Chapter XXVI Rest
The golden radiance of a summer sunset lay upon the vale of Inverburn. The year was in its prime, and everywhere the wealth of her beauty was scattered with no stinted hand. The harvest was ripe for the sickle in the fertile lowlands, and even on the bleaker uplands there was a lovely yellow tinge on the standing corn, which promised an early reaping. Yes, there were peace and plenty in the smiling land once more, for the long reign of bloodshed and terror was over, the house of Stuart had fallen to rise no more, buried in the ruins of its own iniquity, and a wise, just and upright ruler now wielded the sceptre on the throne of England.
There were not altogether lacking evidences of the dark days which had been. Here and there, on some sunny slope or in some sheltered valley, a black and mouldering ruin indicated where the spoiler had waved his destroying brand, and there yet remained many a broad acre left untilled, because those whose inheritance it was had been destroyed, root and branch, old and young, until not a living representative was left.
But in the main, Scotland had returned to her old-time peace and prosperity; again the voice of the husbandman was heard in the fields, again the women folk went about their daily tasks without fear or trembling, and last, and best of all, the kirks were open on the Sabbath Day once more, for the free and pure worship of the Most High.
The village of Inverburn that summer evening presented much the same appearance as it did when first we made acquaintance with it. The pleasant voices of the children at their play filled the summer air, on the cottage doorsteps or in the trellised porches the women sat at their knitting or spinning, while the broad benches in the doorway of the hostelry had each their complement of sturdy yeomen discussing, over their foaming tankards, the events of the day or the graver memories of the past. About the hour of sundown there was observed, coming slowly along the wide and pleasant road from Lanark, two pedestrians, for whose coming the villagers waited with that keen curiosity so characteristic of country folk. They walked very slowly, as I said, and though one appeared to be of tall and erect figure, the other was much bent, and walked leaning heavily on his companion’s arm. Just as they entered upon the village street, and speculation began to run higher regarding them, the attention of the idlers was distracted for a little space by the clatter of hoofs in the opposite direction, and presently a horse and rider came rapidly down the slope and drew rein in front of the inn. The horseman was a young man of goodly stature and fine appearance, with a boyish, open countenance, and a winning, fearless eye.
“Guid e’en, Sandy Gray!” cried one or two with familiarity which was pardonable, seeing they had known the lad from his infancy, and some of them his godly forbears before him.
“Guid e’en!” he answered back frankly. “Here, Willie, my man,” he added to a curly-headed urchin playing on the step, “run in and tell your mother I want to see her about ale for the reapers.”
“Ay, man, is the hairst [harvest] ready on Hartrigge?” queried one of the older men. “Mony a day I bound a stent [sheaf] behind your faither on the rigs o’ Hartrigge.”
“Ay, Robin, ye’d better come up and bind a stent after me, then, just for auld lang syne,” said the young man and a slight shade crossed his sunny face.
At that moment the two pedestrians came directly opposite the inn door and there stopped. Sandy Gray wheeled round his horse, and regarded them with a curiosity almost as great as that exhibited by his neighbours. Their attire was such as these simple villagers had never before seen, being distinctly foreign in its fashion, a thing sufficient in itself to invest the strangers with extraordinary interest. Sandy Gray courteously saluted them, and then one spoke, and it seemed to the young man that the first word awakened some chord in his heart which had long been asleep.
“Pray, can you tell me, young sir, if there be any of the name of Gray still to the fore in this parish?”
The young man gave a violent start, and a wild hope sprang up in his heart.
“Yes, I am a Gray; I am Alexander Gray of Hartrigge, son of that Andrew Gray who fell at Bothwell, and whose forbears were so long ministers of this parish,” he said, with trembling eagerness. “And you! you! I am not mistaken now that I see your faces. I remember you quite well—Uncle David and Uncle Adam, thank God!”
“Can it be possible that I look upon the face of my brother’s son? Now the Lord be praised!” exclaimed the more aged and infirm of the two, and, advancing, he held out two trembling hands to his nephew, which the young man, alighting from his horse, warmly grasped, while the tears rained down his cheeks. Then he turned to Adam Hepburn, whose face betrayed his deep satisfaction, though his joy did not find such ready expression.
