame.
Towards midnight, one evening early in January, a slight snow being on the ground, and the roads rendered easy footing by a touch of frost, Mistress Gray of Hartrigge, accompanied by Jane, set out to carry provisions to the fugitives. Since her son’s death, Susan Gray’s feelings concerning the Covenanters and their persecutions had undergone a change. In times gone she had not been a very zealous Churchwoman, and had often remonstrated with her husband concerning what she considered his bigoted and unwise zeal; but now her hatred against the oppressors equalled, if not excelled, that of Andrew. Yet his was the outcome of true religious zeal, while hers was the result of outraged human feelings. And I fear that very many of those who followed the fortunes of the Covenanters were actuated by like feelings with Mistress Gray.
No thought of fear troubled these two women as they traversed their lonely way through the wilds to the Witches’ Cleugh. They spoke but little as they went, for the time had now come when talking over troubles only made them seem worse to bear. They found it better to shut them up in their own hearts, and make no moan to the world. The bright light of the moon made the surrounding landscape indescribably beautiful, yet what eye had these two for what in happier times would have afforded them pleasure and delight? To them the beauty of Nature was obscured by the pall of bitter personal sorrow. When they reached the cleugh, Jane Gray put a whistle to her mouth and blew the signal, which those in hiding had learned to know and welcome. Andrew Gray hastened through the thicket to guide them up to the cave; and Jane walked on a little in front, guessing that her brother would have many things to say to his wife, whom he had not seen for some weeks. When they together entered the cavern, which was dimly lighted, quiet but expressive greetings passed between them, but somewhat to Jane’s surprise and alarm, her father did not offer to rise and speak to them. She advanced to the side of the low bed, and holding the flickering light above it, saw such a deep and significant change in the dear features, that she could not repress a cry of anguish.
“My father seems very ill. How long has he been thus?” she exclaimed, turning to her brothers. The tones of her familiar and much-loved voice seemed to awaken the old man to struggling consciousness, for he presently stirred, and opened his eyes.
“Is that my daughter’s voice?” he asked anxiously.
“Yes, father, I am here,” answered Jane, and dropping on her knees, she took the wasted hands in her firm gentle clasp. “Tell me, do you feel much distressed? Do you suffer much pain?”
“Not much pain, only great uneasiness and oppression, my daughter,” he answered. “If it be the precursor of my summons home, how gladly do I bear it all, if only my Lord sees fit to call me speedily from these troubles, which I fear I bear with but a poor measure of cheerfulness and patience. But being old and stricken in years, I have not the same endurance with these young men, your brethren.”
Jane Gray’s eyes filled with bitter tears, and for a space sobs prevented her from speaking. Susan Gray now moved over to the bed, and after looking steadfastly at the old man’s face for a brief space, she said decidedly, “Grandfather is very ill. What say you to having him moved to a comfortable bed at Hartrigge?”
For a moment they looked somewhat surprised at her proposal, which involved considerable risk, but she hastened to reassure them.
“The dragoons have grown weary of searching through Hartrigge, and, indeed, I hear, that having become convinced that you are not in the district, they are about to shift their quarters. So I think we needna’ fear for them. You could carry him home this very nicht between you, and be back safe in hiding afore the first peep o’ day.”
“God bless you for your suggestion, Susan,” said Jane Gray, gratefully. “It is kind of you to risk your own safety, and that of your bairns and house, for our sakes.”
After a brief hesitation it was resolved to act upon Mistress Gray’s plan.
The old man being too weak to understand what they were talking about, lay perfectly still, only keeping his eyes fixed upon his daughter’s face, as if they loved to dwell there. He seemed surprised when presently they began to roll the coverings round him, but did not ask any questions, nor did they tell him what was about to be done. He was so thin and attenuated that his light weight was as nothing to Andrew Gray, who carried him in his arms as easily as if he had been a child. After a little Adam relieved him, and thus that strange and mournful procession wended its way to the house of Hartrigge. The women-folk hurried on in front, and reaching the house considerably before the others, Jane made haste to get something hot prepared for them, while the mistress hung sheets and blankets at the cheerful kitchen fire, and carried up a shovelful of blazing peats to a little garret room, which was situated in the most remote and the safest part of the house. The bed was ready when the wanderers arrived, and the old man was at once undressed, and having had warm, dry, comfortable underclothing put on, was laid in the clean and cosy bed, where he stretched his limbs gladly, and wearily laid his head on the soft pillow, too thankful to ask where he was, so sweet and grateful was the unwonted comfort to his exhausted and pain-racked frame. His daughter held a warm drink to his lips, which when he had taken, he lay down and fell asleep. Meanwhile, in the chamber below the others were partaking of a hasty repast, wondering much at their own temerity in venturing within the house of Hartrigge, which, in spite of its familiarity, had a strange look, so long was it since their eyes had dwelt upon the interior of a dwelling made with hands. Leaving his food unfinished, Andrew Gray stole up to the chamber where he knew he should find his little ones asleep. As he looked upon the sweet, chubby faces of the two younger ones, and then on Jeanie’s paler and more womanly features, his eyes grew strangely dim, and stooping he kissed them one after the other, so lightly that they did not even stir in their sleep. His wife presently joined him, and moving to his side, she leaned her head on his shoulder and he put his arm about her, and they stood for a brief space in utter silence.
