Chapter XXIV Delivered
As it was by no means safe for David Gray to sojourn with his kinsfolk in Edinburgh, he was anxious to get away as soon as possible. Ailie Kilgour, with a true woman’s ingenuity, had decided upon a plan whereby he might make the journey by easy stages, and without molestation, to Inverburn. Nevertheless, she was somewhat afraid to lay it before her cousin, lest he might laugh at her for her pains. After Adam Hepburn’s departure, her father and cousin were sitting discussing ways and means by the kitchen fire, when she came in, bearing in her hand an old linsey-woolsey gown and a faded tartan plaid, which had belonged to her mother.
“All these plans you speak of are too dangerous to be undertaken, Cousin David,” she said. “What do you say to disguising yourself as a female hawker, and thus pursue your journey, not only with safety, but with profit?”
In spite of the gravity of his position, David Gray burst into a hearty laugh, such as had not passed his lips for many a day.
“Oh, Cousin Ailie, give me a woman for ingenuity!” he exclaimed. “But what would I make of my beard and my white hair?”
“Follow Adam’s example and shave your face smooth and clean,” said Ailie. “As for your hair, after it is fastened up under a white cap, it will the better help your disguise.”
“Are you in earnest, Ailie, woman?” queried her father, in no little amusement.
“Father, I am in dead earnest,” she said, soberly. “I have everything to dress him with, and when I run out for needles and cotton, and buttons and other sundries to plenish his basket with, the disguise will be complete.”
David Gray had for a moment fancied his cousin merely joking, but seeing she was in earnest, the feasibility and even the wisdom and cleverness of her suggestion appeared to him quite plainly.
“Cousin Ailie, I believe I will try your plan,” he said, suddenly. “I will at least put on the disguise and see what manner of a woman I present.”
Much pleased, Ailie ran to the adjoining room for the other articles of attire, and brought also her father’s shaving things, in order that her cousin might remove his beard. She then retired, and after about half-an-hour they called to her to come and see the disguise. When she looked upon the complete and wonderful transformation it had made, she nearly clapped her hands with delight. The minister was certainly a tall woman, but in every other respect he was the exact picture of what he wished to represent.
Ailie took her little tartan neckerchief from her shoulders, tied it above the white cap, and then retired back to admire the effect.
“Cousin David, that is just the finishing touch!” she exclaimed, in no small glee. “Your appearance would deceive the cleverest person in the world, I am sure. You look exactly like an aged dame who has weathered a good many storms on the road. If you don’t reach Inverburn in safety in my mother’s old gown, my name isn’t Ailie Kilgour.”
“What say you, Uncle Edward?” asked David Gray, turning to the old man.
“Truly, lad, the deception is most wonderful,” he replied. “Of course it is hardly a fitting thing for a minister of the kirk to tramp the country in an old wife’s gown, but desperate ills need desperate remedies. So I would say, take the lassie’s advice, and God go with you.”
“Well, I will,” said David Gray, “for in my own person and garb I am convinced I should never reach Inverburn alive, nor, indeed, get beyond the environs of Edinburgh.”
“You said the pursuers went by the Lanark road,” said Ailie. “Your plan will be to go to Stirling, and then across the moors. I daresay you will find the way.”
“Easily,” responded David Gray, cheerfully. “You are a clever, far-seeing woman, cousin; the thought of such a disguise would never have entered my head.”
“It will be a great joy to me, Cousin David, if I am rewarded by saving your life,” she said, with a smile and a tear, and so the matter was settled.
All that day David Gray remained in hiding in his uncle’s abode, and early on the following morning he bade them both a warm farewell, and set out upon his journey back to his native place. As Ailie watched the gaunt, uncouth-looking figure with the basket and the big cotton umbrella stalking down the street, the very picture of a practised peddling woman, she scarcely knew whether to laugh or cry. So a woman’s ingenuity twice outwitted the sharpness of the Government.
We have been long absent from the vale of Inverburn, yet truly nothing of note was happening there, only a dreary and despairing waiting for the dawning of a brighter day, occasionally deepened and intensified by some deed of violence or brutal pillage executed by the dragoons, who infested the entire west of Scotland. Since the fateful day of Bothwell severities had been increased, greater licence given to the soldiery, and less mercy extended to the suffering country folk, whether there were anything against them or not. Along the entire course of the Clyde the country presented a most dismal aspect. In place of smiling homesteads and rich and fertile fields, there was nothing to be seen but smouldering ruins and tract upon tract of desolate wastes, which had not been upturned by the plough for many a year. The population, though now sadly thinned, was in a state bordering upon starvation, everything they had formerly possessed having been stolen from them, and every means of subsistence removed. Yet still it seemed as if the words of Scripture must needs be literally fulfilled, since from him that had not was taken even that which he had. Hundreds had no shelter in the wide earth save that afforded by glens and caves and mountain fastnesses, and even there they were not safe.