The villagers, who had watched this scene with consuming interest, now rose with one accord, and with a cheer came flocking about the returned wanderers, for those who had not been personally acquainted with these two sufferers knew their names as household words.
“And now tell me, lad,” said the aged minister, when he could free himself from these friendly welcomes and again speak with his nephew, “you spoke of Hartrigge. Can it be that I have returned to find a Gray in Hartrigge still?”
“Yes, yes; I live there, Uncle David; and my mother and dear Aunt Jane also are in the place,” he answered, and the minister did not notice that he did not say they dwelt in the house. “Nannie is married now, and, Uncle Adam, she is living at Rowallan, of which her husband, Walter Fleming, is the farmer.”
“And there is an Agnes Gray at Rowallan as well as a Gray in Hartrigge!” said the minister. “You hear that, Adam? the old stock is not dead yet, but has developed once more into a goodly tree, for which, O my God, I thank Thee.”
“An Agnes Gray at Rowallan yet, did you say?” asked Adam Hepburn, dreamily. “But there was no Rowallan when I left, only the blackened ruins of the homestead. What changes are these?”
“The old laird is dead, and that dear, blessed saint, Lady Hamilton, has rebuilt Hartrigge and Rowallan and would not let a foot but ours upon their thresholds,” said the young man. “But come; we cannot stand here all night. Come away home. Oh, what a night this will be beneath the roof-tree of Hartrigge! Here, Uncle David, get on Jess’s back, and Uncle Adam and I will walk beside you, and so we will soon be home.”
The minister accordingly gladly mounted the animal, and Sandy took the bridle rein over his arm, and the little party moved off up the manse brae, followed by the cheers of the delighted villagers.
As they passed the manse and the kirk they involuntarily stood still, and the minister took his hat from his waving white locks and bent his head a moment on his breast, while Adam Hepburn fixed his eyes on one green spot under a spreading yew tree, as if they would fain dwell there for ever. Then they went on again, and the minister told his nephew in a few brief words how they had been blessed to meet in Holland, and had been vouchsafed a measure of prosperity and usefulness there, but how their hearts had ever yearned for their native land, until the time came they could return to it without fear.
This talk occupied all the way to the farm, at which young Sandy was not sorry, for he did not desire as yet to be more closely questioned regarding his own household at Hartrigge.
The farm at Hartrigge now presented a very fine and striking appearance, the new steading [farm buildings] and commodious dwelling-house, standing so imposingly on the brow of the hill, being thrown into strong relief by the brilliant green of the summer foliage and the bright golden hue of the ripening grain.
At the foot of the little hill, sheltering cosily under the fir-wood, there stood a neat cottage with a garden-plot in front, which was gay with summer bloom. Just as the little party came in sight on the private road a woman’s figure came to the door, and shading her eyes with her hand, looked long and intently at it, greatly wondering what it meant. She was a sweet and comely-looking person, though long past her prime, and her fair, calm face bore the impress of many sorrows, yet peace dwelt abidingly upon it now.
She presently turned about, called to some one within, and another figure, much older and feebler looking, and wearing a widow’s garb, joined her on the step. And thus they were standing when the party came up.
“Susan! Susan! it is the answer to our many prayers!” said Jane Gray, tremblingly. “If these be not David and Adam, our exiled wanderers, my eyes strangely deceive me.”
Then she sat down on the bench at the door and burst into tears.
Why should I linger over that sacred meeting? Could any human pen do it justice? I think not.
After a little Sandy touched the arm of his Uncle David, and begged him to come away up with him to the house, and the others would follow. He gave the old man his arm, and they ascended the hill, walked slowly (too slowly for Sandy’s impatient feet) through the fir-wood, and round to the front of the house. Then, with trembling hand, Sandy opened the door and led his uncle in. In the pleasant family room in the ruddy evening glow there was a sweet and restful picture. On the hearth there stood a cradle, and in a low chair near to it the figure of a woman—a young woman—too young almost, one might have thought, to be a wife and mother.