The thoughts of each were too deep for words or tears.
“God will take care of you, wife, and keep our bairns,” he said at length. “Fain would I tarry, but it is time we were going hence.”
She nodded, and leaving the room, they rejoined David Gray and Adam, waiting with some impatience below. Then after many fervent farewells, and many injunctions to send word if any danger were likely to come near Hartrigge, so that, if possible, they might again remove the old man, the wanderers left the cheerful warmth and comfort of Hartrigge, and betook themselves to their bleak hiding in the dens and caves of the earth.
Next morning mistress Gray took little Jeanie aside, and told her that her grandfather was in the garret, and said she had trusted her with the secret, lest she should discover it, and unthinkingly speak of it outside.
Jeanie looked up into her mother’s face with a wise, womanly expression, almost sad to see in so young a child.
“Oh, mother, you needna fear for me,” she said quietly. “Though you hadna told me, I would have known very well not to tell any one of grandfather being here. But, mother, did he come in the middle of the night, and was father with him? I dreamed that father was standing by my bed last night, and that he kissed me, and was crying when he did it.”
“It was nae dream, lassie,” said her mother, through her tears; “your poor father was indeed here last night, and kissed and blessed you, and Sandy, and Nannie too.”
For several days it seemed as if the minister of Inverburn were likely to recover, under the kind nursing of his daughter at Hartrigge. But the pain in the chest did not abate its severity, and though they did the utmost for him within their knowledge and skill, there was no visible improvement in his condition. They dared not send for a doctor, but had just to use their own means, and pray for a blessing.
In the course of a week, however, it became quite evident to the anxious watchers that death was not far off.
The day came at last when the old man, conscious himself of his approaching end, desired that his children might be gathered about his bed. Jane Gray ran in haste to the Witches’ Cleugh, and in the darkening those in hiding stole up to Hartrigge.
When the dying servant of God saw all the faces beloved best on earth gathered round him, a well-pleased expression stole into his face. Looking at his first-born son, he desired him to raise him a little in the bed, in order that he might better utter his words of blessing and farewell. Then fixing his eyes on Andrew’s face, he said, in low and solemn tones:—
“You have ever been a faithful and dutiful son to me, Andrew, for which the Lord will reward you. I have but one word of warning to give regarding the part you will take in the struggle which will shortly rage with hotter violence than it has hitherto done in the land. See to it that you fight for the Covenant with singleness of heart and purpose, out of pure love for its sweet and simple doctrines, and do not allow any personal spleen to mingle with your nobler aim, lest the blessing of the Most High be withheld. To you, David, my son, I have also a word to say. I bid you be of good courage, and fail not to strengthen and encourage your brethren in arms with the ministrations of your holy office whenever time and opportunity permit. And fear not those who can kill the body, for it is written, ‘Whosoever shall lose his life for My sake shall find it.’ To you, Adam Hepburn, the widowed spouse of my sweet Agnes, and dear to me as my own sons, my words will also be brief. I would seek to remind you that vengeance belongs only to the Lord, and that from high Heaven alone cometh sure retribution for deeds of blood. Therefore I would warn you that you strive to overcome your evil and revengeful passion, reminding you that it is not a spirit which the ransomed soul of your beloved could approve. It is written that he that slayeth with the sword shall perish by the sword. To you, my sweet and well-beloved daughter, Jane, who have indeed followed closely in your mother’s footsteps, since the mournful day when that dear saint left this world for a better, I have simply to leave my gratitude and fatherly blessing. Your reward for many deeds and words of love will come by-and-by. And, last of all, Susan, my daughter, I would but call to your remembrance that our God can bind up the broken heart, and that your tears are treasured up against that day when He cometh to judge the quick and the dead. And the parting is but for a little while. Farewell, my children; save for your sakes I am not sorry to quit this earthy tabernacle, and enter upon the inheritance which my sweet Lord has kept for me since before the foundation of the world.”
With these words the minister sank back exhausted among his pillows. It must not be supposed that he was able to utter the foregoing sentences as connectedly as they are written. Nay, they were spoken with much difficulty, and many long pauses, and his parched lips had to be continually moistened with the stimulant Jane kept ready at hand. He lay so still after the last words passed his lips that they almost feared he was gone. But at length his eyelids quivered slightly, and then they saw a seraphic smile dawning upon his face, as if some lovely vision had appeared to his soul. His lips moved slightly, and Jane, hastily bending down, caught the faintly whispered words:—
“Coming, O my sweet Lord Jesus!”
So, quietly and painlessly, he fell asleep.
“It is all over,” said Hartrigge, huskily.
“For this present life only, Andrew,” quietly answered the minister of Broomhill. “And, thanks be to His name, He has spared the green, and taken the ripe.”