The farm of Hartrigge had not escaped these later desolations, for now all that remained of that once substantial and even imposing homestead was one cot-house, which had escaped the flames on account of it being detached from the main buildings, and having thus been overlooked by the ruffians, who, after pillaging the entire place, had set it on fire.
In this humble abode dwelt the widow of Andrew Gray, his sister Jane, and a young lad with his sister, the Sandy and wee Nannie, who had been so dear to their father’s heart. Jeanie was now safe with her father and Gavin in that land where eternal peace abides. The bairn’s heart seemed to be weighed down by the things happening around her, and she just faded away.
Strange as it may seem, the few yet remaining who loved her on earth saw her depart with gladness, for it had come to that pass in poor stricken Scotland that he who lay down to die was accounted much more to be envied than he who was preserved alive.
One beautiful evening towards the end of July, Susan Gray and her sister-in-law, Jane, were sitting together on the bench outside their cottage door, with their hands lying idle on their laps, a thing they would have accounted a sin in the days of the happy past. But now there was nothing for hands to do, and life was at times a very weariness. These troublous years had wrought a woeful change upon both those women, and had aged them long before their time. Also upon the face of Susan Gray there appeared at times a vague, wandering kind of expression, which seemed to indicate a weakness of the mind, and verily it was not greatly to be wondered at that the nerves of women-folk should be unable to bear the awful strain upon them.
They were not conversing together, for such sorrows as theirs will not bear to be spoken of by the lips; there was a hopeless, purposeless look about them, which was painful in the contrast it presented to their busy, cheerful energy of long ago.
“See Jane!” said Susan Gray, presently. “Is not that a figure on the road? Is it Sandy or the bairn Nannie? They should be on their way home from the village now.”
“No; it is a taller figure than either of the bairns,” replied Jane. “It is a woman, and she has a basket on her arm.”
“Is she like a gangerel [tramp], Jane? She need hardly come here seeking now,” said Susan, listlessly.
“Yes, she looks like that. There are not many of her kind on the roads now,” said Jane. Then they relapsed into silence, and so sat until the woman with the basket appeared on the path in front of the cottage door. Susan Gray only gave her a careless look, and then went into the cottage, leaving Jane to deal with her.
“My woman, ye need hardly have come this length with your basket,” said Jane Gray, kindly, and looking compassionately at the evidences of fatigue on her face. “The wherewithal is much lacking here now. But sit down on the bench here and rest a while, till I bring you a piece of bread, which, thanks be to God, we can still offer to those in greater need than ourselves.”
So saying, she pointed to the bench, and retired into the house. The woman set down her basket, and dropping on the seat, covered her face with her hands, and uttered a low but passionate prayer of thankfulness. In this attitude Jane Gray found her when she again stepped out of doors. She laid her hand on the bent shoulders, and said kindly, “You seem quite overcome. Have you travelled many miles this day?”
Slowly the stranger’s head was raised, and a pair of eyes fixed themselves on the kind, womanly face with a glance which stirred her very soul; and, without knowing why, she began to tremble from head to foot.
“Sister Jane, do you not know me?” said the voice of one she had mourned as dead. “Then indeed my disguise is as complete as Ailie Kilgour assured me. I am your brother David!”
Jane Gray uttered a low cry, which brought Susan hurrying out to the door. The moment, however, that her eyes rested keenly and sharply on the stranger’s face, they penetrated the disguise, and she exclaimed—
“David Gray, as I am a living woman!”
“Even so; thus far the Almighty has brought me through many perils to my native parish,” said the minister of Broomhill, fervently.
Jane, having now recovered her first shock of surprise, embraced her brother with great joy, the tears chasing each other down her cheeks in her emotion. So the name of Gray was not entirely swept off the face of the earth, as they had bitterly imagined, and there was hope for the old house yet. They hastened to take him in, and set refreshment before him, after partaking of which he related to them all that which had befallen him and his brethren since they had last met.
Greatly rejoiced were they to learn of Adam Hepburn’s escape, but they shed many tears over their hardships in the prison yard at Edinburgh. As David in low and earnest tones delivered his brother’s last message to his widow, the tears flowed from her eyes, but in a gentle rain which brought healing with it. It was for these precious words her widowed heart had long and sorely hungered. It was decided that so long as it was considered safe, he should abide under his disguise with them, though a few trusty brethren in hiding in the district would be duly informed of his safety.
So a little sunshine penetrated the dark cloud, and shed a measure of brightness on the hearth of the poor little cottage at Hartrigge.