“Is that you, Sandy? Don’t make a noise, dearie, for baby has been so troublesome, and is just asleep.”
It was a voice of winning and exquisite softness, and when presently the speaker rose, the old man saw a sweet and lovely young creature, with a fair, rose-tinted face, and deep, tender blue eyes, which reminded him of those blue eyes which had charmed him long ago.
“Is this your wife, my lad? You kept this pleasant surprise to the last,” said he, with a sweet smile, and advanced with extended hands.
“Yes, my wife, Uncle David, but something, nay a great deal more,” said the young man, hardly knowing what he said. “Oh, uncle, uncle! it is your own daughter Lilian who is my wife, and our little son yonder is named David Gray, out of our love for you. Lily, my dear, my love, this is your father, come home from exile, as we have so long hoped and prayed he would.”
For a moment father and daughter stood still, and then these words fell from the old man’s lips, in accents of trembling joy—
“It is enough. Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace!”
I cannot linger over these happy moments, so fraught with deepest joy, and yet so shadowed by undying memories and unutterable yearnings for those who were not! Before many minutes were passed they missed Adam Hepburn from their midst, and looking from their southern window they saw him wending his solitary way towards Rowallan. And they let him go in peace, knowing the unutterable yearnings of his soul.
So gleams of sunset joy were vouchsafed to these beaten pilgrims, whose way through life had been so long under shadow of the cloud. And there were Grays again in Hartrigge and Rowallan, and it was hoped that there would be a Gray again in the manse and kirk of Inverburn, when the little David, destined from his birth for the ministry, should be grown to manhood. The family of Burnet of Haughhead was now extinct, save for Sandy Gray’s wife. The spoiled daughter of the house had not long survived the death of her boy, who succumbed to his constitutional weaknesses at the age of fifteen. Gilbert Burnet and his wife were dead also, and Haughhead in the hands of a distant connection, who was proved to be the nearest male heir. While any of her Burnet kindred lived, Lilian Gray would never have been permitted to follow her mother’s example, and marry a Gray. Her happy home was a haven of peace and rest to her father, who grew young again in heart in her blithe companionship. How dear each was to the other, or what unutterable thanksgiving dwelt continually in their hearts, I cannot tell you. Adam Hepburn spent his time betwixt Hartrigge and Rowallan, but as was natural, was oftenest at the latter place. He was a quiet, gentle, unobtrusive old man, who seemed to live much in the past. He appeared like one who had no hold upon this present life, but who was simply sojourning at a wayside inn, waiting and waiting for a summons to come farther on. But is it not so with us all? The old fiery spirit seemed to be utterly quenched, but no man or woman ever heard him allude to the stormy or terrible past, and when the events of these stirring times were made the subject of conversation, or even distantly alluded to, he never failed to at once separate himself from the rest. He spent much of the time in the churchyard, and would sit for hours upon his wife’s grave, with his well-worn Bible for a companion, an object of strange compassion to all who saw him there, and who knew the story of his life-long faithfulness to the memory of one woman.
One sweet summer evening they missed him from among the happy circle at Hartrigge, and knowing he was not at Rowallan, they grew alarmed at last at his long absence, and went in search of him. As was natural, they turned their steps first to the “auld kirk-yaird.” He was sitting there, in a down-bent posture, his head almost touching his knees, and his face hidden on the pages of the open Book. David Gray stepped to his side, and touching his arm, said very gently—
“Adam, my brother, it is growing late; come away home.”
There was no motion in the silent figure, which sat so still as to alarm them. Then David Gray slipped his hand beneath the bent head, and lightly laid it on the breast, but there was no motion there.
“He has passed away from us,” said the minister, tremblingly, “and this night has looked once more upon the face of his beloved, after these forty weary years. It was the hour and the place he longed for. I have often heard him say it. Let us give thanks to our God for His abundant lovingkindness vouchsafed to our weary brother this night.”
Ended now the storm of life, ended the long desolation, the bitter yearnings, which had these many years riven that lonely heart. Ended, too, his brief lingering in the sunset at the wayside inn; and for Adam Hepburn now came the eternal enjoyment of that sweet rest which remaineth for the people of God.
The End